The video is grainy, clearly shot on someone's phone from the audience, but I can see enough to make my blood run cold. Angel’s on stage, but not as the confident performer I've watched hundreds of times before. This Angel is suffering, barely keeping himself upright, his movements sluggish and desperate. Even through the poor video quality, I can see that he's crying, his face flushed with the telltale signs of pre-heat distress.
And then I watch as Angel's body betrays him completely on stage, his back arching as he reaches climax in front of hundreds of strangers. The crowd roars its approval, but all I can see is the humiliation and desperation on his face as he looks toward someone off-camera.
The video pans slightly, and there, standing at the curtain with a satisfied expression, is Carter.
"What the fuck is this?" I snarl, my hands clenching into fists as rage floods my system.
"It's uploaded everywhere," Marcus says grimly, scrolling through what looks like dozens of social media posts. "Apparently, Carter had Angel perform as his 'last performance.'"
"His last performance? Fuck, Ryker is going to try and bond him. Fuck!" I'm already moving toward the door, panic overriding any rational thought. "I have to go."
Marcus throws me his keys without hesitation. "Take my car. It’ll be faster than calling someone. Let me know if you need backup."
I nod, already dialing Carter's number as I sprint toward the elevator. The call goes straight to voicemail. I try again. Voicemail again. It takes me a few seconds to realize what's happened. Carter must have blocked my number. The cowardly piece of shit doesn't want to deal with the consequences of what he's done. He probably made a fuck ton tonight while endangeringmyOmega at the behest of Ryker.
I’m going to kill them both.
I hop into Marcus’ car and speed toward Angel's penthouse, running red lights and weaving through traffic, praying that a cop doesn’t try to stop me. I make the ten-minute drive in seven and a half minutes, screeching to a halt outside Angel's building before taking the stairs three at a time, too impatient to wait for the elevator. But when I reach his floor, there's a guard stationedoutside his door. He’s not someone I recognize, an Alpha built like a linebacker and clearly prepared for trouble.
"I need to get in there," I say, trying to keep my voice level despite the panic clawing at my chest.
"Can't let you through," the guard replies with professional indifference. "Orders from Mr. Morrison."
The casual mention of Ryker's name makes something snap inside me. "If you know what's good for you, you'll let me in. Tell Ryker whatever you need to—that I beat your ass, threatened your family—but let me through."
The guard doesn't move. He doesn't even blink. He just continues to stand there like a wall between me and the person I love.
So, I remove the obstacle.
The punch connects with his jaw before he can react, the Alpha dropping like a stone. Thank fuck for all those boxing classes I had to wade through before being hired as Angel’s personal guard. I step over his body, knowing I only have a few moments before he regains consciousness.
Using one of Angel’s backup codes, I step into the apartment, my heart sinking into my stomach. Angel is very obviously not here. His sweetened scent should have flooded my senses the moment I came in here, but there’s just… nothing.
“Where are you, precious?” I mutter, rushing toward his nest. It’s unkempt, but that must be from this morning. Fucking hell. I pull out my phone, debating on who else to call when my cell rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer it anyway, Angel’s small voice coming through the earpiece.
“Help.”
Every bone in my body pushes me into overdrive as I rush back out of his place and down the stairs. "Babe, where are you? I got to the house and..." I start, Angel cutting me off..
"Ryker took me home," Angel whispers, pain and need making his voice wobble. "Xavier, I'm so hot, and it hurts so bad. I need you, Alpha."
I throw the car door open and slip back inside, punching in the coordinates of my brother’s house. The fucker only lives ten or so minutes away, in some rich-ass community away from the hustle and bustle of the city. I’ll never be so thankful in my life that he opted out of the gated residence.
"Babe, stay on the phone. I'll be there in ten minutes. Maybe sooner if I break a few laws. Talk to me, hun."
"Your voice is helping.” He lets out a small gasp of relief before I hear him shifting around. "I need to come again, okay?"
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, hating that he’s been in this state for hours. “Do whatever you need to, babe. Listen to my voice and come. Take your pleasure, Angel. Come for me.”
I keep talking, even as his whine comes through the speaker, and I reach down to adjust myself in my pants, my cock already hard and aching. I won’t be able to hold back when I get there, and fuck I hope Angel will let me claim him.
It feels like an eternity before I pull into the fucker’s driveway, already out of the car and running up the steps before the engine settles. I try the handle, a string of curses falling from my lips because, of course, it’s locked. I don’t have a key and definitely not a code, but all those bodyguard lessons have to come in handy sometime, right?
Stepping back, I blow out a deep breath and then kick at the weakest part of the door near the left side. It budges, but not enough. I kick again and then a third time, the door giving way. Panic overtakes me as another sound comes through the phone, Angel in even more distress than he was five minutes ago.
“Fuck, I’m coming, babe.” I muster up every last bit of strength I have and stomp the door one last time. It cracks on its hinges, the lock still fully engaged, but it’s enough for me to ram myshoulder into. I squeeze through the opening, Angel’s scent hitting me all at once, a wholly Alpha sound tearing from my throat.
I stalk down the hallway, shedding my clothes as I go, my cock bobbing against my stomach with every step. When I get to the last room, I see Angel there, a mess and shivering on the bed. His tears and makeup are smeared all over his face, his body is flushed with need, the thin fabrics from his set helplessly clinging to his body.
