Page 9 of Unbonded (Pack’s Companion #3)

And Kate coming to my rescue, like a weary angel with her dove gray eyes and sad smile…

I should probably banish the thought, but it’s not hard to picture her here with us, especially when Corbus’ hand curls around my cock and Bram’s teeth graze my scent gland.

How much better would it be if we could trade off between the alphas, then fall on each other in a slick-soaked frenzy?

As I picture the scene, a wave of hot, shivery pleasure shoots through me, so intense I can’t hold back a second longer.

I arch my back, a cry bursting from my lips as we all spill together in a rush of hungry mouths and eager hands.

We rest for a moment, catching our breath and enjoying the afterglow, until Bram rolls from the bed to fetch some more washcloths. As he cleans me up, I smile a little at the way Kate had fussed over me, and he pauses, cocking his head curiously. “What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”

“Vanilla ice cream,” I answer promptly, almost as if the answer is right there melting on my tongue. “I don’t think that was her natural scent, though.”

Corbus is busy cleaning himself up, but now he looks up, startled. “Who?”

I roll my eyes at him. “ Kate . Who did you think I was talking about?”

He blinks at my tone. “I was just confused, since I didn’t really notice the vanilla. Not when she smelled like the orchards at our estate in Marbella .” He folds his washcloth with neat efficiency and sets it on the floor. “Her scent is orange blossoms, yes?”

Corbus’ accent always makes my toes curl, but it’s extra potent when he’s talking about Kate in his sexy lilt. I don’t know what it is about her, but she’s under my skin, and I realize I want to know more about her, the same way I was instantly drawn to the alphas.

When I catch Bram’s eye, he’s looking curiously at Corbus. “What about you, Bram? Did you smell vanilla or orange blossoms?”

“She was wearing a strong scent suppressant,” he replies, taking the washcloths back to the bathroom. When he returns, he climbs back under the covers, and instead of saying more, stares at the ceiling, lost in thought.

I turn back to Corbus, who’s now wearing a frown. “I felt sorry for her, to be honest. She looked dead on her feet, and her supervisor was een gemene teef .”

It’s always amusing to hear Corbus curse in his pretty tongue, except that no omega ever wants to hear they look tired – or worse still – deserving of an alpha’s pity. “You didn’t tell her that, did you?”

“The supervisor?”

“No, Kate .”

“I gave her cash for a cab and said I wanted her to get home safely.”

I click my tongue at him. Corbus is always a little uptight with strangers, but then I’m struck by an unsettling thought. “Did it bother you that she’s unbonded?”

To my relief, Corbus looks like I’ve slapped him across the face with a bloody washcloth. “What? She is? I didn’t even know…”

“What did you think the Band-Aid was for?” Bram asks mildly, his finger grazing my scent gland in a shivery caress. “It’s a policy in places like this for unbonded omegas to cover up so they don’t make guests uncomfortable.”

“You’re serious?” Corbus is sitting up now, the outrage written all over his handsome face. “Well, that’s completely unacceptable. I’ll call Lawrence in the morning and voice my disapproval.”

Lawrence Friedman is the owner of the hotel, and not the kind of guy many people have on speed dial. But everyone in this city courts Corbus’ favor, and I stroke his arm, secretly comforted by his distress. Kate could do a lot worse than having a riled-up Corbus Janssen in her corner.

“The stigma of being unbonded is complete bullshit,” I grumble, because it can’t hurt the guys hearing it from another omega’s point of view.

I don’t know the details of Kate’s situation, but from the wounded look in her eyes, I’m guessing it’s been hard.

“Relationships fall apart for a lot of reasons, and it shouldn’t be a reflection of the omega’s worth just because an alpha decided to walk away.

Can you imagine how awful that must feel, and then you have to deal with a broken bond and a messed-up scent gland as well? ”

Corbus mutters something in his own language and hugs me close.

I can smell the sour tinge to his scent, which isn’t really surprising, given he’s one of the most compassionate men I’ve ever met.

As heir to The Paragon empire, Corbus was born in a castle in the Netherlands with a literal diamond-encrusted spoon in his mouth.

According to Bram, he was raised by nannies and didn’t speak to another child his own age until he was shipped off to boarding school at thirteen.

His extreme wealth could have turned him into an unfeeling monster, but instead he grew into a man who gives away a third of his personal income every year and volunteers at charity events every chance he gets.

In the eighteen months I’ve known him, Corbus has yet to meet a needy cause that didn’t inspire him to do more for the world.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, drawing him back under the covers and snuggling close. “Now, tell me more about this estate of yours in Spain. And make sure you roll your Rs with that clever tongue of yours.”

Corbus puts his tongue to work in the best way, and it’s no surprise I dream of orange trees blooming under sun-soaked Mediterranean skies.

But I wake up thinking about a pair of haunted gray eyes, and by the time we check out, I’ve decided I’m not going to wait until opening night.

I’m annoyed at myself for not getting her contact details last night and spend the ride to Lenox Hill obsessively scrolling through the little social media I can find on Kate Valentine.

My frustration must be pretty obvious, because by the time we’re sitting down to breakfast on their rooftop terrace, Bram has worked his magic and has an address for me.

It appears that as well as working on the Liberty Hotel housekeeping staff, Kate spends her weekends designing clothes for Sweet Eternity, a top bonding store in Midtown, not far from Carnegie Hall.

Although the guys want to come along, I tell them it might feel a bit like an ambush.

We agree I should go alone, as long as I get a check-up with the company’s doctor before my afternoon rehearsal.

Fortified by an egg white omelet and one of Bram’s protein smoothies, I have a skip in my step as I climb into the backseat of the waiting town car.

Given that Corbus is often in possession of expensive gemstones, all of his vehicles are bombproof and driven by men who look like they’ve been carved out of the side of a mountain.

“How’s it hanging, Hector?”

“Don’t flirt with me, little dancer. I’m too pretty for a Bram-shaped fist in my face.”

I smirk at the huge man, since we both know he’d never do anything to bring Bram’s wrath down on his head. “How are the kids, then? Is Caleb still trying out for the school play?”

“He got the lead!” The grin that splits his face is a mile wide. “Thanks for coaching him on the dance routines.”

“My pleasure.” Caleb is a shy, gangly thirteen-year-old, but he lights up the second he steps on stage, and it was a lot of fun to invite him down to the studio and give him a few pointers. “I bet he crushes it.”

“You ever get tired of the spotlight, you’d make a hell of a dance coach, Mr. Devereux.”

I smile at him, but there’s a churning feeling in my gut as I think about what comes after the stage.

At twenty-eight, I’m still considered in my prime, with some male dancers continuing into their forties.

I always assumed I’d retire in my mid-thirties, and as a bright-eyed fourteen-year-old getting accepted into my first major company, that seemed like a lifetime away.

But in reality, it’s just around the corner.

And I’ve never been very good at looking around corners.

I push the unsettling thought aside as Hector pulls up outside Kate’s work.

Despite dancing for a living, I’ve never been a frills and lace omega, but the exterior of Sweet Eternity lives up to its name.

The bonding store is painted eggshell white with ivy-clad tresses on either side of a pale pink door.

To reach it, you have to pass under an archway covered in climbing roses, and their sweet perfume fills my lungs as a pretty young beta welcomes me inside.

The interior is less appealing, however, because as soon as I cross the threshold, I can hear an ugly fight brewing in the distance.

Under my contract with the company, I’m supposed to avoid off-stage drama, but my restraint goes out the window as I smell a bitter scent in the air.

I don’t know what instinct tells me it’s Kate’s, but hackles I never knew I possessed seem to rise all over my body.

Instead of waiting at the reception desk, I step up to the drape divider and poke my head into the next room.

Kate is modeling a stunning gown on a raised dais, but the circle of champagne-sipping customers is getting a whole different show.

A sour-faced omega in her fifties is glaring at Kate, while a beta in a girlboss suit looks on in quiet dismay. “I can’t believe you’re using her as a model, Florence! Talk about putting a beautiful dress under a curse! Who’s going to want to buy that after she’s worn it?”

The dress in question is a full-length bonding gown in a dusky pink, the bejeweled bodice sprinkled with the kind of embellishments I usually only see on the Swan Queen.

It’s stunning, but so is Kate, the gown complementing her pale skin and sweet curves.

Her dark hair is pulled back into a professional bun, and I watch a painful burn spread across her shoulders, before climbing past the Band-Aid on her scent gland.

She is staring straight ahead, the column of her neck as stiff as marble as she gazes at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

What’s this bitch going on about?