Chapter Thirteen
Nolan
I wake to the soft hum of waves and the faint weight of Ciel's head on my shoulder.
He's peaceful for once—finally. Lips parted, brows relaxed. The sight makes my chest ache.
And also makes me want to hit something, because every damn time he looks at peace, it's never because of me.
I kiss his temple lightly before slipping out of bed. Jack's robe hangs off me, a little too short, sleeves tight around my shoulders, obviously for Ciel. I look ridiculous. Whatever. My clothes smell like dumpster juice; this is better.
I wander until I find the laundry room. Of course, it's massive. Sleek chrome machines, walls whiter than a hospital, detergent stacked like art. Who even has a laundry room this clean?
I shove my clothes in, start the cycle, and lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching the drum spin.
Then the door opens.
I turn, expecting Ciel. Hoping.
But no.
It's him.
The alpha.
Shirtless, sweat-slicked, joggers hanging so low I can see where skin turns to hair. He's wiping his neck with a towel, glancing around like he's in his own little world. Then his eyes land on me.
He startles. "Oh. Sorry. Didn't think anyone was in here."
I shrug, trying very hard not to look directly at his abs—or lower. "Don't mind me. It's your palace."
He hesitates, then steps inside anyway.
"You couldn't sleep?" he asks casually, tossing the towel into a hamper.
"Woke up early. Laundry," I say. "Didn't want to stink up your showroom."
He chuckles, low. "Appreciate that. You look better cleaned up."
I shoot him a glare. "That your thing? Picking up strays so you can play hero?"
"Only the ones that bite," he says smoothly. "Boring otherwise."
"Don't flatter yourself."
His grin widens. "Not flattering myself. Flattering you. Big difference."
I scoff. "You think you're funny?"
He smirks. "No. I know I'm funny. You just have a tragic sense of humor."
I want to punch him. But you don't punch the landlord.
"You think you're the first alpha to act like a saint?" I snap. "Big house, pretty smile, fake decency—it's all the same. Must be exhausting pretending not to expect something in return."
He actually laughs. A real one. Amused. "Wow. Impressive. You psychoanalyze people while wearing what looks like a bathrobe two sizes too small. Inappropriate outfit for a psychologist no?
Heat floods my face. "It's temporary."
"Sure," he says, eyes raking me lazily.
I step forward. "Even a child could read you. You strut around like some self-made savior, fishing for gold stars for doing the bare minimum."
"And you strut around like a guard dog with rabies," he fires back, tilting his head. "Loyal, sure. But all bark."
"At least I'm not pretending."
"No," he says, smooth as hell. "You're very clearly a bitter, possessive wreck who can't stand the idea someone else might do a better job protecting him."
The words land like a slap. And worse—he's not wrong.
"You think you're better?" I growl.
He just looks at me, calm. Confident. Like he's already won.
"I don't think," he says. "I know."
And before I can stop myself, I step forward, chest slamming into his. Challenge sharp in every inch of me.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Just stands there—warm, solid, maddening.
"If you touch him—" I start, teeth bared.
"You'll what?" he cuts in, stepping closer now, breath brushing mine. "Glare me to death? Borrow Ciel's pillow and smother me while I'm sleeping?"
We're nose to nose now. The heat rolling off him is suffocating, but my body won't move. My fists curl, useless.
God, I want to punch him.
God, I want to kiss him. Because he is—unfortunately—extremely handsome.
Worst of all? I don't know which would hurt less.
He smirks, just a little, the bastard. "Didn't think so."