8. Tristan

8

TRISTAN

"Tristan? You're having another nightmare. Tristan!"

I gasp, trying to open my eyes. Trying to stop hovering on that line between dream and reality. But it's too hard. As much as I'm desperate for Mason to drag me from the memories, I can't seem to leave Papa.

"Tristan, come back to me!"

The spiraling panic in Mason's voice finally loosens the noose of the past. My lashes part, and I blink, the bedroom coming into focus around me. Another night. Another pair of too-big silk pajamas. A slightly thinner crescent moon peeking down through the skylight. And Mason's arms around me while I whimper against his chest.

Mason sighs with relief and presses a kiss to the top of my head. "There you are. I was wondering where you'd gone."

I could tell him I'd been here the whole time, but that would be a lie—at least where my mind is concerned. Drawing a deep breath, I begin to calm. "I'm sor?—"

He touches one of his index fingers to my lips. "No apologies. I've told you that before."

We settle back down again, me tucked in the crook of his arm, and stare up at the skylight. Neither one of us falls asleep. Every now and then, I feel his gaze drifting down to check on me; every now and then, I sneak a glance up at him. Eventually, we catch each other.

"It was my Papa this time," I blurt. "He died when I was fourteen. He was my favorite person in the world. He protected me from Father and my brothers."

"What was he like?" Mason shifts slightly to see me better. He watches my mouth move when I speak, staring at me as though I'm the moon and stars instead of the ones through the glass overhead.

"He was an artist. A painter. I used to spend hours watching him work. All the colors he created. The shapes and people and places … He was good with details, too. He'd meet someone once—spend five minutes with them. And that was all he needed. He could paint them flawlessly."

I don't know why I'm telling Mason this—maybe because he confessed about Luke and it only seems fair to share a bit of myself, too. The safe parts, anyway. The parts that don't involve Father or how he's managed to keep his gallery open since losing Papa or the real reason I wound up at his fundraiser the other night. In any case, I like it. It loosens the ache in my chest and breathes life into pieces of me I thought have been dead for years.

"He was a talented artist, then?"

I nod. Then, after a moment, I grin. "He tried to teach me a little. While my brothers were off playing sports, at least I had that. Papa always made me feel important."

Mason's lips graze against my ear. "You are important, Tristan."

Only to you. Only right now. Soon, I'll be an ordinary omega again, and you'll forget me.

Still, his words make me smile. They might be a lie, but at least they're a kind one.

"Were you good at painting as well?"

Good enough to make forgeries.

But I can't tell Mason that, so I simply shake my head. "I only wanted to be. Maybe, if Papa had lived long enough to teach me more, I might have been."

"I'm sorry, Tristan. You must miss him terribly."

I shrug in attempt to seem more nonchalant than I feel. "Some days are harder than others. Most days are all right at this point."

We fall quiet for a moment. I hold up one of my hands in the starlight, remembering the way Papa's were always splattered with paint. No matter how much he scrubbed, it never fully left his skin.

And no matter how many years pass, neither will the mark he's left on my heart.

"You know," I say eventually. "I liked to paint, but I used to love cleaning Papa's brushes. Watching all the colors blend and swirl before they disappeared into the drain. I liked knowing all those shades never existed before and never would again. They were there just for me."

Mason grins. His eyes rove over my face in the shadows, studying me.

"What?" I ask.

"I'm picturing what you must have been like when you were younger."

I chuckle. "A lot like I am now but smaller. I was very much Papa's boy. I followed him everywhere." I sigh as memories sift through my thoughts. The taste of strawberries and sugar appears on my tongue like a ghost. "He's the one who used to buy me those candies."

"That explains why you're so sweet." Mason captures my raised hand in his, lacing our fingertips together, then rolls me onto my back. "I wish I'd known you back then, Tristan."

"Me, too, Mason."

He covers my face with kisses, and when my next wave arrives a few minutes later, I ask him to strip me of my borrowed silk pajamas and make my body his canvas.

Vincent clears parts of the estate again the following day. Mason and I walk through the orchards and have sex in the orange grove, the scent of citrus surrounding us. Later, he gives me more swimming lessons. We stay in the pool practically until my skin begins to prune, then head inside for another homemade dinner, dressed in what has become our typical uniform: silk pajama bottoms for him, the matching top alone for me. After we eat, Mason scoops me in his arms, the way he's developed a habit of doing these past few days, but instead of heading upstairs, he takes me to his study.

"You mentioned your Papa was an artist, so I thought you might appreciate this." He sets me down by the sofa where he fucked me that first time, the night of his fundraiser. "This Fairchild painting has been in my family for three generations."

"The Fairchild …" My voice catches in my throat as I glance up at the painting. Guilt turns my stomach. Mason can only guess that I've seen this painting before—that I became well acquainted with every color and brush stroke when Father made me forge a reproduction in Papa's old studio.

"My alpha great-grandparent loved his omega mate so much he bought this painting for him at an auction. It's been here ever since," Mason tells me.

While he speaks, I try not to imagine how many Daweses have gazed up at it the way he is right now, with reverence and appreciation, his eyes glistening. He loves this painting—as he should. It's beautiful. An heirloom. Priceless. Timeless. And I almost took it from him.

I'm sorry.

"It's famous now, but art historians say this painting almost ruined Dominic Fairchild's career before it even truly started. It was one of his first works, and it was hated. Everyone thought it was inappropriate."

I also already know this. The painting is soft, done in creams and pinks and tans—the flesh tones of its subjects. Small, thin brushstrokes give it an airy, almost blurry, feel. But it's clear enough to make out the naked omega chestfeeding his infant in a chair while his mate, an alpha, looks on from behind, leaning over his shoulder. The couple share a peaceful gaze, the affection between them impossible to miss even as their lines and shapes seem to melt together.

"Critics thought it was obscene," I add, repeating what I learned from the caption to the photograph in the book Father gave me to work from. "Chestfeeding had never been shown like this before. The alpha who commissioned it refused to complete the sale. He said he'd ordered a portrait of his mate and son, not pornography."

Mason's eyes brighten, and he gapes at me in awe. "That's right. How did you know?"

"My … Papa," I lie.

"You really are incredible, Tristan." He shakes his head with surprise, as if I'm as amazing and impressive as the Fairchild itself, and my shame deepens. It sinks to the bottom of my stomach and settles in my guts like lead.

"I used to stare up at this painting all the time as a kid," Mason continues. "I thought this was what love is meant to look like. It's also part of what made me decide to champion omega rights when I went into public service."

Another thing I almost took: his dreams.

A tear rolls down my cheek. I loathe Father for the way he uses me, the way he makes me hurt others—how I almost hurt Mason because of him. It's wrong. Father might have started his crimes as a way to keep the art gallery open in memory of Papa, but nothing is worth the price I've had to pay. Papa would be so disappointed. He wouldn't want it, not like this.

"Tristan … What's wrong?" Noticing my tears, Mason cups my face with his palms and swipes them away with his thumbs. "I thought you'd like the painting."

"I do like it. It's so beautiful." I look up at him. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

No. You are the most beautiful thing I ever seen—not only because of your body but because of your heart.

And because kissing him is easier than telling him more lies, I run my hands up Mason's chest, squeezing his pecs and combing a hand through his hair, and I drink his lips like the glass of wine I had once again tonight at dinner.

"Tris—"

Grabbing onto his shoulders, I launch myself at him, wrapping my legs around his waist. Mason gasps, startled, and stumbles back as he tries to regain his balance. His hands cradle my ass as he adjusts to support my weight. Then, remembering the nearby sofa, he walks us toward it, sits, and holds me close, straddling his lap.

Not once does he break our kiss.

The thin silk of the pajamas bottoms he's wearing does nothing to hide how hard he is. Neither, for that matter, does its coordinating top on me. Mason's fingertips trace up my bare thighs and slip beneath the tails of my nightshirt. One hand finds my sac, the other my cock. He rolls my balls in his palm while tracing around my crown.

"Is a wave coming?" he asks.

Only when he says the words out loud do I realize I haven't had a wave in hours—for most of the day, even.

My heat is ending.

It might already be done.

The time I have left with Mason is limited, so I shake my head and start to unbutton my shirt, shedding it as fast as I can. "I just want you."

I always want you. I'll never stop wanting you, even after I'm gone.

He nods, and the hand that's on my cock moves in search of the fake knot. He starts to pump it in and out of me, but I catch his wrist and stop him.

"Take it out, please." My voice breaks the way it hasn't in years.

Questions float to the surface of his gaze, but Mason does it anyway, and when I rise on my knees over him, waiting for him to shove his pajama bottoms down his hips, he does that, too. I waste no time getting him inside me. Once his pants are low enough, I lower myself onto his cock, taking him slowly, inch by inch. Every ridge. Every vein. Every throb.

There's not as much slick in my hole as there was this afternoon by the pool—another sign my heat is ending—but I'm already stretched enough from the knot, and I savor the added, unexpected friction. Right now, I'd take him any way I could get him, even if it hurt. Mason's eyes close with bliss when I bottom out. I stay there a moment, pulsing my hole around him, adjusting to the feel of him instead of the fake knot.

Toys are nice, but Mason's cock is better.

I brush a light kiss against both of his lids, and he opens his eyes again. Father's lessons on how to please my alpha replay in my mind.

It's insulting for an omega to touch himself in front of an alpha during sex.

I hesitate. Does riding an alpha count, too? I'm not sure. I usually let my alphas take the lead. I've only ever led with omega lovers. As if sensing my insecurity, Mason presses a kiss against the side of my neck, right beside my ear.

"Use me, Tristan," he whispers. "Use my body however you need to take your pleasure."

That's permission enough for me. Hanging onto his shoulders, I rock my hips—tentatively at first, but when Mason moans, I move more confidently. His hands find my sides, holding me steady as I bob up and down. Fresh slick dampens my hole, and I bounce even faster, easier, until I'm practically gliding over him. I fuck myself on his dick as if I'll never get the chance to again. Somewhere deep down, I know I might not.

"I could watch you do this for hours," Mason says. He leans back against the sofa, head lolling, his hooded eyes fixed on mine. He stares at me like I'm a god— his god—and, gods forgive me, he makes me feel like I am.

"Tell me more." I whine as my dick swings and slaps crassly against my belly.

Mason nods. He spits in one of his palms, catches my shaft, and starts to stroke me. "I'm going to keep jerking you until you orgasm, Tristan. Until you're breathless with ecstasy. Until you shoot all over my chest. Until your hot little hole squeezes me tight."

I lose myself in his words immediately. Gods, how I love this—the way he talks to me, planting all these filthy thoughts in my mind, preparing me for what's to come so I feel safe and ready and excited for it when it does. It's my favorite part of sex with him, even more than my own release.

"I can't wait to feel you throb around me—the way your body draws me deeper, closer, like it can't bear for me to go. I can't resist it. I can't resist you. I won't be able to stop myself from coming."

My eyes drift closed. A whimper tumbles from my mouth. I circle my hips, and his cock grazes the sensitive nerves in my channel. "Don't. Stop. Talking."

"Then, when your next wave arrives, I'll come first instead so I can give you my knot and watch you pleasure yourself on it. I'll ask you to touch your nipples and rub them until they're as hard as I am now."

There might not be a next wave , I think, but that's not the point. The point is everything else he's said beside that. My rhythm falters, and I open my eyes abruptly. "Wait. You … you want me to touch myself?"

For some reason, Mason seems confused by my surprise. His hand stills on my shaft, and he blinks with uncertainty. After everything we've shared, he probably can't imagine why this would be my limit. "I do, Tristan. Is that all right?"

I look down at my blushing crown, peeking up through the top of his fist. "Father said I shouldn't ... He said my alpha would be offended."

Mason's hand leaves my hip and finds my chin instead. When he meets my gaze, there's so much sympathy in his eyes I almost can't bear it. "Any alpha who feels threatened by an omega's pleasure isn't worthy enough to have a partner."

"But—"

"He isn't , Tristan." Mason gives a slight shake of his head. "You know how sensual I find you. Never be ashamed of that. Anyone who makes you feel unnatural for enjoying your body doesn't deserve you."

His lips crash into mine—I'm not sure who initiates our kiss, him or me, but the sweep of his tongue through my mouth ignites something inside me. Lust races across my skin like wildfire, and my nipples throb, aching to be touched.

"Do it, Tristan," Mason murmurs against my mouth. "Touch yourself for me."

Oh, how I want to …

Hesitantly, I glance toward the door, wondering if he locked it. No one can find out about this. Especially Father. But Mason quickly reassures me.

"It's just the two of us. I know the estate is busy, but when we have sex, that's all there will ever be. I promise."

There's no reason to be afraid. I know this. Since I went into heat, he's done his best to shelter me. Still, I take my hands off his shoulders cautiously. My fingertips shake as I bring them to my chest and trace light circles around my nipples.

"That's my good omega." Mason's tongue moves slowly over his lips, moistening them, while he watches. "Show me what you like. I want to learn so I can please you."

My alpha's praise emboldens me. I touch myself again, brushing over my buds themselves. Pleasure darts through my torso and down to my groin. I stifle a gasp, self-conscious, but my dick twitches, betraying my enjoyment. Mason gins. Holding my stare, he moves his palm along my cock again, encouraging me further.

"Keep going," he tells me.

It feels wrong and right and oh-so good as we play with my body together. Each touch is electrifying—fireworks exploding my senses in a way I've never shared with anyone else, that I've only known by myself, in darkness and secrecy. I grow bolder and bolder, craving more. Shamelessly, I tug on my nipples, pinching the tiny peaks until they pebble and swell. This time, I let my cries loose. I've never enjoyed myself with an alpha the way I do with Mason, and I want him to know how he affects me. I want him to hear and feel and see.

"Gorgeous …" he whispers. "Perfect … and precious …"

Leaning forward, he nudges aside one of my hands with his nose and shares in my work, taking a nipple into his mouth while I tease the other. His tongue soothes while his teeth torment. Lick, suck. Tweak, twist. Then, we alternate, doing it all again and again until my eyes rolls back, and I moan like I never truly have before—from someplace so deep within me that only he could reach it.

My alpha. My everything.

I come far too quickly that way, my hands and Mason's lips on me, his palm still stroking my shaft. I slump against his shoulder, trembling, my cum splashing his chest, while he fucks me from below, taking himself to climax. I don't want to move. I don't want this to end. I cling to him like he's time itself—like I can keep one moment from turning into the next simply by holding still.

But I can't.

Eventually, our orgasms subside, and the second I raise my head again, I see the Fairchild on the wall above us. Guilt seeps back in the good feelings' place. Mason had helped me forget my sins for a while, but they just won't leave. Bad things usually don't.

I shouldn't have fucked him again here, in the scene of my would-be crime. I've made a mockery of all the happiness we've shared.

"Can we go to bed now, Mason?" I ask him, barely able to look in his face. "I'm feeling tired."

His fingertips trace over my collarbone, then down my arm. "Of course, Tristan. Anything you like."

Upstairs, he asks if I want to sleep with the fake knot or his cock inside me.

Rolling onto my side, I lift my leg to offer up my hole. Unshed tears sting my eyes as I stare at the wall and choose him one last time.

You, Mason. Always you.

The sun is starting to rise when I slip out from beneath the covers. Everything about Mason seems too much to bear—his scent, the weight of his arm resting across my torso, the coolness of the silk pajama top I pulled on again after he licked my cum from our bellies. I'm sure of it now: my heat is over.

But the difference in how I feel when I look at him is more than my body signaling its attempt to repair and recover. It's because I can't stop thinking about what Mason said regarding the Fairchild painting. The more my heat subsides, the more my mind clears. And what my mind tells me is that I care for him. Genuinely. With or without the pheromones.

It's been too easy to fit in here. To fall into a routine. To imagine I belong in this world, with Mason. But because I care for Mason, I can't stay. Luke already broke his heart once. I won't risk doing the same. If he finds out about the forgery hidden in the en suite, everything we shared these past few days—the fevered fucking, the gentle moments, the unexpected sharing—will be tainted.

I can't do that to him any more than I can to myself. I'm lucky enough to have gone this long with my original intentions a secret. Staying through my recovery is too great a risk. I can recover at home. Warm baths, hot tea, and another day or two of rest. Father and my brothers won't lift a finger to take care of me, but I saw Papa go through it often enough. I know what to do. No alpha aide required.

Though under other circumstances, Mason's company would have been nice.

So, I stumble to the en suite, still a bit unsteady on my feet after all my time spent in bed or in Mason's arms, carried wherever and whenever I needed. I find my waiter's uniform from the fundraiser, freshly laundered and folded on the counter. No sign of slick. No scent of heat. Another sign of Vincent's handiwork. I slip Mason's pajamas from my shoulders, and although my body recoils at his thick, alpha musk, my heart skips a beat and my mind commits it to memory.

Buried in the back of one of the cupboards under the sink, still wrapped innocently in a towel, are my toolkit and the forged Fairchild painting. I unfurl the towel and stick it in the hamper, then shove the kit in my pocket and wind the canvas around my chest like a corset.

I wore it this way in; I'll wear it this way out.

I pull on my socks last. My pre-written I'm sorry note is still stuffed inside one of the toes. I know exactly what to do with it. Slinking back into Mason's bedroom, I set the note on a pillow in my place. Then, I look at him. Barely ten minutes have passed since I last saw him, but it feels like a lifetime.

"I'll miss you," I whisper in his ear.

Leaning closer, I kiss him softly. I rub my smooth cheek against his stubbled one, then nuzzle that ticklish spot just beneath his jaw. Part of me hopes Mason will wake up and tell me not to go.

He doesn't. He only stirs, his golden head burrowing deeper into his pillow, my name a sleepy murmur on his lips. "Tristan …"

At least I got to hear him say it one last time.

The walk home is slow, made even longer by my aching heart and the tide of soreness washing over my body. At least it's daylight, and no alphas bother me. They must smell the recovery on me—the last traces of another man's seed in my belly, about to be expelled. I'm of no interest to them at this point in my heat cycle.

I stumble up the driveway to the Victorian cottage where I grew up. And although my hole feels raw and my womb is cramping, I go straight to Papa's studio—the old garage in the back yard—instead of drawing a bath. Self-care can come later. There's something else I have to do first.

Pulling open the sliding garage door takes all my strength. It squeals loudly, and as soon as it gives way, I collapse to my knees on the cement floor, panting. But doing this here—in Papa's special, private space, with the old sink in the corner and his paint-splattered easel in my reach—is healing. As I undo the buttons on my shirt and let the forged Fairchild fall onto the floor, I feel like Papa's watching. I feel like he approves.

With a sob, I take a blade from the roll of tools stashed in my sock. I can't let Father have this painting. He'll only try to steal the original from Mason again. I have to destroy it—cut it, shred it, and burn it. I've just made the first slash through the canvas when I hear footsteps crossing the patio behind me.

Father's coming …

Panic jolts me into action. I make another slice, then another, working as quickly as I can. My hands shake, and tears blur my eyes. I can barely see, but I don't stop—not until he's hovering over me, his face contorted in anger and fury simmering in his stare.

"What are you doing, you little shit?!"

Grabbing my shoulders, Father pulls me off the forgery and shoves me aside. I crash into the easel, adding a bruised spine to my list of ailments. As it slams to the floor behind me, I land on my back, chest heaving.

"Where have you been?" he demands without waiting for my answer to his first question.

"M-my heat started—" I try to explain.

Father leans in to sniff the air by my neck, then glowers. He must smell Mason on me, the same way Blaise smelled Mister Whatever the night I stole the vase. "And that's your excuse for destroying a priceless work of art?!" He kicks at the scraps of canvas on the ground by his feet and raises his fist, swinging back to hit me.

I cower, lifting a hand in feeble attempt to protect myself. "It's the forgery—it's only the forgery!"

He pauses abruptly, and although I'm certain he still wants to hit me, Father lowers his arm with a resentful grunt. I hold my breath as he stoops to examine one of the shreds, unsure if I'm telling the truth. Finally, he stands, but there is no mercy in his glare.

"Well, Tristan, you've made your choice," he says with the warmth of an icicle. "Now, it's time for me to make mine."

He glances over his shoulder, where my brothers have now gathered behind him.

"Dane, take Tristan inside. Start a list of every unwed alpha you know who is looking for a mate. Blaise, you do the same. And make sure they're not the omega-sympathizing sort."

As my brothers scoop me off the floor and drag me toward the house, my world plummets into darkness. The sun might be shining, but I can't feel its warmth.

Fuck up, and I'll marry you off to the oldest, grumpiest, ugliest alpha I can find , Father always warned.

This time, I think he really means it.