Jared drummed his fingers on the surface of the table.
Beside his hand, a glass remained untouched.
The garden was full of lights, music, and conversation. Under the elegantly decorated tents, the guests enjoyed the night, while, farther off, the performers executed precise movements under the delighted gaze of those watching them.
Everything seemed to be exactly where it should be. A perfect and strange combination, but one that worked.
Except him.
Jared kept his eyes fixed on the glass, without really seeing it.
There were things in life a man believed he could solve with money. Others, with authority. And when neither of those seemed enough, there was always the threat.
He knew that logic well.
Years before, he had sent someone away using exactly those resources. Enough money to make the departure possible. A threat to guarantee there would be no return.
At the time, it had seemed like a solution.
Now, he was beginning to understand that it had perhaps only been the most convenient way to avoid a problem that demanded far more of him.
A problem that hadn't disappeared.
It had simply grown somewhere out of his sight. And it was a shock to realize there is no trap more lethal than the one we build for ourselves.
Jared pressed his lips together.
It was easy to blame Aster.
Easier than admitting that certain things wouldn't have reached that point if he himself had acted differently. Easier than acknowledging that, for a long time, he had treated the consequences of his own choices as inconveniences other people should bear.
But Aster wasn't a complete inconvenience.
He was his son, a dominant.
And a dominant son wasn't something a man could regret the way he'd regret a bad business decision. He could regret what he'd done, what he'd said, the time he'd wasted. He could even wish certain choices had never been made.
But he couldn't erase a person and pretend that, by doing so, everything would fall back into place.
Jared finally raised his eyes.
Across the garden, someone laughed. A glass clinked against another. The music went on, indifferent.
None of it seemed capable of offering him an answer.
He still blamed Aster. It wouldn't be honest to pretend otherwise. There were resentments that didn't disappear just because a man began recognizing his own mistakes.
But he was also beginning to realize that Aster didn't deserve to be punished twice.
Not for something he hadn't chosen.
And not because Jared still didn't know how to handle the consequences.
But, for the first time in a long while, Jared was willing to try.
One thing was certain: it wasn't about what anyone deserved.
Every option in front of him was bad, but of all of them, making Aster pay alone for what had become a mess made by many was the worst.
Clarice belonged to another family, another house, another set of responsibilities. With her, Jared could keep his distance, let the Phillips handle whatever was theirs to handle.
But Aster was different.
Aster was his.
Mason watched the activity around the food tables, a plate in one hand and an expression of profound dissatisfaction.
Today he felt as though he'd been born in the wrong era.
Not that he had any particular desire to wear uncomfortable clothes, depend on horses to get around, or spend half the day writing letters that could be replaced by three lines of text.
But there were certain things from the past that deserved to have survived.
Like the era when a man would ride for hours just to have tea with a woman.
Hours.
For tea.
And, after all that effort, say goodbye to her without the promise, the expectation, or even the presumption of laying a single finger on her body.
Mason sighed.
That, now that was dedication. That was intention, built carefully. That was a man demonstrating that someone's company could be its own reward.
Today, apparently, even a conversation had to justify the investment.
He picked something up from a platter, set it on his plate, and turned around.
Stopped.
Can-Bey stood right in front of him.
Mason looked at the man. Then at the space between them, as though searching for an explanation for that appearance.
Seeing Can-Bey there, so close, with no warning at all, felt like being caught in the middle of a thought he'd rather not have had — the kind people deny even to themselves, but that somehow always seem written across their own face.
He tried to look natural.
He failed, failed stupidly.
He stood there, frozen, plate still in hand, wearing the expression of someone caught red-handed without even knowing what they were being accused of.
A question came out so naturally that, for an instant, it seemed to surprise even the person who'd asked it.
Mason narrowed his eyes. And, without meaning to, sabotaged his own effort to look indifferent by asking:
"How are you?"
Mason looked up and found several young people nearby, their expressions far too sugary, their eyes far too curious.
Can-Bey's gaze, for a moment, gave Mason the sense of being exposed. Vulnerable, in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.
Mason cleared his throat.
"Are you well?"
"I'm well." Can-Bey smiled, the kind of smile a man reserves for something he already considers his. "And I'd like to know how an omega with no money and no assets ended up in a place like this."
He said it lightly, as though remarking on the weather. As though the question carried no weight at all — because, to him, it didn't. It was only the curiosity of someone who felt entitled to ask.
"I don't understand."
Mason rolled his eyes, in clear disgust.
"He had good roots, from what I was told," Can-Bey remarked, the way one might appraise a piece of merchandise.
"Save your claws," Mason answered, curt. "Save your hypocrisy, because the ground isn't going to open up and swallow me, and your words aren't going to scratch me for real, you know?"
He had nothing left to lose, and that made his words sharper than usual. It was the one thing Can-Bey had never managed to buy from him: the right to answer back.
Can-Bey, however, didn't seem rattled. He never did.
"I just want to know the reason. Why did you leave? We shared so many good moments together."
Good moments. As if it had been a deal fulfilled satisfactorily, not something Mason had actually felt.
"In another reality," Mason said, finally, "I'd be thinking about a picnic basket and flowers."
He laughed, with no real humor in it.
"But reality is different. You never paid for flowers, Can-Bey. You believe you paid for me. And you treat me like I'm not special, just like garbage."
"Oh, I feel as though I'm being disloyal," Can-Bey murmured, almost gentle, almost convincing.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Can-Bey shot him a look that bordered on concern, but Mason simply shook his head, almost imperceptibly. It was hard to believe he could stay so calm, so controlled — not when this was, for Can-Bey, the perfect opportunity to collect what he considered his.
"You draw attention, Mason," Can-Bey continued, his voice lowering, nearly intimate, but without losing that varnish of a man inspecting his own property. "Alphas like to devour omegas like you. They get to imagining they're inside some cheap porno. And that's exactly what scares them off afterward."
He paused, deliberately, as though doing Mason a favor by saying it.
"That's why, for some people, it's only worth enjoying while you still can. I, at least, always knew how to enjoy what's mine."
Mason felt the fury rise before he could even name it.
A hard glint appeared in his eyes.
"I was never yours."
He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment before continuing, his voice too steady to sound as wounded as he felt inside.
"What we had was never serious. It was just that: a while. A way to step outside my comfort zone for a bit. It was good, Can-Bey. And it's over. That was good too."
"Can we continue our business?" Can-Bey asked, catching him off guard, as though none of that had been said. As though "no" were just a step in the process, not an actual answer.
Mason almost laughed at the audacity.
"Business." He repeated the word as though it tasted bad in his mouth. "You're insane. Sick. A son of a bitch with a terrible script, where I'm always the character who comes back."
He was already searching, with his eyes, for an escape route.
That was when he realized — strangely, belatedly — that Can-Bey had been flirting with him for a while. It wasn't the first time in that conversation. Only, until that moment, he hadn't let the thought fully form, because admitting it would give Can-Bey exactly what he wanted: confirmation that he still had some effect.
Can-Bey stepped closer.
Too close.
They stood face to face, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly toward Mason, invading the space that should have belonged to him alone — the same way he always invaded everything he decided belonged to him.
It was too intimate.
Too familiar.
"Go back to your place," Mason said, low.
Can-Bey moved.
But he didn't step back.
His right hand left his pocket and slid slowly down Mason's arm, from elbow to wrist — a gesture too calm, too sure of itself, the gesture of someone who had never had to ask for permission.
"Shall we go for a walk?"
Mason looked at the hand on his arm.
Laughing, Mason unlocked his arms, and then Can-Bey placed a hand lightly on his back and steered him through the doors.
The smile vanished from his face.
Can-Bey finally raised his eyes to him.
"You always have to make things complicated."
Mason pulled his hands away from Can-Bey, reclaimed the space Can-Bey had taken, and shot a quick glance at the young people who were still watching the conversation with undisguised interest.
Great. Any minute now, someone would start inventing a love story.
"Let's talk somewhere else," Mason said.
Can-Bey raised his eyebrows slightly.
"Of course. Off to our date?"
"I'm trying to keep you from turning an unpleasant conversation into public entertainment. Don't get excited."
Can-Bey smiled.
It was exactly the kind of answer that seemed to confirm something in his head.
Mason noticed, and immediately regretted having opened his mouth. He was prepared for the worst-case scenario. Revenge wasn't off the table.
"Naturally."
The "naturally" came out too quickly to sound sincere.
Mason let out a breath through his nose, set the plate down on the nearest table, and nodded toward a path between the tents, toward one of the side gardens. There were stone benches under the trees and, farther along, a small pavilion partly hidden by the vegetation. The movement of the guests didn't reach there with the same intensity, though the music could still be heard.
He started walking without waiting for Can-Bey.
For a few seconds, he heard only his own footsteps. Then he realized the other man was following him with the calm of someone who believed that outcome had already been decided before the conversation had even begun.
That irritated him more than it should have.
"You're very pleased with yourself," Mason remarked, without looking back.
"You asked me to come with you."
Mason stopped and turned.
"I asked to talk. There's a difference. I know it's a difficult concept, but try to keep up."
Can-Bey tucked his hands into his pockets.
"Do you have something going on with Andrews? You're going to tell me right now!"
"I think you'd better do the right thing from now on. You know how you pick up a spider and carry it outside because you don't want to kill it, but once it's in your hand, it dies anyway?"
Mason stood there looking at Can-Bey, then chose the pavilion. He didn't want to sit. Nor did he intend to stay there long. He wanted to say what he needed to say without half a dozen onlookers turning every pause into a romantic declaration.
Once there, he stopped just inside the entrance, keeping a comfortable distance between them.
Can-Bey glanced around, then turned his attention back to him.
"There. We're alone."
"We're in a garden, Can-Bey. Not a private suite for you to exercise your imagination."
His smile widened a little.
Mason felt his patience run out.
"Now, listen carefully. I came here because I want you to understand something. Not because I missed you, not because I want to go back to what we had, and definitely not because you've decided there's still something between us."
Mason barely had time to react before Can-Bey closed the distance between them.
He took his hand and pulled him along, moving away from the tents and the last groups of guests. Mason tried to keep pace, shooting him an indignant look, but Can-Bey seemed determined to reach somewhere far from prying eyes.
After crossing a side corridor, Can-Bey hurriedly opened a door. The room looked like a storage space, crates stacked against the walls and some furniture covered in cloth.
Mason barely had time to look around.
As soon as the door closed, Can-Bey turned to him and lifted him off the ground in one sudden motion. Mason's feet lost contact with the floor, and he instinctively grabbed onto the man's broad shoulders to keep his balance.
"You're insa—"
He couldn't finish.
Can-Bey took his mouth before the sentence could end, wrapping one arm around his waist while the other hand buried itself in his hair. His fingers found the band holding back his ponytail and pulled it loose, letting the strands fall over Mason's shoulders.
The controlled elegance Can-Bey had displayed in front of the guests had vanished. What remained was that almost animal urgency, as though all the patience he'd shown in public had run out the instant they were alone.
The kiss was intense, insistent, and Mason should have been furious.
That was the first thing he thought.
The second was that, God, it was good.
Too good.
The thought surfaced so inconveniently that he nearly felt indignant at himself. After all, this was Can-Bey. The same man who believed he could buy the right to come back whenever he wanted, demand explanations, and treat every refusal as a minor obstacle to be overcome.
Mason had a considerable list of reasons to hate him in that moment.
Unfortunately, none of them seemed particularly interested in helping him.
His fingers closed around Can-Bey's shoulders, and he realized, with a mix of surprise and irritation, that he wasn't just holding on to keep from falling. The kiss carried an unsettling familiarity, as though his body remembered things his mind had spent months trying to leave behind.
And that was, without a doubt, the most irritating part. He was a problem too.
Can-Bey tilted his head, deepening the kiss, while keeping him suspended against him. Mason forgot, for a few seconds, that he'd intended to say something intelligent. When he finally managed to pull back far enough to breathe, his feet still weren't touching the ground.
He stared at Can-Bey, dazed, his cheeks warm and his heart beating too fast for someone who, only minutes before, had claimed to want absolutely nothing to do with this man.
Can-Bey was watching him with a satisfaction Mason recognized immediately.
"Don't you dare look so pleased with yourself," Mason murmured, still trying to catch his breath.
The corner of Can-Bey's mouth lifted.
Mason closed his eyes for a moment.
Beyond having terrible taste in men, apparently he'd also lost the ability to maintain his own coherence.