Feral (The Wrong Alpha 2)

Slag, he told his stupid body that clearly hadn’t gotten the memo that they were ignoring Westcliff from now on. Fuck, how was he supposed to ignore him when he felt like a junkie trembling impatiently in the proximity of his fix? His fingers were literally trembling. Literally. He had to grip the tablet harder to stop the tremors.

And it didn’t fucking help that he could feel Westcliff’s gaze on him.

“Good evening to you, too, Julian,” he said in his low, slightly husky voice.

Jules squeezed his thighs together, feeling himself get slick. Gods, this was horrible. Wasn’t his heat supposed to be over? He wasn’t supposed to react to an alpha this way.

My brother’s fiancé, he told his body firmly. Stop being a slut. You’re supposed to be on suppressants.

His stupid body ignored his brain. Of course it did.

When the silence stretched, Liam coughed pointedly, clearly scandalized by Jules’s rude silence.

Jules sighed. “Your Grace,” he said, without looking up.

“I see you’re still sulking over what I said.”

Sulking?

“I’m not a child,” Jules bit out. “I do not sulk. Your Grace.”

“You do, or you wouldn’t be Your Grace-ing me.”

“I thought that’s how one addressed a duke. Though I hear we’ll be calling you Your Highness soon. Out of curiosity, how does it feel to steal your cousin’s crown?”

The air in the room thickened, vibrating with alpha pheromones.

Jules sucked a breath in, his mind becoming a little foggy. It felt both good and horrible at the same time.

Liam made a strangled noise, and Jules finally looked up. Liam was pale on the opposite couch, his body subconsciously making itself smaller, his eyes wide as they stared at Westcliff.

At last, with great reluctance, Jules followed his gaze.

Westcliff looked… “Angry” seemed like a bad word choice, but Jules couldn’t think of a better one. His gaze was intense. And hot. Scalding. It was fixed on him with an expression that made Jules want to bare his neck—and spread his legs.

Swallowing, Jules fought the impulse with great difficulty. “What?” he said, his hostile tone probably an overreaction, but it felt like he couldn’t control his mouth at all, his frustration after the unfulfilled heat needing an outlet. “Did I hit a nerve? Your Grace.”

A muscle twitched in Westcliff’s chiseled jaw. “If you must know, I had nothing to do with the king’s decision. He would have disinherited Haydn anyway. There are other alphas from lesser lines that would become the crown prince or princess even if I refused.”

Julian smiled. “I can’t help but notice that you said ‘alphas.’ I guess betas and omegas aren’t people, right?”

“I didn’t say that,” Westcliff ground out, taking a step closer. “Don’t twist my words into something they are not.”

“Not twisting anything. It’s your words, not mine.”

“It’s the king’s opinion, and it’s the one that counts in this case.”

Jules scoffed. “Are you actually claiming that you had nothing to do with the king disinheriting Prince Haydn? That you didn’t say yes when the king consulted you?”

Westcliff laughed. It was a harsh laugh. “This shows that you don’t know the king at all. He doesn’t care for anyone’s opinion besides his own.”

“Like uncle, like nephew?” Jules said, lifting his chin.

A strange expression flickered in Westcliff’s eyes.

“I’m nothing like him,” he said, very evenly.

Something about his tone made Jules pay attention, his ire forgotten. Jules studied the way the alpha’s tall body was practically exuding tension, the way his handsome face was terribly blank.

“You hate him,” he said softly as the realization dawned upon him. “You hate the king.”

Westcliff grimaced, taking the seat next to Jules.

He sighed. “Hate is too strong a word,” he said, suddenly looking tired. “But yes, I don’t like him.”

Jules’s fingers twitched toward him, itching to touch, to offer comfort. He balled them into fists, trying to suppress those instincts. They were natural for an omega toward their alpha—but they were completely inappropriate toward Westcliff.

It was so difficult. It didn’t help that he also had to actively fight the urge to climb into Westcliff’s lap, unbutton the top button of his shirt, press his face against his neck, and breathe.

Fuck, it felt like he had a multiple personality disorder sometimes.

“Why?” Jules said, eyeing the short space between them with dismay and annoyance. Couldn’t Westcliff sit down on Liam’s couch? Jules ignored the part of him that felt ridiculously pleased that Westcliff had chosen to sit down next to him—that part of him was a stupid omega who thought with his cock rather than his brain.

Westcliff sighed and leaned back against the couch in that quintessential alpha male pose—big, relaxed, his thighs spread to accommodate his—

Nope, not thinking about Westcliff’s cock or knot.

Wincing, Jules decided to blame those thoughts on his recent heat.

“It’s complicated,” Westcliff said, touching Jules’s wrist and stroking it with his fingers absentmindedly.

Jules kind of froze, his lips parting and his nostrils flaring as he was filled with the familiar wonderful feeling of safe-good-protected-alpha.