I gave a rueful snort. “Yeah, you were always going to wear me down eventually, weren’t you?”
“Yup,” he said, taking my waist in his big hands and shifting his hips, drawing a sharp gasp of ecstasy from me.
* * *
When the weird oldbutler guy showed up on the morning of the fifth day with an invitation to join our hosts in the west wing of the house, I knew our time of carefree rest was over. It had been an illusion anyway, but a much needed one.
I went in search of the others. Jax and Flynn were easy to find. I eventually heard the sound of trickling water filtering through the half-open door of one of the bathrooms, and followed it to discover Kam and Alex sitting on the floor next to the bathtub. Alex’s head was tilted back, her neck resting on the edge of the tub with her long hair trailing into the basin. Kam held a china pitcher from the kitchen filled with water, and was pouring a steady stream over the dark tresses to rinse them.
“This is ridiculous,” Alex muttered.
Kam paused. “You want clean hair? Then it isn’t ridiculous, you stubborn alpha. You’re not getting your hand or your back wet on my watch, so lie back and be pampered, damn it.”
I knew I shouldn’t be watching like this without announcing my presence, despite the warm, soft feeling the scene engendered. Purposely letting my shoe scuff against the hardwood floor of the hallway, I closed the final two steps to the doorway and knocked lightly on the frame.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but we’ve been invited into Nikolayev’s territory. Hopefully that means Beckett’s recovered and it’s time to talk.”
Alex shot upright like she’d been fired from a cannon, ignoring Kam’s huff of irritation as water splashed on the floor. “About bloody time,” she said, hauling herself to her feet with her good hand on the tub. Her hair hung in a soaking mass behind her.
“What did Ijustsay about getting your back wet?” Kam groused, fumbling for a towel. “We’ll be along in a minute,odama.”
Once everyone was presentable, the butler led us past the grand staircase that divided the two halves of the house, conveying us to the double doors of a beautifully appointed formal receiving room.
“Your guests, sirs,” he announced, stepping aside and gesturing at us to enter with his single arm.
We entered to find Kostya Nikolayev standing by the room’s massive, unlit fireplace—something which seemed like a bit of an odd feature for a house in the middle of a tropical rainforest. Rhys Beckett sat in an overstuffed chair, wrapped in a flannel dressing gown that practically swallowed his slight frame. He looked drawn, almost frail, but his sea-colored eyes were clear and lucid.
He rose unsteadily at our approach. Nikolayev stepped forward quickly, his hand raised as though to offer support. Beckett waved him away testily.
“Don’t hover, Kostya,” he said. “It’s not as though this was my first heat.”
Nikolayev grumbled something inaudible, but backed off—a watchful presence with sharp gray eyes, his long arms folded across his chest.
Beckett immediately turned his attention to us, his expression turning haunted. “Alex. Flynn. I am so incredibly sorry for all of this.”
He met us halfway, moving like an old man, and pulled Flynn into a tight embrace. The huge alpha curled around him—a pup with his beloved carrier.
“’S okay, Boss,” he said into the smaller man’s hair. “No harm done that won’t heal. Jax came and rescued us.”
“He might have had abitof help with that,” Nikolayev put in testily, biting off the words.
“Hush,” Beckett said, and I watched in mild amazement from the sidelines as the chairman of the Euro-Soviet Committee hushed.
Beckett released Flynn with a final pat on the back and reached for Alex, taking her good hand in one of his and curling the other around the nape of her neck. “Alex. I’m so sorry. You will have learned about Irina by now, I expect.”
Alex leaned down until their foreheads touched and gave a short, wordless nod.
“If I could have thought of a way to tell you without making everything a hundred times more dangerous—” he began.
“It’s all right,” Alex said hoarsely. “I understand.” She eased away. “You’re not hurt?”
“No,” he said. “No, Alex—I’m fine.”
Nikolayev scoffed. “You were kidnapped, drugged, interrogated, tortured psychologically, and thrown into an artificial heat. And Iwillsee the one responsible pay in kind.”
“We’ll get to that part in a minute,” Beckett said, letting Alex go. “Jax. Come here.”
Jax, too, accepted a hug from the omega who’d been like a parent to him. “Glad you’re back, Boss. Not sure I approve in your choice of mates a hundred percent, though. No offense,” he added belatedly.
