Page 33 of Alpha's Touch
“The mate bond,” Zeppelin explained, pressing a gentle kiss to the spot. “It’s sealed now. And those colorful ribbons were out life forces. You’re officially mine, and I’m yours. Forever.”
Forever. The word should have terrified Preston, but instead, it filled him with a sense of rightness, of belonging. He traced his fingers over Zeppelin’s face, memorizing the planes and angles by touch.
“Forever sounds pretty good,” he whispered, leaning in for another kiss.
They stayed like that, trading lazy kisses and soft touches, until exhaustion began to pull at them. Zeppelin finally eased Preston off his lap, both of them wincing slightly at the separation. He disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth to clean them both up.
Once they were settled back under the covers, he curled against Zeppelin’s side, his head on his mate’s chest. The steady thump of his wolf’s heart lulled him toward sleep.
Chapter Ten
Preston was back at Frothy Pine, trying his best not to drop the tray of drinks he was carrying across the room. He couldn’t remember ever being in such a good mood. The bar hummed with the low murmur of conversation, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of raucous laughter from a corner booth. Warm amber lighting cast a golden glow over the polished wood surfaces, creating an atmosphere that felt both intimate and welcoming despite the growing crowd.
The place, unlike most bars of this kind, had no pool tables, which meant more space for tables, which meant more customers, which meant better tips. And better tips meant maybe he could finally give that sad excuse for a microwave a proper funeral.
Moving behind the bar with newfound confidence, Preston mixed another round of drinks, surprised when his hands didn't shake at all. Three nights into his new job, and he hadn’t broken a single glass since the first. A personal record that deserved celebration—possibly with a private happy dance in the stockroom later.
“You’re looking mighty pleased with yourself,” Quinn remarked from his perch at the counter, nursing what appeared to be club soda with lime.
The wolf had been there all evening, pretending to be just another customer while obviously keeping an eye on Preston. Babysitting duty, no question about it.
“Just thinking about how I haven’t destroyed any of Ash’s inventory tonight,” Preston replied, sliding a whiskey neat across the counter to a waiting customer. “Small victories and all that.”
Quinn snorted. “Low bar.”
“Better than no bar.” Preston grinned, wiping down a small spill. “Besides, I know why you’re really here. Zeppelin may have ‘things to take care of,’ but we both know you drew the short straw for Preston-watching duty.”
“I volunteered, actually,” Quinn said, munching on a handful of bar nuts. “Chase snores when he’s bored, and Wade turns into a little baby if he has to walk on cold floors.”
Preston laughed, genuinely enjoying Quinn’s company. The wolf had a dry, slightly absurd sense of humor that matched his own. “Well, I appreciate the entertainment, even if it comes with a side of overprotection.”
“Part of the package deal, man. Get used to it.” Quinn smiled. “But seriously, you’ve gotten pretty good at this, for a human.”
Preston rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the ringing endorsement. I’ll add it to my resume: ‘Adequate bartender by werewolf standards.’”
“Shifter,” Quinn corrected with a grin. “And I said ‘pretty good,’ not ‘adequate.’ Don’t downgrade my compliments.”
A call from the other end of the bar pulled Preston away. He moved down the counter, taking orders and mixing drinks with a fluidity that surprised even himself. Maybe he was finally getting the hang of this bartending gig after all.
Terry appeared at his elbow as Preston was measuring out tequila for a margarita. “Need any help with those, pretty boy?” he asked, standing close enough that Preston could smell the mint gum on his breath.
“I’ve got it, thanks,” he replied, stepping sideways to create some distance.
Terry followed, leaning against the counter. “Just trying to be helpful. You look like you could use a hand.”
The comment itself was innocent enough, but the way Terry’s eyes lingered on Preston's body made his skin crawl. All evening, the barback had been finding excuses to brush against him, to stand too close, to make comments that walked the line between friendly and inappropriate.
“You know, you’ve got natural talent,” Terry continued, watching Preston shake the cocktail mixer. “Those hands of yours are really... skilled.”
Preston forced a tight smile. “Just doing my job.”
When he turned to grab a glass, Terry shifted into his path, their bodies colliding briefly. “Oops, sorry about that,” Terry said, not sounding sorry at all.
Moving away, Preston caught Quinn’s eye, noting the wolf’s narrowed gaze and the slight tension in his shoulders. Great, now he had a protective shifter ready to pounce and a handsy coworker who couldn’t take a hint even if it was spelled out in glittery letters and hung from a rainbow.
Just what Preston needed to complicate an otherwise good night.
For the next hour, he did his best to avoid Terry, but the barback seemed determined to stay in his orbit. Each “accidental” touch, each suggestive comment grated on Preston's nerves more than the last. By the time the clock hit midnight, his good mood had soured considerably.
