Page 1 of Angel Boy (Pack It In #2)

Angel

I slip the lace straps of a ridiculously gorgeous green number up my arms, the velvety fabric cool against my pale skin.

It's one of my favorites—hugs me in all the right places and makes my blue eyes pop like crazy.

It makes me look like a whole snack and a half.

But tonight? Tonight, I can't even muster up the usual thrill I get from getting ready for a show.

I flop back dramatically onto the mountain of silk pillows in my nest, letting out a frustrated little growl that would probably make my fans go absolutely feral if they could hear it.

God, Ryker's latest "image protection" rules are driving me up the fucking wall.

No more spontaneous social media posts. No more interacting with fans after shows.

No more wearing anything he deems "too revealing"—which is hilarious considering my entire brand is built on being a tease.

The one man in the entire world that people keep telling me I’m supposed to fall in love with—my scent match, a rare thing these days—is the one person who keeps trying to keep me contained in a box.

And Angel-boy doesn’t belong in a box.

Neither do I.

A knock on my door has me lifting my head, and I swear my heart does this stupid little skip when I see Xavier leaning against the entrance.

Arms crossed over that broad chest, all deliciously intimidating in his usual black everything.

His hazel eyes do that quick scan thing—checking me over like he always does, making sure I'm okay, that I've eaten, that I'm not pushing myself too hard.

Me? I just stare, unashamed, taking in every delicious part of him from the cropped haircut to the tattoos peeking out from beneath his collar, adorning his bronze skin, to that class ring on his left hand that he’s worn since high school.

"Hey, hotshot," he teases, and fuck me if that nickname doesn't make me want to purr every single time. "You ready?"

I let out a pathetic sigh and sink deeper into my pillows. "Can I just cancel?" With Xavier, I can be me. Just an Omega. Just his friend. Just the boy who grew up too fast and now has to perform for thousands of people every day. Bleh.

The silence worries me as I shake myself back to reality, suddenly realizing that I fucked up.

Of course, Xavier would catch onto whatever is going on in my head.

He always does. He’s the only one who does.

My own fucking scent match calls to check in every few days, but my security detail? Observant as fuck.

His whole posture shifts, arms uncrossing as he steps forward, concern written all over those sharp features. "Hey, babe, are you okay?"

But then he stops, and I can't help the little whine that escapes me. Ever since I started this whole charade with Ryker, ever since I had to put my friends-with-benefits thing on hold with Xavier to "maintain my image," Xavier won't come close enough to touch.

And Christ, I miss it. I miss his hands in my hair, miss falling asleep wrapped around him in this very nest, miss those late-night drives to hole-in-the-wall restaurants where we'd talk about everything and nothing until the sun came up.

I miss being touched like I matter, like I'm more than just Angel-Boy the brand.

Now? Now, I get Ryker's cold handshakes at public events and maybe— maybe —if I'm really lucky, he'll hold my hand for the cameras.

But even then, it feels like a business transaction.

Like I'm just another asset he's protecting.

Whoever told me scent matches were special fucking lied.

Worse off, my Omega, my instincts, hell even my hormones keep telling me that I want Ryker, that I should want Ryker.

Even if I don’t.

"I'm fine," I lie, sitting up and running my hands through my hair. "Just tired. Maybe I'll ask Carter for a break or something."

I huff out a laugh because we both know that's not happening. My manager, Carter, would probably have an aneurysm if I suggested taking time off during peak season. All he sees are dollar signs and sponsorship deals, not the fact that I haven't felt like myself in months.

Xavier reaches behind him, and I watch as he produces a small sandwich and a bottle of water. My favorite turkey and swiss on that weird grain bread I like, and the fancy sparkling water that costs way too much but tastes like heaven.

I glare at the offering, even though my stomach chooses that exact moment to growl. "Xavier—"

"I wouldn't be doing my job if I let you walk out of here without something to eat.” The Alpha tilts his head to the side, daring me to fight him on it.

"You're not my mom," I sass, but I'm already reaching for the sandwich because he's right and we both know it. I've been running on caffeine and spite for the past three days.

"No, but I'm your security detail," he says, settling against the doorframe like he's planning to stay there until I eat. "And you can't perform if you pass out from hunger." He always gently pushes in something to remind me of where we stand, of the line we shouldn’t cross. He’s just my security detail. I’m just a performer. We’re just friends.

Ignoring the spike of pain in my chest, I tear off a healthy bite and nearly moan at how perfect it is.

Xavier always pays attention to the details.

He remembers that I hate mayo, that I like my turkey sliced thick, that I'm weird about the crust being cut off even though I'm a grown-ass adult. He’ll be someone’s perfect Alpha, one day.

"Besides," he continues, and there's this teasing lilt to his voice that makes me look up at him, "your fans would never forgive me if Angel-Boy didn't show up tonight."

"Ugh, don't call me that," I groan, flopping back again.

"I'm so fucking tired of being Angel-Boy.

Can't I just be Angel for like, five minutes?

" Angel-Boy started as just a little gimmick, a few modeling contracts here and there. Someone called me Angel-Boy, and it stuck, the same way that the employees call me ‘pretty boy’. I didn’t mind it then.

I felt special, adored, the center of attention.

It feels different now.

Xavier lets out a soft sound, an almost saddened purr that cuts deep. "You're always just Angel to me," he says quietly.

Fuck, why does he have to say shit like that?

Why does he have to make it so hard to remember all the reasons we can't be together?

I'm scent-matched to Ryker. Xavier's contract explicitly forbids any romantic involvement.

My entire career depends on playing the part of the perfect Omega who found his Alpha match.

But lying here in my nest, wearing my favorite outfit, eating food Xavier brought me because he knows I forget to take care of myself… this feels more real than anything I've done with Ryker.

"You're staring," Xavier says, but there's no heat in it. Just this fond exasperation that makes my heart do stupid things.

"You're pretty," I shoot back, grinning when he rolls his eyes.

"What? It's true. All brooding and mysterious in your black ensemble. Very sexy bodyguard chic." My mind shoots to moments when we’d tumble into my penthouse as I peeled off that button-down and licked every last line of his tattoos. He’d yank my head back before undoing the clasps of my outfit with his teeth like a fucking animal before pounding into me and making me want to call him mine.

My cheeks pink at the memory as I hide behind my sandwich, nearly choking on it before I down half the fizzy water. That only makes it worse as I cough around bread and turkey, Xavier still not coming closer out of respect for my relationship with Ryker.

Sometimes, I wish he would break the rules, but it would cost us both everything we’ve worked for, more so him than me.

So, I don’t comment on it, finishing up the sandwich and standing up to inspect my outfit.

I grumble at the little pooch of a belly that hangs over the waistband, the Omega biology that makes us a little plumper than the other designations.

I slap a hand against my stomach, watching the skin jiggle a little bit. "God, I'm getting fat.”

Xavier laughs at that, the sound much warmer than I remember. I’m probably just lonely and touch-starved as he tightens his arms around his chest. "Please. I love you with your extra curves and fluff."

"Xavier..."

He runs a hand over his face, and I catch that tortured look flickering through his hazel eyes—the one that's been there more and more lately. "Fuck, sorry, babe. Bad habits die hard, I guess."

But he said it. He fucking said it, and now it's hanging in the air between us like we didn’t both hear it.

I down the rest of my water and then head into the main bedroom to grab my coat from the rack.

It’s unusually cold in the penthouse, everything all marble and glass and expensive furniture that Ryker picked out to match his "aesthetic.

" It's supposed to be my home, but it feels more like a museum.

The only place that actually feels lived-in is my nest, tucked away in the bedroom corner where I spend ninety percent of my time.

If Xavier didn't bring me food, I probably wouldn't eat at all. There's something deeply fucked up about that, but I try not to think about it too hard.

"Black or green heels, babe?" Xavier asks, moving toward my walk-in closet.

"Silver," I call back, flopping onto the massive bed that I never sleep in because it's too big and too cold and too much like sleeping in a hotel.

"I want sparkles tonight. Maybe it'll help me smile.

" His soft laugh drifts back to me, and I can't help but grin.

"You know what else might help me smile?

If Ryker actually showed up to one of my performances for once. But hey, miracles happen, right?"

There’s no laugh this time, and when Xavier emerges from the closet with my silver strappy heels, his expression has gone all dark and broody.

I extend one foot toward him. It's become this little ritual of ours—him helping me into my shoes before shows. He’s always so gentle, his fingers moving with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for an Alpha, like I'm something precious instead of just a commodity to be managed.

Tonight, though, his touch lingers. His fingertips graze my ankles as he fastens the delicate straps, and fuck, it's been so long since anyone touched me with any kind of tenderness that my head falls back automatically, a soft gasp escaping my lips.

"You need to call my brother," Xavier says, his voice rough enough to almost be a growl. He doesn’t look up at me as his fingers wrap around one of my ankles. The warmth is more than I can handle, my Omega needing more. "An Omega can't be neglected, babe. It's not healthy."

Tears gather in the corner of my eyes as I rapidly try to blink them back, refusing to dwell on the fact that Ryker and Xavier are brothers .

How can one of them be so cold and distant, and the other one so considerate?

How can my heart yearn for one and despise the other?

How can I stare into the same sets of hazel eyes and swoon for my guard while biology tells me I’m supposed to love the CEO?

"We both know he won't answer." My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate how pathetic I sound. "You touch me."

It's barely a whisper, but I know he hears it. He stiffens but doesn’t remove his hands from my feet.

In fact, he stares there a few seconds longer, the slight squeeze of his grip drawing another gasp from my lips.

It’s pitiful that just so brief a touch has me heating up from the inside, but Xavier isn’t wrong.

An Omega can’t be neglected, not for as long as I have.

If I were honest with myself, I might have realized almost a month ago that I was suffering from a rejected bond.

Ryker might have ‘accepted’ me, but with words only. Nothing in the way he carried himself showed me that he truly wanted to spend forever with me. It was all just for looks, and my body has started to feel it.

Xavier stands slowly before pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. It feels like my heart is being strangled as I fight the urge to reach for him and never let go, a tear falling down my cheek.

"If I could, I would," he murmurs against my skin. "But doing so would destroy us both. I know deep down you have a conscience, and it would eat you alive."

He pulls back, and there's so much longing in his eyes that it makes my chest tight. But in the next second, he steps away, putting that careful distance between us again, and I want to scream.

I’m supposed to want my scent match , I tell myself again.

"Come on, hotshot," he muses, forcing that easy smile back onto his face. "Let's get that sexy ass on stage and show them what Angel-Boy can do, hmm?"

Even though hearing that name makes me want to disappear, I nod and follow him out. Because what else am I supposed to do? This is my life now—performing for crowds who see a fantasy, managed by people who see dollar signs, dating someone who sees me as property.

The only person who sees me as just Angel is the one person I can't have.

Fucking perfect.