2. Mason

2

MASON

"Have the first guests arrived yet, Vincent?"

My personal assistant is making me anxious. He's been rushing around with the speed of a man half his age for days now. It can't be good for his arthritic knees, and I'd be useless without him if he needs another surgery.

"They have, Senator Dawes." Vincent crosses the room, closing the door behind him, and swats my hands away from my bow tie. He takes over knotting it, exactly like he did when I was a boy, with a smirk on his face. It's just as well. I'm as rubbish at doing it now as I was back then.

"I'm still Mason," I remind him as he fusses. "Father was Senator Dawes."

His crooked grin grows sharper. "That may be so, but you're the acting Senator Dawes now, so tonight, that's what I'll call you. It's what everyone should call you. Don't let your critics convince you otherwise. You were born for this."

I nod and look down at his kind, blue eyes. "I bet Father never had you fix his tie for him."

Vincent chuckles. "No. Your Da did that—still does." He pulls the fabric taut, then steps back, his work complete. "Which is yet another of the many reasons why you must settle down, Mason. The sooner the better. People expect that of you, especially now. A brilliant young alpha leader with a beautiful omega husband at his side. A family man. Stable and trustworthy. Picture-perfect. You deserve nothing less." He hands me my cologne and watches as I splash some along my neck. "Besides, I can't do your bow ties forever. I'll revolt."

Shaking my head, I discard the cologne and give myself a final once-over in the mirror. "You're worse than Father and Da."

"We all want you to succeed, that's all. You're part of the Dawes legacy now."

As if I need reminding. Not that it bothers me. It's an honor to have won Father's seat in the senate, even if my detractors have been a challenge, thwarting my efforts at every turn. I'll never understand their opposition to omegas' rights. We all have an omega-parent. Omegas should be considered precious; they have a type of strength and resilience we alphas don't possess. Gods know I'm not fit to carry and birth a child on my own—I'd never survive the contractions alone. And as for the rumors of Heat Madness? Well, I don't know anyone among us who doesn't lose their mind a bit in the throes of passion. I certainly can't fault an omega for that.

"Just be glad your parents are still at the coast on vacation," Vincent adds. "They'd have much more to say on the subject than even I do."

He's right. Father's last words on our phone call two nights ago were startlingly similar. And if I'm truthful, I've been lonely for too long. It would be nice to have a companion to join me at events, to look forward to spending time with after a long day in the senate, to fill my heart and house with love and laughter.

I won't tell Vincent any of this, though. He'll find it far too entertaining.

With a sigh, I reach for my notecards off my dresser. "I suppose—though it would've been nice to have Father's thoughts on my speech. I can't believe I already have to start thinking ahead to fundraising for the next election. I barely have a track record to lean on."

Vincent claps me on the back reassuringly. "You have the Dawes legacy to draw from. And I think your speech is flawless. Who do you think your Father ran his by before he retired?"

I raise my brows and look at Vincent's reflection in the mirror beside mine. "You?"

He gives a brief nod. "Other than your Da? Yes. Me." He glances at the notecards in my hands. "If you lose your place, simply speak from your heart. You happen to have a very good one."

Vincent certainly would know. He has worked for my parents for more than twenty years. Which means he's known me for most of my life. If Father and Da can't be here, he's the next best thing.

"Now, are you ready to meet your constituents, Senator Dawes?" he asks.

Grinning, I square my shoulders and tuck the cards in my pocket. "As I'll ever be."

"By embracing what makes us the same, not different, we can usher Arden into a new, modern era. One in which alphas and omegas stand together, not separately, bound by our hearts and minds instead of harmful traditions that no longer serve a purpose," I say into the microphone. Then, pausing for effect, I look out across the ballroom. "I believe in Arden—and I believe in each of you. "

This is it. The grand finale of my speech, and I have to admit Vincent was right. It's been well-received. The applause is encouraging. Then again, I would expect it to be. Most of my guests are already my supporters. They want to be here. They've paid handsomely for the rare chance to visit the historic Dawes family estate, wear stuffy tuxedos while dancing to the string quartet playing in the background, and eat tiny bits of food that wouldn't even qualify as meal enough for a bird. The real test of my viability to run for Senate again will come in a few weeks, when my first proposal to amend our constitution—a claiming ban—goes up for vote.

But for now, I can enjoy this. Smile and wave. Shake hands. Make small talk.

Easy, if not tiring.

As the audience quiets again, I flash my most charming grin and put on an air of modesty. "Thank you. Thank you." I chuckle as someone toward the back of the room whistles over the last few claps. "And now, to show my appreciation for your contributions to my next campaign, please enjoy the music, company, and refreshments."

The first few notes of Arden's national anthem play, and dozens of couples make their way to the center of the room and begin to waltz. I've barely managed to step away from the podium before I'm surrounded by guests. At the rate they want to pause to shake my hand and talk, it'll take all night for me to meet everyone.

"Senator, your words on abolishing the practice of claiming omegas were truly moving. I have always believed?—"

"Senator, what will you do if the opposition makes good on their threat to block your amendment vote?"

"Senator, how do you expect your other campaign promises to be received?"

Smile, nod. Nod, smile. A pat on the shoulder, a polite chuckle.

Too bad keeping track of all the names, faces, and promises I've made is a struggle. Thankfully, Vincent stays close at hand, taking notes and whispering details about the larger donors in my ear as they approach.

"I hear you have a stunning art collection, Senator."

Finally. A breath of fresh air. A break from discussions of tax rates and foreign policy.

"Indeed, I do." I grin at the imposing, dark-haired alpha in front of me and clasp his hand when offered.

"Rex Turner. I run the Waterstone Gallery downtown," he tells me.

"Ah. I've been there. Remarkable collection. You do a magnificent job."

His smile almost seems like a smirk, as if he's harboring a secret. "High praise coming from you, Senator. I hear you have an early Fairchild in your possession, so I know you have exquisite taste, and I must return the compliment."

Something about Rex Turner feels … off. He's too oily—and not simply where the silky dark hair brushed back on his head is concerned. He's practiced, rehearsed. Insincere. But I can't put my finger on why, so I force another grin instead.

Maybe this conversation isn't the welcome distraction I'd hoped for after all.

"We should arrange a tour of the estate so you can see it sometime," I offer.

He's still nodding when I notice an omega walking behind him, weaving through the outskirts of the dance floor with a tray of canapés. A waiter. He's slender, with light-brown hair and a sunny warmth to his skin. His features are delicate—high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and Cupid's bow lips. Stunningly beautiful. An omega like him shouldn't be made to serve. He should be treasured. He should be coddled and cared for, fondled and fucked …

Get a grip, Dawes. You're this generation's greatest champion of omega rights, and the moment you spot a handsome young man, your basest alpha instincts take hold of you. You're better than that.

But despite the self-scolding, my cock twitches in my trousers, and the image of the waiter's soft, pink mouth gaping in a moan while he writhes beneath me flickers through my mind. I adjust my belt. If omegas are allowed to succumb to their desires during heat, I suppose I can permit myself to have an innocent daydream every now and then.

All right, maybe not-so-innocent.

But that's beside the point.

"Henry, I was just in the kitchen, and Jack was looking for you." From this distance, I can barely make out the words a boyish-looking, shabbier-dressed waiter is saying as he approaches the lovely one, but my thoughts linger and my heart beats faster at two syllables in particular.

Henry.

His name is Henry.

A traditional name. Respectable and strong. Father and Da would like it.

Already introducing him to Father and Da? Pump the brakes. You've never even spoken to the man.

"Thanks, Gus." Nodding, Henry glances toward the door, and as he does, our gazes lock.

I feel like I'm in elementary school all over again, trying to understand the butterflies in my stomach when my crush notices me.

Henry.

Those warm, caramel eyes melt me.

"Wouldn't you agree, Senator?"

Dammit. Is Rex Turner really still talking? Has he been talking this entire time? My stare snaps back to him. His smile is as fake as the diamonds on his cufflinks.

"Ah, yes. Absolutely." Gods, I hope I didn't just commit to something I shouldn't have. That was one of the first warnings Vincent gave me when I started campaigning for Senate: always know what you're saying yes to, he'd told me. He'd made a joke about supporting a bill to wear pig snouts on Saturdays as an example, but farce or not, his point was made. A much more dangerous promise could be made in a momentary lapse of attention, spelling the end of my career.

And I'm only getting started.

Something dark flashes in Turner's eyes at my hesitation. Following my stare, he glances over his shoulder at Henry—at the waiter—and scowls.

A look of panic washes over the omega's face immediately. He glances away again quickly, his long lashes brushing against his cheeks. Then, frowning, he hurries to put distance between us.

Strange.

"Excuse me, Senator, but there's a matter I must attend to," Turner grumbles. Discarding his drink on a nearby cocktail table, he sets off across the dance floor after Henry.

I can't imagine what someone like Rex Turner might need from an omega like the beautiful waiter—nothing good, from the looks of it—but before I can question him, another guest approaches me.

"Senator, do you have a few moments to speak with the Omega Entrepreneurs Association next month?"

"Do I?" Insert dazzling smile. "I would consider it an honor. Vincent—" I motion to the omega beside me. "—Does all my scheduling. I'm sure he can arrange a time."

My guest continues talking, but I'm barely able to focus. Rex Turner catches my attention again. Near the ballroom door, he's finally caught up with Henry. The waiter startles and cowers, and my heartbeat quickens. Then, mumbling threats I can only imagine, Turner grips the young man's arm and tows him into the hallway.

I wish I could follow Henry to make sure he's safe—but I can't right now. I'm the current Senator Dawes. I have a duty to my guests, and a security guard will intervene if Henry needs help.

Whatever history lies between Turner and the waiter, I suppose I'll never know.

I only hope Henry's all right.

Vincent steps up beside me as I wave goodbye to the last of the guests. The second their town car turns out of the circular driveway and past the gate, I wrestle with the bow tie around my neck. I'm overheated and exhausted, and by this point in the night, I'm fairly sure the damn thing is trying to suffocate me.

My fingertips fumble with the knot.

This is a losing fight.

Chuckling, Vincent pushes away my hands exactly like he did upstairs earlier. In seconds, he has the tie undone, the loose ends dangling benignly against either side of my neck.

"Show off." I snort, then rip the horrid strip of fabric off me and shove it in my pocket with a vengeance.

The bow tie might have won this battle, but I'll win the war.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Vincent grins. Together, we head back into the house.

"I'd call tonight a success, wouldn't you?" he asks.

I nod. "Absolutely. I heard we exceeded our donation target, and everyone seemed to like the dancing and refreshments."

The refreshments.

I think of Henry again and frown. I don't recall seeing him after Rex Turner pulled him aside. Such an odd exchange. The other waiter had mentioned the catering manager was looking for Henry in the kitchen. Did Jack send Henry home? If he heard there had been a scene with Turner, he should know it wasn't Henry's fault. Maybe I should find him and explain—or find Henry himself, if I can, and apologize for my guest's rudeness.

No, you shouldn't. It's none of your business , I remind myself.

Still, I wouldn't want Henry to lose work because a guest behaved badly.

Excuses, excuses. You just want to see Henry again.

But I find myself asking anyway. "Vincent, what time is it? Are all the staff still around?"

The omega checks the watch strapped to his wrist. "Almost midnight, Senator." One of the doormen lets us back inside, and we pass into the foyer. "They're probably still packing up, but I wouldn't expect them to be here much longer. Why?"

"No particular reason."

Vincent raises a brow. I don't believe myself any more than he does.

"Just calculating the odds of my fondness for a nightcap winding up on every news and social media feed by morning."

He scoffs. "If there's a problem with the service, I'd be happy to handle it for you?—"

"No, not at all. Nothing like that."

We pause at the base of the winding staircase, and although he places a hand on the railing, ready to turn in for the night, Vincent looks me up and down. Sizing me up. Trying to determine if I'm telling the truth. Finally, he sighs.

"All right. But if I find out otherwise, we're going to have a very serious conversation about what activities senators should not be spending their time on."

The glint in his eyes makes it clear he's teasing, and I grin as he starts up the stairs.

"Understood, Vincent. Goodnight—and thank you for all your help today."

Alone, I start down the hallway, listening to my footsteps echo. Once, I'd envisioned my sons running up and down this corridor, giggling while they play, the same way I had. I'd imagined Luke, my boyfriend from university, tickling them beneath their chin in that same spot Da used to on me. I'd pictured hearing their laughter and stepping out from my study. Maybe I'd scoop up one of the children in my arms and swing him around. Luke and I would laugh while he squealed in delight. Then, I'd lean over and kiss him, still holding our son in my arms.

Picture perfect, like Vincent said earlier.

The daydreams dance in my head again, much like my guests in the ballroom earlier. Only tonight, I imagine myself with Henry instead.

I wasn't serious about the nightcap before, but as I think more about it, a bit of cognac seems like a good idea about now. It'll help me relax—and, if I'm lucky, forget about good-looking young men named Henry. So, I head toward my study. I think I have an unopened bottle there—a gift from Father and Da when I was elected. I'd like to find out if it's worth the price they probably paid for it.

Slipping the key from my pocket and turning it inside the handle, I hesitate and sniff the air.

That scent … It's faint but tempting—arousing, even. Like spice and sandalwood, citrus and vanilla. It reminds me of Luke during his first heat. I tell myself I'm being ridiculous. This is all only wishful thinking, the product of Vincent's lecture about how I should settle down.

My foolish heart skips a beat anyway, remembering Luke bittersweetly as I push open the door. But the second I step inside my office, I see him.

The beautiful waiter.

Henry.