Page 18 of Angel Boy (Pack It In #2)

A Week Later

Xavier

It's been a week of hell for the rest of the world, but pure heaven for us.

Angel's been enjoying his time off in ways I haven't seen in years—sleeping in until noon, wandering around in nothing but my old t-shirts, letting me fuck him senseless in every corner of my little cottage at the edge of the city.

We've been here a few times over the years when Angel needed to escape the spotlight, but now it feels like our own private sanctuary while the world loses its collective mind.

I blocked both Carter and Ryker after the second day of non-stop harassment calls. Told them to send any bills or legal summons through certified mail, but otherwise, everything goes through our lawyers now. The silence has been blissful, even if I know it's just the calm before the storm.

With a few moments of peace before Angel emerges from his shower, I scroll through an online forum, reading speculation about Angel's Instagram post from a few days ago. The comments are a mix of disbelief, conspiracy theories, and desperate fans trying to piece together what's actually happening.

AngelBoyFan4Ever: This has to be fake, right? Like, why would he post on his backup account?

OmegaWatcher: I'm telling you; that's not Ryker in the picture. Look at the hands - Ryker doesn't wear jewelry.

BiologicalTruth: Maybe it's a publicity stunt? Create drama to boost engagement before the next tour?

I laugh at some of the more outlandish theories when Angel comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and resting his chin on my shoulder. His hair is still messy from sleep, and he smells like sex and contentment.

"What are they saying?" he asks, pressing a soft kiss to my neck. "Have they figured it out yet?"

I snort, scrolling past a particularly ridiculous comment about body doubles and corporate conspiracies. "Did you want them to figure it out?"

Angel nods immediately. "Of course, but apparently it's not clicking. I need to send another picture."

I turn around in my chair and gently pull him into my lap, studying his face. There's something different in his expression —not the performative confidence of Angel-Boy, but something quieter and more genuine.

"Really?" I ask.

"I don't really want to be Angel-Boy anymore," he tells me. "I just want to be me. But I want them to know who that is."

For months, I've watched him struggle with the disconnect between his public persona and his authentic self. Now, finally, he's ready to bridge that gap.

"And who is that, babe?" I ask softly. "Who is just Angel?"

He's quiet for a moment, his fingers playing with the collar of my shirt as he considers the question. I can see him thinking, maybe for the first time in years, about who he actually is when the cameras aren't rolling and the contracts aren't dictating his behavior.

It's a simple question, but I know it's not a simple answer. Angel's spent so long being what other people needed him to be that rediscovering his authentic self is going to take time.

Angel hums thoughtfully. "I love all the clothes and the dancing and making people smile. I want all of that, but I don't want to be a product. I don't want to be someone else's fantasy. I want to be my own."

I grin, running my thumb along his jawline. "So… you want to be just Angel ?"

Angel nods, his face lighting up with genuine excitement for the first time in months. "Actually, that's kind of catchy."

He pulls out his phone from the shirt pocket, his gorgeous chest on display as I run my nose along his cheek, breathing in his scent while he types away.

Several love bites litter his skin, evidence of how much time we’ve spent together, making up for what feels like lost time.

I swear Angel has built a nest in every fucking corner of my cottage, taking up all the space with pillows and blankets, but I love it.

I love walking into my house and seeing that my mate has claimed his space.

I watch over his shoulder as he updates his backup account bio to include #JustAngel, and I can't help but smile at the simplicity of it. No elaborate branding, no corporate-approved messaging—just Angel being Angel.

His scent blooms a little when I reach the mark on his shoulder, Angel letting out a little gasp that has me instantly hard.

My free hand moves down his chest, my fingers finding barely there lace just below his stomach.

I should have known he’d be walking around like that.

He loves enticing me, and I fucking love falling for it, my hand continuing to travel south as it slips into his panties to grab his cock.

His back arches as a moan falls from his lips, Angel wiggling in my hold. He holds up his phone, his cheeks suddenly pink as he twists his face to meet my gaze. "Are you ready, Alpha? Are you ready to be officially mine? After today, everyone is going to know."

"I've been ready, babe," I tell him, meaning every word. "I've been ready since the first time you fell asleep on my lap watching terrible movies."

A wild smile spreads across his lips as he leans in to kiss the corner of my mouth, my hand still down his panties, when the click of a camera brings me back to reality. My eyes widen as I free my hand, staring at the evidence of what Angel just did.

There, in all his glory, is my Omega sprawled out on my lap, love bites on display, his Alpha’s hand very much pleasuring him. But what I didn’t expect was for Angel to capture our faces as well. It’s very obvious just who his Alpha is, and it’s not Ryker Morrison.

And with Angel kissing my cheek, there’s no doubt that this picture is real.

"Shit, you're going to post that?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Angel looks at me like I've asked the most ridiculous question in the world. "What? You're perfectly covered. Maybe too much, actually. Definitely not enough fucking tattoos showing."

"Fuck, babe, no." The protest comes out automatically, even though part of me admires his complete lack of shame about his body.

"If you make me take another one," Angel says with that wicked grin I've come to associate with trouble, "it's going to be me sitting on that fat cock of yours, my lips parted as you—"

"Absolutely not, not another word." I cut him off before he can finish that thought, because knowing Angel, he'd absolutely follow through on the threat.

But looking at the photo again, I realize it's actually perfect. It shows us exactly as we are, unapologetically ourselves.

I help Angel to his feet and take the phone from him, posting the photo before I can second-guess myself. Then I place it face down on the table and look up at him with renewed determination.

"I'm going to fuck you right here like you've been teasing me to do all morning," I tell him, standing up and backing him against the kitchen table. "How about that, just Angel ?"

Angel snorts with laughter, his arms coming up to wrap around my neck. "I think I like being just Angel , Alpha."

"Good," I growl against his ear, "because Angel is all mine."

"And you're mine," Angel whispers back, and fuck, it doesn’t get better than that.