Page 10

Blues and greens swirled across the pitted concrete under the bridge like eddies of an invisible current as Emilio breathed in the familiar, overwhelming scent of spray paint cut through with sea spray from the nearby harbour, which was being whipped into a frenzy by the late autumn wind.

Usually, he would’ve had an air witch hide the backdrop he was painting until the full piece was ready to be revealed, but Rocco had fucked that up when he’d scared off his usual contractor.

It was probably just as well, though. He’d known bringing a witch who wasn’t affiliated with the MC into the city was risky.

They might’ve felt the need to ask permission to be there from Blaze and put his anonymity at risk.

The anonymity Rocco had steamrollered over within hours of meeting him.

Standing back to look at his progress, he reached into his pocket for his phone before he could stop himself, scrolling back through the infuriating texts that had started after their picnic.

They were coming at all hours of the day and night.

When he was at home, when he was out visiting his family at the packhouse, when he was questioning his contacts in back alleys or warehouses on his quest to help Marco find the mystery arms dealers in the city.

He hadn’t answered a single one, but his wolf was positively howling with pleasure at the attention from their mate.

Asshole:

Will you shove me against the wall like that once we’re engaged?

Grab yourself a bottle of water. You’ve had nothing but coffee all day.

I didn’t picture you for an oatmeal guy. I thought wolves just ate a foot-high pile of bacon for breakfast every morning. You prepping for me, puppy?

Go to bed already. You can finish that painting in the morning. You need your rest.

Take your bike today. I want you to feel the vibration against your ass and imagine it’s my magic driving you crazy.

Between the constant pressure from his wolf to bond and fuck , and the whiplash of alternating sexually explicit and irritatingly caring texts, he was about ready to scream.

The phone vibrated in his hand again as he stood there trying to gather himself.

His cock twitched in some kind of Pavlovian response he really hoped wouldn’t happen every time he got a text from now on.

Asshole:

Good puppy.

He was typing out a response before he could think better of it.

Emilio:

Fuck off. I always take the bike here.

Asshole:

Are you always so hard your cock leaks all over your pants and you have to jerk off against the wall before you can start working, too?

Emilio groaned and dropped his head, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He knew he shouldn’t have risked it, but he hadn’t noticed the tug of Rocco’s presence nearby, and he’d thought he was alone.

Fuck this. He’d made enough progress for the day.

He needed to go home and wash the scent of arousal and shame from his body.

Straddling his bike, he revved the motor and sped off faster than a human would’ve dared, his back wheel spinning out for a second before he wrenched the heavy machine back under his control with raw shifter strength.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to wrench his fiancé under his control in the same way, but he was at a distinct disadvantage with the human.

There was no way he could keep control if he was close enough for Rocco’s intoxicating scent to fill his lungs and if he could feel the man’s pulse under his fingers.

Everything in him was desperate to fight back, to test the competing dominance between them.

Instead, he had to play it safe or risk being bound to him forever when he succumbed to his instinct to bond.

Rocco was no doubt interpreting his passive responses as submission, and it was only encouraging him to push even harder. The man wanted a fight.

Emilio wasn’t stupid. He knew Rocco was trying to scare him off.

Maybe it would have worked if there had been no potential for a bond between them.

He likely would’ve killed the man in frustration before they even got to the wedding.

Or Marco would have found a way out for him when he found out the shit Rocco was pulling.

The problem was that everything Rocco did turned him the fuck on, and his Alpha could sense his wolf was ecstatic.

There would be no help from that quarter.

The problem with magical bonds was that they were annoyingly accurate at finding the person whose kinks and violence were the perfect matching puzzle piece to yours.

His wolf’s judgment in his head was an annoying counterpoint as he gunned it toward his apartment, reminding him it wasn’t just kinks and violence, but protection and care as well.

Whatever. The sooner he could get out of the city, the better.

Rocco was unhinged just like his father’s mate had been, and look how that turned out.

He’s not the same! His wolf howled in his head. What did he know?

By the time he was stepping into his loft, his muscles were aching with tension, and the noise and smells of the city were grating on his last nerve. What he needed was a long soak in the bath.

As he toed off his boots and tossed his keys on the side table, the fading scent of his mate hit him like a hurricane, and he rocked back on his heels.

What the fuck had Rocco been doing in his home?

A whimper left him as he drew the smell into his lungs like it was his first breath of fresh air all day.

Stalking over to the window, he pushed it open wide to air out the space.

Immediately, the city noise started overwhelming him again.

Grabbing his phone as he stalked to the bathroom, he texted his fiancé, noticing his house plants had mysteriously multiplied as he went. The green leaves and draping tendrils were there to remind him of the pack’s forest when he couldn’t get away from the concrete jungles he lived in.

Emilio:

Stay the fuck out of my space, asshole.

There was no immediate reply, which only made him angrier.

As he pushed the door open, he froze in place.

Rocco had placed a bottle of chianti and a wine glass near the bath, and there was a vial of the kind of low-scent bath oil shifters preferred waiting to be added to the water.

A series of planters had been hung with Shabari rope, creating a wall of draping star jasmine that was somehow in flower despite the season.

A noise from the living area had him tensing as he spun, but before he could investigate, a text came in.

Asshole:

I shut the window so you could relax. The oil’s spelled to help reduce fatigue. I’ll watch your place while you rest. Don’t fall asleep in the bath.

Fuck. Emilio didn’t bother replying, but he did tip the oil that probably cost more than most people made in a week into the bath before stripping off his clothes and stepping into the hot water with a groan of satisfaction he couldn’t hold back.

Asshole:

Good puppy.

He couldn’t make himself respond as he lay back and closed his eyes, his body relaxing for what might be the first time all year. The less said about that, the better.

The next morning, he woke up to the smell of fresh waffles drifting into his bedroom. Growling, he shot out of bed, storming into the kitchen, but the fading scent of his fiancé said he’d already left. Rocco shouldn’t have been able to get in without alerting him. Fucking air witches.

With a huff of frustration, he sat down to eat the food. There was no point letting it go to waste. His wolf was a ball of smug satisfaction inside him that he ignored.

Asshole:

Morning, puppy. You look cute all ruffled and violent. Have a lovely day.

Emilio’s eyes narrowed. The tug in his chest drawing him to his mate had faded fast, like he’d been driving away.

What did Rocco mean ‘ Have a lovely day ?’ Why wasn’t he following Emilio like he had been the last few days?

It was time the man learned what happened when you pulled the tail of a predator.

Sending off a quick message to his cousin Luca, Emilio donned the suit that was his armour.

By the time Luca’s response came through, he was clean-shaven, armed to the fangs, and ready to hunt his prey.

Thanks to his cousin’s skills, he had the location of Rocco’s phone on a map.

He was heading to the heart of MC territory, a few blocks back from the beach.

The wind was coming from the south, so he circled around to approach from downwind even though the human’s hearing and sense of smell were too poor to notice him.

He parked the bike well clear of where Rocco’s location showed and slipped through the morning commuters walking to work until he reached the small green space where his fiancé was standing far too close to another man.

Emilio’s lips pulled back in a snarl as he held tight to his wolf, fighting for control.

The two men were too busy with each other to notice his stealthy approach.

As he drew nearer, their conversation finally reached him and some of his tension lessened as he realised this was an argument, not foreplay.

“I’m not your fucking maid. Call a damn clean-up crew,” Rocco snapped.

The guy he was talking to was dressed in an MC cut and jeans stained with motor oil.

As Emilio slipped behind one of the trees, he caught a glimpse of his face—Brand, their treasurer.

He outranked Rocco, so he was probably within his rights to give him orders, but wasting the time of your most powerful air witch seemed like an idiotic move.

“You think you’re better than everyone else? You’re lucky you didn’t get kicked out of the club for what you did. You should be cleaning toilets every day for a year, not getting fucking married.”

“If you’ve got a problem with how your prez is spanking me for being naughty, take it up with him.”

“He’s your prez, too, asshole.”