Page 223 of Juliet & Her Romeos

Benedict has taught me that as well.

Vito carefully places down the cake on the top of the piano, before slipping a retro lighter out of his pocket and tossing it to me with the same swagger, as if he truly was the Alpha James Dean.

Although, one who’s dressed in black leather trousers and a Pixies band t-shirt.

“Light the candle for me.” Vito’s long, raven hair falls over his eyes, and it’s Swan who reaches to brush it back from his face.

I light the wick, then coo happily, as it flares up and fizzles like a violet sparkler.

Vito presses a kiss to the sensitive spot behind my ear, and I coo again. “It burns as brightly as you do, Jules. I fucking love you.”

“I’ve captured the birthday Omega,” Ambrose’s deep, echoing voice rumbles from the doorway.

Delighted, I look up, as Ambrose stalks into the room, looking dominantly gorgeous in a black tie suit with golden waistcoat, handkerchief, and rose cuff links in honor of the occasion.

Benedict is sprawled over his shoulder like his prey.

Ambrose looks like the wolf Alpha prince who has caught his enemy Omega elven prince and is now carrying him back to his lair to do very wicked — and naughty — things to him.

That’s the type of thing Dimitri would read about.

Hell, if the characters in the book looked like Ambrose and Benedict do, thenI’dread it.

Especially, since Benedict is naked.

Vito’s eyes widen. “I didn’t know that you took birthday suit so literally.”

Ambrose carries Benedict toward the piano. “Stripping the birthday boy is a Romeo tradition.”

“No it isn’t,” Benedict’s muffled voice protests. “You shouldn’t lie.”

I chuckle.

Ambrose slides one hand teasingly over Benedict’s ass, making Benedict gasp. “It is for their special thirtieth birthday.”

Swan looks hopeful. “Is a birthday spanking a tradition too?”

“Only for Betas whose names begin with ‘s’.”

Swan looks over his shoulder like Ambrose must be speaking to someone else. “Huh?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect your ass, beautiful,” Vito promises.

Ambrose places Benedict down in front of the cake, holding his arms tightly around his waist.

Then he whispers with a softness that makes me smile because I love that he shares this side of himself with Benedict, “Happy birthday, Benedict.”

Benedict stares around the ballroom in wonder. “This is all for me?”

Swan and I nod.

“Happy birthday,” we chorus.

Benedict’s eyes glimmer with tears, but it’s pure joy that’s surging through the bond for being accepted.

“The lights are making me tingle. Can we keep them up, after today? No one has hung a banner with my name before or baked me a birthday cake. How many balloons are there?”

Distracted, Benedict attempts to twirl around

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