Page 69 of Heat Clinic

Marcus narrows his eyes at me. “That isnotwhy you fell in love with me.”

“No.” I brush his hair out of his face. He needs a haircut. I’ll make him an appointment tomorrow. “I love you because you’re kind. Because you take care of everyone who you consider yours. Because you are loyal and thoughtful. But it certainly didn’t hurt that you have a massive cock, a talented tongue, and an arse to die for.”

His lips twitch in an almost smile, which was my aim. “Let’s go over the plan again.” I hold up my hand and make a fist, putting up one finger at a time. “One, make their spaces comfortable for them. Two, get to know one another and go on lots of dates. And three, the most important rule?” I wiggle my three fingers in the air.

“Fuck her over every piece of furniture in the house?” he asks.

“Precisely. Fuck her over every single piece of furniture we own, and quite a few we don’t. Don’t forget the terrace. And let’s also not overlook Sam. He needs his own sort of reassurance that he’s wanted here.”

I remember what Marcus said, how Sam insisted they weren’t a package deal. As if he expected an extraneous beta to be some sort of consolation prize. I understand the thought, even if it hurts to know our packmate feels that way. Sam is a natural. He knows exactly how to handle our omega, and he’s slotting in perfectly between us. His carefree nature makes him easy to like.

“I have a plan for Sam. Do you want to see it?” Marcus asks. His eyes light up with excitement.

“Does it involve a gimp mask shaped like a dog’s muzzle?” I hope we haven’t bought him the same present. Mine is custom-made and not returnable. The express rush cost a fortune. I ordered it last night when I was too eager to sleep.

“What?” Marcus laughs, his deep belly laugh that makes me melt when I hear it because I know it’s real. Visceral. “No. Why would you ask that?” He shakes his head.

“What is it then?” I answer without answering. “I want to see it.”

“It’s in the basement. One of my clients owed me a favor, and I called it in. They dropped it off this morning.”

He stands and I follow him out. We call out that we’ll be right back in case they come downstairs, looking for us while we’re gone. Marcus leads me to the storage area in the basement. There, sitting in the center of our designated storage cage, is a rusted motorcycle with a big red bow attached to it. Its paint is chipped, and the swoopy piece of metal that covers half the back wheel has a dent.

“Umm…”

“It’s a 1955 Triumph T110 in shell blue,” Marcus says, as if that explains everything.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” I ask and walk around the bike, looking at it from every angle. The headlight is yellowed and fogged with age, and the leather seat is cracked. It’s a wreck.

Marcus sighs. “It’s one of James Dean’s favorite bikes. Sam told me that when he was little, he used to watch his dad fix up an old Chevy Bel Air. He’d hand his father tools and hold the light. And then his dad died when he was a kid and the car sat there untouched under a tarp in their garage until he took auto shop in high school and finished restoring it.”

I touch the bike, dragging my hand over the curves of its mechanicals. “And it’s going to take months for him to restore this one so he’ll know we mean to keep him. Good job, darling.” I press a kiss to his lips and settle into his side.

“Exactly.”

“I’m afraid he thinks we don’t really wanthim,” Marcus says after a pause.

I’m not shocked to hear it. Even the most well-adjusted beta can struggle to accept the uniqueness of the alpha-omega dynamic. For betas who want a pack rather than a single partner, it can sometimes be hurtful.

“Let’s give him my present tonight,” I say. “The tracking information says it was delivered this morning.”

“Do I even want to know?” Marcus asks.

He locks the storage cage behind us, and we walk to the lobby. There’s a thick stack of mail in our mail slot and a half-dozen packages. I’m not the only one who’s been buying presents.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” I search through the plain brown boxes until I find the one I’m looking for.Perfect.

ChapterSeventeen

EMILY

Falling asleep in a strange bed,no matter how comfortable, has always been a challenge for me. The mattress is too soft, the pillows too firm, the sheets too slippery. I think they’re silk. Sitting up in bed, I click the lamp on and look around the room. Part of me still can’t believe I’m really here.

The bedroom is beautiful. Their entire house is stunning, and it looks like something straight out of a magazine spread. It has crown molding and wainscoting, and even the ceilings are decorated. Everything is painted a warm white or covered in patterned wallpaper. I didn’t know people still used wallpaper at all. Oriental rugs that are probably older than me crisscross one another in the enormous downstairs living room and upstairs den, and all I can think of is how all that velvet seating is going to get absolutely wrecked. Like the car.

I’m terrified to touch a single thing. Everything looks delicate and breakable and either antique or very fucking expensive. Priceless knickknacks litter every horizontal surface. This house is a gorgeous landmine waiting to explode from a single bump against the furniture.

I don’t want to be by myself right now. Maybe Sam will cuddle me to sleep? I’ve never had a problem living or sleeping alone, but in the last week it seems I’ve already gotten used to having someone there with me. I don’t want to give that up.

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