Page 50 of Bonds of Fate

Gideon follows behind. He’s not seen Jay this angry in so long. Maybe ever. The fury radiating off his leader makes him want to go to his knees, bare his neck, and beg for forgiveness—and for Jay to fuck him.

He’s in so much trouble, and fuck, does he like it.

So? He’s messed up. Gideon knows this. Jay knows it, too. He has such an iron control over himself that when Jay is like this, Gideon can allow himself to let go—only with him.

“I—”

The alpha’s red gaze whips to his, daring him to provide a single worthy explanation as to why he was about to sell his soul to the devil. “When we are home, Gideon. Straight up to your room.”

“You cannot chastise me like a child.”

Those eyebrows raise again. They exit the elevator, and Jay’s Ducati is parked beside a dumpster, both helmets secured to the back.

“Get on, Gideon. I will treat you any way I please when you have blatantly—fuck. I’m not doing this here. Get on the fucking bike.” He grabs the spare helmet andgentlybuckles it on Gideon’s head, handles his own, and when Gideon has finally put his hands around Jay’s waist, the bike comes alive.

It vibrates against his dick, and Gideon closes his eyes, pressing his nose between his alpha’s shoulder blades, breathing in the scent of home.

His arousal is ramping up, but so is the relief. He’s where he belongs—at his alpha’s back, letting Jay take them home, back to their den, back to their mates.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s an inkling that he’s dodged a bullet of disastrous proportions.

Jay handles the bike with skill and confidence. In truth, there’s nothing Jay does that he doesn’t do well. He’s overheard people saying it’s how all enigmas are, and since Gideon lives with three, he can say for certain they are genetically predisposed to excellence. But Jay Rhodes is a god among men.

And he’s Gideon’s.

They complete the twenty-minute drive home in just fourteen minutes–lights, signs, and traffic easily navigated by Jay’s anger, and the gates are already opening when they get there. They park the bike in the garage just as the heavens let loose a loud crack of lightning and an almost immediate boom of thunder, sheets of rain soaking them as they run for the door.

Leo stands just inside the door, phone in hand, having tracked Jay’s location—and likely Gideon’s—on their family safety app.

His babies are still curled up on the couch,awake enoughto hear Jay’s clipped command: “Your room, Gideon. Now.”

Grayson, leaning against the kitchen island with a bottle of ibuprofen in hand, waggles his eyebrows.

Gideon flips him off.

As Gideon hits the second floor on the right-wing, he hears Luca’s, “Uh-oh, Daddy ismad.”

His room isn’t like the others of his pack. Where they embraced the modern aesthetic of clean lines and minimalistic furniture, Gideon has chosen items reminiscent of his time in the cabin in the mountains. There are warm woods and a smallish bed with bedposts and multicolored quilts to ward off the fall chill.

Grayson designed a stone fireplace almost identical to the one his mother had cooked over–on a smaller scale, of course–and it had the only working chimney in the entire dwelling. There are haphazardly organized bookshelves that gave Finn palpitations and herbs and plants he uses for rudimentary healing or for tea. The only thing missing is a cat or three.

Maybe he’ll have time if he lets Maureen and Elias manage Quest—if he still has it, by the end of all this.

He’s dripping rainwater on the floor when Jay slams in after him, his anger bursting and filling Gideon’s sanctuary with his smoky forest fire scent.

“Strip.” Jay pulls his shirt over his head with a single hand, throwing it into the hamper nearest the door. His jeans are undone, but he doesn’t move to take them off. The low light throws his abdominals into shadow, and his happy trail is visible above the open fly.

Gideon hasn’t even moved to strip, too focused on the splendor that is Jay Rhodes.

“Fucking strip, Gideon.”

His tone gets Gideon moving, and he unzips his jacket and the hoodie underneath. Then, his t-shirt. It’s Jay’s turn to be mesmerized, and he tries to keep the smirk off his face.

No sense in pulling too hard on that tiger’s tail—quite yet.

When he’s standing there in his damp boxers, toes dug into the warm rug, Jay closes in to a mere arm’s length away and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m only going to ask once, Gideon, and I expect an honest answer—none of your usual shit. I am so not in the fucking mood.”

“Or what?” Okay, so maybe he’ll pull the tail a teeny-tiny bit.

---