Page 3 of Angel Boy (Pack It In #2)

If I didn’t feel the need to protect Angel, I would never take Ryker’s disrespect, and fuck, I would never call him sir.

Ryker bursts out laughing. "Angel doesn't need me. He needs attention, and I've given him the very best platform for it. If he's a good boy, he won't ask for more than that. And if you're a good little soldier, you won't touch what's mine."

The way he says "good boy" makes bile rise in my throat. I nod stiffly, every word feeling like a knife twist in my gut, my jaw so tight I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. I move toward the door, desperate to get out of this suffocating room before I do something that gets me fired—or worse.

The smart thing would be to keep my mouth shut and get the fuck out of here, but something about Ryker's casual dismissal of Angel's well-being has my blood boiling. Just leave it alone, I tell myself, but every Alpha bone in my body won’t let me do that. Even if Angel isn’t mine, I can’t help trying to protect him.

"If you knew Angel was your scent match, why did you wait almost three years to reveal yourself to him?" I push out, my hand on the doorknob. I twist back around to face Ryker, hating the smug smile on his face.

Ryker adjusts his cufflinks as he shrugs with a kind of careless indifference.

"I wasn't ready to be tied down until PR mentioned that I needed to soften my image.

It's amazing how these things all worked out.

You got to have your fun, brother," Ryker continues with that same cold smile, "and now I get to have mine. "

Fun . That's what three years of Angel's life meant to him.

A convenient delay while he figured out his public image strategy.

The man I've watched pour his heart and soul into every performance, who lights up rooms just by existing, who makes terrible jokes at two in the morning, has been reduced to timing and market research.

"Come this time next year, that Omega will be at home where he belongs, scoring a few modeling and brand deals, but no longer on that stage. That body should only be for his mate, don't you think?"

The possessiveness in his voice makes my stomach turn.

Angel loves performing, or at least, he used to before all this corporate bullshit started sucking the life out of him.

The idea of caging him up in some suburban mansion and cutting him off from the thing that makes him feel alive is fucking obscene.

I know I'm pushing boundaries that could get me blacklisted from the industry, but I push forward anyway. "I think that should be Angel's choice, not his Alpha's. But I am not his mate. Excuse me."

I leave the room before he can respond, before I say something that'll really get me in trouble. I have some leeway as Ryker’s brother, but it’s not a very long tether.

However, now I’m focused on the fact that Ryker let Angel and I get close during the three years he was doing whatever the fuck he was doing.

I’m not sure I can hate the guy any more than I already do.

Moving back toward the stage, I catch the last few seconds of Angel’s finishing set, his shoulders immediately sagging like the weariness of the evening hit him all at once the moment he stepped behind the curtain.

It's heartbreaking to watch the way he transforms from confident performer to exhausted man in the span of seconds.

The careful makeup can't quite hide the dark circles under his eyes, and there's a fragility to his movements that makes me worry. I’ll bring up calling the doctor when I get Angel alone.

He manages a small smile when he sees me, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Hey, how'd I do?"

"Perfect as always, Angel." And I mean it. Even half-dead on his feet, even going through the motions instead of feeling the music, his energy is still magnetic.

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.