Page 81 of Taken Off Camera
The toiletries lined up on a glass shelf are unfamiliar brands with French names I can’t pronounce, and when I step out, the towel wraps around me, thick and soft as a cloud.
More evidence that I’ve stepped into a world where even the basics are luxurious beyond reason.
I dress, unwrapping a fresh pair of boxers in my size and pulling on my cleaned jeans and favorite hoodie, soft from too many washes. Comfort clothes, and probably out of place for what billionaires wear to breakfast.
Sebastian’s waiting when I emerge, dressed in a button-up shirt and dark jeans, devastatingly handsome, especially so early in the morning.
“Ready?” He offers his hand.
I take it, threading my fingers through his. “As I’ll ever be.”
In the sitting room, Saint shrugs into his jacket, slipping his phone into his back pocket and grabbing his bag. Always ready to make a fast escape if needed. “About time. I’m starving.”
The corridors of Rockford Manor form a maze I could never navigate alone. We pass closed doors and open sitting rooms, artwork that probably belongs in museums, and windows framing the sprawling grounds beyond.
Saint walks a step behind us, his posture rigid, body positioned to guard my back from potential threats.
The dining room, when we reach it, is massive. A long mahogany table dominates the space, surrounded by high-backed chairs that wouldn’t be out of place in a palace. Morning sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the room in golden light.
A quick check of the corners of the room reveals hidden security cameras, and my stomach does a flip before I remember that these are Sebastian’s.
The Rockford family is already gathered, their hum of conversation faltering as we enter. I recognize some from yesterday’s brief introductions. Milo sitsstraight-backed and poised, assessing me with cool curiosity. Phoenix perches on what must be his mate’s lap, a picture of feline contentment.
Another Omega I didn’t meet yesterday sits on a cushioned chair, his feathery blond hair gleaming like a halo, and his stomach swollen with a baby. A large Alpha hovers beside him, refilling his juice glass with attentive care.
A man I haven’t met before but recognize from the picture in Sebastian’s office leans forward, the streak of silver in his dark hair catching the light as he observes me with lazy interest. Ezra. The cousin from the accident that left Sebastian scarred.
“The guest of honor arrives,” Gabriel calls from near a sideboard laden with coffee pots and platters. His tongue skims his bottom lip as he spots Saint behind us. “And his shadow.”
Saint’s shoulders tense, but before he can respond, Sebastian’s hand on the small of my back guides me into the room.
“Ignore him,” Sebastian murmurs close to my ear. “He lives to provoke.”
I square my shoulders and step forward, forcing a smile that I hope doesn’t betray the storm of anxiety churning beneath my skin.
Sebastian runs through introductions. Phoenix’smate is his cousin Damien, the angelic Omega is Leo, with his over-protective mate Nolan, and at the far end, the black-haired Omega who doesn’t raise his head when Sebastian says his name is Jade.
My head swims, and I tug at the hem of my faded sweatshirt as I take the seat Sebastian pulls out for me.
“Come sit here, precious.” Gabriel pats the empty chair beside him for Saint.
“Fuck off,” Saint snarls, grabbing the chair on the other side of Sebastian to put more distance between them. “It’s not happening.”
A grin spreads over Gabriel’s face. “You’ll change your mind once you know me better. We have a lot in common.”
“Not. Happening.” Saint bites out. “Once we’re done here, we’re never seeing each other again.”
Gabriel props his chin on his hand. “But Micah’s Sebastian’s mate. Are you saying you’re never going to visit?”
Saint stiffens, and I freeze in panic.
“Stop it, Gabe,” Sebastian rumbles. “If you can’t be respectful, go drink your coffee in your room.”
“Touchy.” His brother sits back. “I’m just trying to become friends with your Omega’s bestie.”
Saint scoffs and grabs a roll from a basket, ripping into it.
“Ignore him,” a soft voice says, and I look up to find Leo’s crystal blue eyes on me, soft with understanding. “Try the French toast. Mrs. Bustley is an amazing cook.”
