Feral (The Wrong Alpha 2)

“This is all your fault,” Jules said, balling his hands into fists. “I’ve lowered the dose of my suppressants, because of what you said, and now I’m all…”

“You’re what?” Westcliff said, leaning in closer.

Closer, but not close enough, Jules thought unhappily.

“Is it the broken bond?” Westcliff murmured. “Does it hurt now?”

“Sort of,” Jules lied. At least it felt like a lie. The bond ached less these days—it felt much better ever since Westcliff had started helping him—but he couldn’t admit that he was just hopelessly addicted to the good-safe-protected feeling he got whenever Westcliff was close.

“You should have told me,” Westcliff said, touching Jules’s cheek with his knuckles.

Before Jules could think of what he was doing, he caught Westcliff’s hand and pressed his nose against it. Inhaled greedily. Although alphas’ primary scent glands were located on their necks, there were some on their hands too.

“How do you imagine that, exactly?” Jules said, nuzzling his cheek against Westcliff’s palm. “Was I supposed to say ‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I need to scent your nephew, because reasons?’”

Westcliff didn’t chuckle.

He didn’t even smile.

He just stared at Jules for a long moment, his expression impossible to read in the semi-darkness. The singer took a high note, exquisitely—then held it while the passionate harmony swelled. The audience applauded, but neither of them looked at the singer.

“I’ll be there if you need me,” Westcliff said at last, stroking his palm against Jules’s cheek. “Just ask, Julian.”

“Okay,” Jules mumbled, his eyes slipping shut as he nuzzled into the duke’s hand. It felt so good. He had a feeling he would be purring if he were a cat. He kissed Westcliff’s palm chastely.

“Fuck,” Westcliff said, his voice tight and low, the air thickening with his alpha pheromones. “I can’t wait for you to live in my house. I’m going to take such good care of you, I promise.”

Jules inhaled shakily, his insides warming as he imagined it: living in the same house as Westcliff and having access to him at all hours of the day. Yes, please.

Another round of applause shattered the hazy, pleasant state he was in. Jules opened his eyes blearily, feeling as if he were waking up from some kind of dream.

“Feeling better?” Westcliff said, taking his hand away.

Jules nearly whined from the loss, and then immediately felt annoyed with himself. What was he expecting? To have Westcliff attached to him all the time?

“Yes,” he said, pulling away.

And just in time—the performance came to an end.

Westcliff turned to Liam, and Jules looked away, hugging his arms to his chest. It was rather chilly tonight.

It was chillier outside.

The weather had apparently gotten colder while they had been in the Opera House, and Jules found himself shivering as they walked to Westcliff’s helicopter. Unlike Liam, Jules hadn’t bothered to wear a suit jacket, figuring a dress shirt would be enough—he was just a chaperone, after all—but now he was starting to regret it.

“Take this,” Westcliff said from behind and then Jules was enveloped in his scent as a heavy dark jacket wrapped around his shoulders. “You’re cold.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Liam said. “I told Jules that he should wear a jacket, but he can be so stubborn sometimes.” His voice was fond but exasperated.

Jules didn’t say anything. He also didn’t look at Westcliff as he wrapped his jacket tighter around himself. It was much too big for him, of course. It made him feel small. Protected.

He stared out the window the entire helicopter ride, ignoring the polite conversation about opera between Liam and Westcliff.

As they finally arrived at the Blake town house, a valet hurried to open the door for Liam and help him out of the helicopter. Westcliff got out next and offered his hand to Jules.

Jules accepted his help, but Westcliff didn’t let go when Jules got his feet on the ground.

“Are you all right?” Westcliff said, squeezing his fingers. “You’ve been very quiet. It’s odd.”

Jules chuckled. “Are you implying I never shut up, Your Grace?”

Westcliff’s expression became a little pinched. “Devlin,” he said. “Call me by my name.”

Jules stared.

“I’m fine—Devlin,” he said.

Devlin smiled at him, the smile that made his handsome face even more unfairly handsome. “It’s really cold,” he said, letting go of his hand and buttoning up his jacket on Jules. “Go inside. I don’t want you to get a cold.”

“Don’t you want your jacket back?” Jules said, eyeing the thin blue shirt hugging the duke’s muscular torso. Licking his lips, he looked back to Devlin’s eyes, his face warm.

Devlin shook his head. “Xeus alphas run hotter than omegas. I barely feel the chill.” He studied Jules in his jacket for a moment, and then nodded, his gaze hooded. “Go inside, brat.”

Jules went.

He realized that he was smiling only when he reached his bedroom. Pressing his hands to his flushed cheeks, Jules looked around the room, trying and failing to suppress the smile. It was stupid. He had no reason to smile.