Chapter 10
Nolan
I want to argue.
God, I want to argue.
To rip that smug calm off his face, to shout that he doesn't know Ciel the way I do. That he wasn't there in the alleys, in the hunger, in the nights where the only thing keeping Ciel from breaking was my voice in his ear saying we'll make it.
But I can't.
Because he's right.
And the truth burns like acid in my throat.
My fists clench so tightly the knuckles crack. I swallow the lump that tastes like failure, like every bitter night I've spent failing him before.
I hate this feeling—powerless again. Watching someone else swoop in, someone bigger, stronger, richer—when I've been the one scraping, bleeding, starving to keep Ciel safe.
When we were on the run, I held his hand through every back alley, every sleepless night on a freezing bus bench, every whispered just a little longer.
And now?
Now he's looking at him like he's the sun.
I glance at Ciel. He's holding his belly with both hands, protective but calm. His eyes are uncertain—but not afraid. And that says everything.
This alpha hasn't hurt him. Not yet.
"Well." The man—Jack—says it flatly, turning toward the truck with a finality that stabs deeper than I want to admit.
"Goodbye. Good luck with your endeavors."
"Wait. Jack."
Ciel's voice stops him.
I hate the way my gut twists when he says it so softly. Jack.
It sounds safe.
Too safe.
We've been down this road before. Over and over. Ciel gives his heart away like it won't be broken, every single time. Like love is waiting just around the corner if he's soft enough, kind enough, pretty enough.
And every time, it ends with bruises. Blood. Grief he bottles up behind a trembling smile.
I exhale—long, bitter—trying to hide the tremor in my hands. My pride claws at me, tells me to grab his wrist and run. To disappear again, even if it means freezing, starving, bleeding. I'd do it.
But this isn't about my pride.
It's about him.
So I swallow the bile and nod once. Cold. Tight. Fine, I'll play along. Until I don't have to anymore. Until this alpha shows his true colors. Because they always do. And when he does? We'll be ready.
"We've come to a decision then," Jack says, voice unreadable.
Ciel heads toward the passenger seat like it's natural. Like he already belongs there.
I move faster. Slide in before he can. The click of the door locking behind me is louder than it should be.
He pauses. Doesn't argue. Doesn't fight me for the seat.
Just walks around to the back. Opens the door. Climbs in beside Ciel, where he sits quietly with one hand resting over his stomach.
Jack starts the engine without looking at me. The low rumble fills the silence.
And I sit there. At the front.
***
Jack
Well.
I glance from the corner of my eye—yep, still awkward.
The tension's thick enough to cut with a butterknife. One of those flimsy ones they hand out on planes, the kind that barely saw through bread rolls. Nolan's sitting stiff beside me, jaw locked, radiating don't you dare energy. Meanwhile, Ciel's curled in the backseat, hugging his coat tighter like maybe it'll shield him from the weird alpha–beta standoff up front.
Nolan clearly thinks I've got designs on Ciel.
And hey—I get it. I really do.
Ciel is… well. Look at him. He's beautiful in the kind of way poets sell their souls for. The kind of beauty that turns kings into tyrants and sane men into idiots. Add pheromones that smell like wine and roses and summer apples—yeah, I get it.
But I don't have designs on him. I don't even know what I want, most days. A quiet life, maybe. Coffee I don't have to microwave three times before finishing. Something steady. Peace.
I just want him safe.
That's all.
Even if I kind of want to deck his overprotective beta guard dog right now—for glaring at me like I personally kicked his puppy.
The silence stretches. My grip on the wheel tightens. My brain, ever the traitor, decides to break it the only way I know how.
"Nice weather today," I say flatly.
Nolan doesn't blink. Doesn't move. His fists stay clenched tight in his lap, veins straining against skin.
Ciel shifts in the backseat, the faint rustle of fabric loud in the quiet.
And then—nothing.
Crickets.
Cool. Yeah. Great chat.