Page 24 of Angel Boy
Xavier releases Ryker and moves toward me, dragging me into a thorough kiss that is 100% as claiming as it looks. His hand settles on my neck just the way it had with his brother, but I feel loved, not threatened. When we break apart, Xavier turns back to his brother with a satisfied smirk.
"By the way," he muses, "I'll be calling the authorities and sending them those videos from Angel's last performance, letting them know you used your bark to force him to perform while in pre-heat. Good luck trying to explain your way out of that."
The color drains from Ryker's face. Coercing an Omega during pre-heat is a serious crime, and there's video evidence of exactlywhat happened on that stage. All I have to say is that I didn’t want to be up there, and Ryker will suffer for it. His image, his wealth… everything just like thatdown the drain.
"You're not going to fucking win," Ryker snarls, but there's desperation creeping into his voice now.
Xavier chuckles as he tugs me into his chest, the delicious sound rumbling through me. "Ryker, are you dumb? There is no winning. This isn't a game. Angel's heart isn't a prize to be won, but even if it was, I made the winning move before you ever even sat down to the goddamn table."
I tug him toward the door, wanting to leave before Ryker tries to fumble his way through a comeback, when I notice the splintered wood and broken lock. My eyes grow wide as I take in the destruction, a nervous giggle starting up in my throat. It bubbles out into genuine, unrestrained laughter, Xavier just looking on amused.
"Ryker," I call over my shoulder, barely able to get the words out between giggles, "put the door on my tab. Fuck, Xavier, you broke down a door for me?"
Without warning, Xavier sweeps me up into his arms, carrying me bridal-style toward the destroyed entrance. I wrap my arms around his neck and beam up at him, feeling lighter than I have in months.
"Yeah, and I’d do it again."
A Week Later
Xavier
It's been a week of hell for the rest of the world, but pure heaven for us. Angel's been enjoying his time off in ways I haven't seen in years—sleeping in until noon, wandering around in nothing but my old t-shirts, letting me fuck him senseless in every corner of my little cottage at the edge of the city.We've been here a few times over the years when Angel needed to escape the spotlight, but now it feels like our own private sanctuary while the world loses its collective mind.
I blocked both Carter and Ryker after the second day of non-stop harassment calls. Told them to send any bills or legal summons through certified mail, but otherwise, everything goes through our lawyers now. The silence has been blissful, even if I know it's just the calm before the storm.
With a few moments of peace before Angel emerges from his shower, I scroll through an online forum, reading speculation about Angel's Instagram post from a few days ago. The comments are a mix of disbelief, conspiracy theories, and desperate fans trying to piece together what's actually happening.
AngelBoyFan4Ever: This has to be fake, right? Like, why would he post on his backup account?
OmegaWatcher: I'm telling you; that's not Ryker in the picture. Look at the hands - Ryker doesn't wear jewelry.
BiologicalTruth: Maybe it's a publicity stunt? Create drama to boost engagement before the next tour?
I laugh at some of the more outlandish theories when Angel comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and resting his chin on my shoulder. His hair is still messy from sleep, and he smells like sex and contentment.
"What are they saying?" he asks, pressing a soft kiss to my neck. "Have they figured it out yet?"
I snort, scrolling past a particularly ridiculous comment about body doubles and corporate conspiracies. "Did you want them to figure it out?"
Angel nods immediately. "Of course, but apparently it's not clicking. I need to send another picture."
I turn around in my chair and gently pull him into my lap, studying his face. There's something different in his expression—not the performative confidence of Angel-Boy, but something quieter and more genuine.
"Really?" I ask.
"I don't really want to be Angel-Boy anymore," he tells me. "I just want to be me. But I want them to know who that is."
For months, I've watched him struggle with the disconnect between his public persona and his authentic self. Now, finally, he's ready to bridge that gap.
"And who is that, babe?" I ask softly. "Who is just Angel?"
He's quiet for a moment, his fingers playing with the collar of my shirt as he considers the question. I can see him thinking, maybe for the first time in years, about who he actually is when the cameras aren't rolling and the contracts aren't dictating his behavior.
It's a simple question, but I know it's not a simple answer. Angel's spent so long being what other people needed him to be that rediscovering his authentic self is going to take time.
Angel hums thoughtfully. "I love all the clothes and the dancing and making people smile. I want all of that, but I don't want to be a product. I don't want to be someone else's fantasy. I want to be my own."
I grin, running my thumb along his jawline. "So… you want to bejust Angel?"
