“Come here,” Westcliff said.
And Jules went.
He fucking went, just like that. He climbed into Westcliff’s lap and tucked his face into the crook of his neck. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out, almost moaning from the illogical, irrational feeling of good-safe-protected that washed over him.
Stupid biology and stupid alpha pheromones.
Chapter 13
Several weeks passed like that.
Westcliff called on Liam and took him out on dates, putting on that disgustingly charming mask he wore in public. More often than not, Jules accompanied them, serving as a chaperone, for appearances’ sake—officially. Unofficially, he kind of… he went because he wanted to be around the duke. It freaked him out that he felt addicted to the way Westcliff made him feel, but he couldn’t help himself. It felt so good, especially when Westcliff allowed him to rub his face against his scent gland—the euphoria was beyond his ability to express properly. Afterward, Jules felt so embarrassed, but thankfully, Westcliff didn’t make fun of him and always acted as if there was nothing weird about his behavior.
“Better?” he would say in a quiet murmur, and Jules would flush and nod and look anywhere but at him. Every time he told himself it was the last time, but his resolve melted into a mass of goo the next time he saw the duke. It was horrible. Horribly addictive.
Ugh. Just thinking about it made him feel jittery with impatience, but unfortunately, they were in a very public place right now.
Jules stared unhappily at the opera singer before glancing at the other occupants of the royal box. King Stefan was seated in the first row of the box, his golden hair gleaming almost as brightly as his crown. The king had barely said a word to them when Westcliff had introduced them earlier—he’d just eyed Liam in an assessing manner before nodding and turning toward the performance. It was kind of anticlimactic, considering how nervous Liam had been about sharing an opera box with the king.
It was pretty obvious that there was some kind of divide between the king and his nephew: they had greeted each other rather coldly and Westcliff had taken a seat in the third row of the box, away from the king, leaving an empty row between them. Jules wasn’t sure what Liam had thought of it, but he seemed content enough to watch the opera.
Jules’s gaze shifted to Westcliff, seated between the brothers. He seemed engrossed by the performance, too, and Jules glowered at his stupidly handsome profile. There was a five o’clock shadow on Westcliff’s firm jaw, and Jules vaguely wondered if it would be prickly to the touch.
As if feeling his gaze, Westcliff turned his head and tilted it inquiringly.
“I’m bored,” Jules whispered.
A corner of Westcliff’s mouth twitched. “Where are your manners?” he murmured, leaning closer to Jules’s ear. “It’s very rude of you to say that you’re bored to the person who invited you.”
“You invited Liam, not me,” Jules countered, hoping it wasn’t obvious that he was breathing in deeper. He could smell Westcliff, very faintly, for the first time since he’d started decreasing the dose of his suppressants. Westcliff smelled… good. The scent was still too weak to register as anything in particular, but it made Jules’s head spin with pleasure all the same.
“Same difference,” Westcliff murmured with an amused little smile, tapping Jules’s nose with his thumb. His gaze was… affectionate?
Licking his lips, Jules tried to remember what they were talking about. Try as he might, he couldn’t, his eyes returning helplessly to Westcliff’s, again and again.
The duke’s crooked smile widened. “Anyone ever told you you’re like a baby doe? A very endearing one.”
A baby doe? Endearing?
Jules scowled at him, unsure why it annoyed him so much. “I’m not endearing,” he bit out. “I’m not some—some cute child.”
Westcliff, the asshole, had the nerve to chuckle and look at him as if he were only proving his point.
The worst part was, Jules couldn’t even be mad at him properly—not when he felt so good from his mere proximity. But it still wasn’t enough. He wanted… He wanted more. He wanted more of that scent. He wanted them closer, wanted it so badly that he was half-seriously wondering if people would notice if he pressed his face against Westcliff’s throat and breathed.
To be fair to his sanity, the royal box was half in the shadows, the first row the only illuminated part. Only Liam could probably see them and Liam was aware that the duke was helping Jules with his problem.
Fuck, what was wrong with him? Was he seriously considering scenting Westcliff in a public place, while they were a few steps away from the king?
“What’s wrong?” Westcliff said, his voice becoming serious as he peered at Jules in the semi-darkness.
Jules kind of hated how well Westcliff could read him. He suddenly wondered if the duke was this attentive with Liam. Probably more, right?