Angel looks around hopefully, scanning the backstage area with those bright blue eyes of his. "Did Ryker come? He messaged that he was going to show up, and I expected some grand gesture or whatever bullshit he pulls these days."
The hope in his voice is what gets me. After everything—even after months of neglect and dismissal—Angel's still looking for crumbs of affection from the man who's supposed to love him unconditionally.
Carter appears at my elbow, clearing his throat with that disapproving sound he makes when he thinks Angel's stepping out of line. "Angel, I'm appalled that you would talk about your mate like that."
"Don't start with me, Carter, please." Angel's voice is strained, exhaustion bleeding through every word. His hands shake slightly as he runs them through his hair, messing up the styled look from his performance. "I haven't seen Ryker in like what, ten days? Not even a video call. I'm tired and cranky, my heat is just around the corner, and I just—"
I frown at that, cutting him off. "Your heat shouldn’t be for another month, Angel."
I know Angel's cycle better than anyone—occupational hazard of being around him constantly, plus the fact that we used to...well. The point is, his heats run like clockwork, and we're nowhere near his usual timing.
"Yeah, well, this is what happens when your Alpha..." He cuts himself off, glancing over at Carter with a look that's part frustration, part embarrassment. Then he just sighs heavily, the sound carrying a mixture of defeat and resentment. "Can we just go? I'm in the mood for beer, buffalo wings, and a disgusting amount of ranch."
I manage a chuckle despite everything churning in my head. "Disgusting amount of ranch coming right up, Angel. Go take a shower, and I’ll put an order in."
I follow Angel toward the dressing room, my mind racing with everything Ryker just revealed. The timeline, the manipulation, the way he's been using both Angel and me like pieces on a chessboard. And Angel's heat coming early—fuck, that's never a good sign. Stress can throw off an Omega's cycle, and God knows Angel's been under more pressure than anyone should have to handle.
Angel
There's a certain itch crawling under my skin after my shower, the kind that makes me want to scratch until I draw blood, even though I know it won't help. It's that familiar pre-heat restlessness that usually gives me a few days' warning, but this time it feels more urgent. Moredesperate.
My scent's gotten sweeter too. I can smell it even through the industrial-strength blockers I wear religiously. Thank fuck for those little patches, because if anyone caught a whiff of pre-heat Omega right now, this place would turn into a goddamn circus.
I'm more flushed than usual as I shuck on a mesh shirt and loose linen pants, needing something that won't cling to my increasingly sensitive skin. Everything feels too tight already; the soft cotton of my usual clothes might as well be sandpaper right now. It’s just as well that I’m in pre-heat so that my irritable mood at least has an explanation now.
Xavier appears with my coat before I even realize I need it. "Why didn't you say anything about your heat?" he asks, concern written all over his face.
I shrug, trying for casual even though my hands are shaking slightly. "It wouldn't have helped. There's nothing you could do about it, but it's okay. I've got my pills and enough toys in the penthouse to keep me occupied."
The words come out more bitter than I intended, but fuck it. This is my reality now, isn't it? Solo heats with synthetic substitutes while my supposed perfect match plays CEO somewhere across town.
I try to brush off the irritable feeling scratching at my nerves, but I know the truth. I need more than sex. I need cuddles and kisses and love and attention—all the soft, tender things that make heats bearable instead of just a biological function to endure.
Ryker won't give me any of that. Hell, I'd be lucky if he even remembers I exist for the next few days.
But Xavier used to. God, those moments when we'd curl up together in my nest, when he'd hold me through the worst of it and whisper sweet nonsense in my ear until the fever broke. When he’d fuck me with that delicious knot of his and stuff meso full I couldn’t help but be consumed by him. When I felt cherished instead of just serviced.
I miss those moments so fucking much it physically hurts. But we can't go back. Not with contracts and scent matches and all the complicated bullshit that makes up my life now.
I take a deep breath, forcing my expression into something resembling calm, and muster up a smile for the cameras I know are waiting outside. The paparazzi never take a night off, especially not when Angel-Boy might be having a breakdown.
"Did Ryker show up?" I ask, even though part of me doesn't want to know the answer. I asked before, but Carter interrupted us, and Xavier never answered.
Xavier's expression darkens a little. "Yeah, he was in the back office. He made it painfully clear where I stand, too."
Ryker does that more often than not. He throws out little bits and quips, reminding everyone around him just how important they are to him. “He didn't mention me?"
The way Xavier's jaw tightens tells me everything I need to know. Of course, Ryker didn't ask about me. Why would he? I'm just the product.
I frown as I head toward the exit, steeling myself for the chaos that's about to unfold. The moment we step outside, I'm bombarded with camera flashes that make my already sensitive eyes water. The crowd of photographers and fans presses closer, shouting questions and compliments that blur together into white noise.
Then I see the supposed man of my dreams, Ryker, walking up the path with a bouquet like he's some kind of romantic hero instead of the man who's been ignoring me for over a week. If he had made this gesture two months ago, I would have swooned. My heart would have beat out of my chest, every nerve in my body screaming for Ryker’s attention.
Biologically, he’s my perfect match.
Two months of being cast aside, though, my mind and my heart are finally taking control over my instincts. And it’s telling me I don’t want Ryker. I want hisbrother.
I accept the flowers anyway, muscle memory from months of playing the perfect couple for the cameras. They're beautiful—expensive white roses that probably cost more than most people make in a day—but they feel hollow in my hands.
