“You think I’m going to go about my morning routine with this thing on?” I gesture at my neck, incredulous.
“I think you need time to process.” He stands to put distance between us, but a slight tension in his stance belies the victory of this moment.
For all his possessive actions, Ezra isn’t entirely certain of what comes next. He’s caught me, caged me, but now what?
“Bathroom’s through there.” He points toward the door on the far wall. “Take your time.”
He turns to leave, his back a canvas of tattoos and lean muscle that I could trace from memory.
I scoop my pants from the floor where Ezra tossed them last night, yanking them on with jerky movements. The fabric sticks to my skin, yesterday’s sweat and today’s anxiety making the expensive wool cling in all the wrong places.
I leave the rest of Professor Knox’s outfit where it lies and pad barefoot to the bathroom, desperate for some barrier between Ezra and me. The door closes with a false sense of safety, and I lean on it, the cool wood pressed to my bare back, trying to find my center in a world tilted off its axis.
The bathroom is a testament to Ezra’s expensive preferences, all sleek lines and luxury. White marble gleams under recessed lighting, chrome fixtures reflecting my distorted image from every angle. Despite its opulence, the space holds a clinical quality to it, with products arranged in perfect rows on glass shelves, expensive lotions and oils I recognize from our time together, each bottle aligned, labels facing outward.
Everything in its place. Everything controlled.
My fingers find the light switch, and I squint as brightness floods the room. The hangover I forgot in my panic comes rushing back, my temples throbbing. I find a glass by the sink, fill it from the tap, and drink in desperate gulps, cold water dribbling down my chin in my haste.
On the counter sits a toothbrush, still in its packaging, placed where a guest would look for it. The sight of it irritates me, this evidence that Ezra planned for my morning after, expected my presence in his space.
I tear open the plastic with more force than necessary, the wrapper crinkling too loudly in the quiet bathroom.
The mint of toothpaste cuts through the stale remains of whiskey and sleep. I brush with furious strokes, foam gathering at the corners of my mouth as I study my reflection. Without Knox’s glasses, without Lorenzo’s swagger or Tobias’s careful invisibility, I look exactly like what I am.
An Omega caught in an Alpha’s trap.
I spit and splash cold water across my face, shocking away the last vestiges of sleep. I blink droplets from my lashes and force myself to examine what Ezra has done to me. The nape guard wraps around my neck in a band of brushed titanium about an inch wide. It expands at the back, protecting my most vulnerable spot as an Omega.
I turn my head, angling for a better view in the mirror. No visible seam, no keyhole, no obvious mechanism for removal. Only smooth metal with a subtle inlay of what might be circuit boards beneath the surface. Biometric, Ezra said. Coded to open for him alone.
My fingers investigate its contours, testing for any give, any weakness, and find none. The guard is a perfect circle of captivity, as elegant and unyielding as the man who placed it there.
“Fuck,” I whisper to my reflection.
I sink onto the edge of the bathtub, head dropping into my hands. What was I thinking coming to the gallery opening? I should have thrown away the invitation the moment Aaiden handed it to me. Should have packed up Tobias Crane’s meager possessions and disappeared to another city, another country, another life.
Instead, I walked right into Ezra’s trap, my feet carrying me toward him as if my body recognized its home even when my mind knew better.
And now this collar, a claim staked before I had the chance to run again.
It was supposed to be over. I made the decision to leave him behind. Why didn’t I call Rockford Manor with the information about Jade? I didn’thaveto go there in person. But if I’m being honest, I had taken the excuse for one last chance to see Ezra again under the guise of doing the right thing.
I delivered myself on a silver platter, desperate to be consumed, and the irony burns, an uncomfortable heat that spreads outward with each breath.
The door swings open without a knock, and my head snaps up. Anger surges, an instinctive reaction to the only sliver of privacy I’ve been granted being taken, just when I needed it to silence the chaos in my head.
Ezra stands in the doorway, still shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his narrow hips. In his hands, he cradles a mug that steams in the cool bathroom air. The scent reaches me before he does, coffee with cinnamon and cream. The perfect ratio that I never told him I liked, but he took note of anyway, cataloging my preferences to retrieve when needed.
In the brighter light of the bathroom, I see the shadows beneath his eyes, the slight pallor beneath his golden skin. He hasn’t slept. While I passed out from whiskey and orgasms,Ezra stayed awake. The realization sends an unexpected pang through my chest.
His bare feet are silent on marble tiles as he crosses to me and extends the mug.
I take it without thinking, fingers brushing his, and despite everything, I shiver at the contact.
“You used to sketch in the mornings.” He leans against the sink across from me. “I remember your fingers were always smudged with charcoal by the time I woke up.”
The simple observation catches me off guard, and I remember the sketchbook left out on his nightstand at Rockford Manor. Of all the things he could mention, he chooses this small, intimate detail from our time together.
