A little tour

~Soren~

I woke up too early to too much sun.

Awake in a bed that most likely costs more than Georgina’s first three weddings put together, in a room that appears as if I punched a hole through the walls of a hotel lobby. White, gold, pristine. Not a speck of real life to be found.

I can’t stand it.

My phone says 9:00 a.m. I slept through breakfast. Good. The less I have to spend time with my new “family” the better, really.

I’m flicking through my phone, procrastinating on life as responsibly as I possibly can, when someone knocks.

Not a polite tap. a full fist.

“What?” I hiss.

The door opened.

Felix. Naturally.

He leans against the frame like he has come to announce wedding plans. Black T-shirt, jeans, hair still wet, smirk already formed.

“Morning, Siren.”

“It’s Soren. And knocking is usually followed by waiting to go in.”

“I did knock.” He walks in without hesitation. “You said ‘what’. I read that as ‘please, Felix, bless me with your presence.’”

I toss a pillow at him.

He catches it on the fly.

“Adorable.” He drops it on the bed. “Get dressed. Dad wants me to give you the grand tour.”

“I’m good.”

“It wasn’t a question.” He looks around, his face twisting. “Are you gonna unpack, or is ‘freshly robbed’ the style you’re after?”

My boxes sat undisturbed. So what.

“I like it this way.”

“Right.” He takes one of my hoodies as though it were some kind of crime scene evidence.

“So your closet is full of hoodies and despair.”

“Get out.”

“Can’t. Mandatory tour.” He drops the hoodie. “Unless you feel like letting Dad know you’re disobeying orders on day one.”

He takes a slow step toward me.

“I can make you agree. One swipe of my lips against yours and you’ll be begging for the tour.”

I glare.

His smirk widens.

Asshole.

“Fine.” I shove the blanket off. “Wait outside.”

“Why? Afraid I’ll see something?”

“OUT.”

He laughs as he backs into the hallway. “Five minutes, Siren. Then I’m coming back.”

I slam the door.

---

Ten minutes later, because I’d rather live by my own rules than the company’s: hoodie, boyfriend jeans, sneakers. My hair is a choppy disaster, but who cares.

Felix slouches against the wall, scrolling through his phone.

“Took you long enough. Thought you were laying an egg.”

“You said five minutes. I took ten. Problem?”

“Yeah. I got bored.” He pockets his phone and starts walking. “Try to keep up.”

I follow. What choice do I have.

The “tour” begins immediately.

Meaning he points at things without any interest in being helpful.

“That’s a door.”

“Incredible.”

“That’s a hallway.”

“You should be charging people for this.”

“And that’s a wall. Very vertical. Architects are wild.”

I contemplate strangling him.

We pass what seems like seventeen identical rooms. Luxe. Cool. Enormous. Too quiet. He explains none of it.

“This is the sitting room. People sit here.”

“Shocking.”

“This is the other sitting room. People also sit here, but they do it richer.”

“How is it richer?”

He waves a hand. “The chairs cost more.”

When we finally get to the kitchen, I’m ready to commit small crimes. Marble everywhere, island the size of a small country.

“And this,” Felix says with a smirk,” is where the food lives. K for kitchen.”

“You’re the worst tour guide in the world.”

“You’re welcome. ”

He pulls a water bottle out of the fridge and doesn’t offer me one. “Want to see the best part?”

“Is the best part you disappearing?”

“Even better.”

He takes me down, down another hallway, to a garage.

Not just any garage.

A shrine.

Cars and motorcycles neatly arranged in rows of gleaming. At least ten vehicles, each likely more expensive than my entire college education. And there, sitting on a plinth like some holy relic, is Felix’s motorcycle.

Black. Sleek. Silver catching the lights.

Damn it. This is going to look incredible.

“This is my baby,” Felix says. It is the first honest note in his voice today.

I step closer. "It's... really nice."

“Nice?” He seems offended. “This is a one-off Ducati Panigale V4. Nice is for throw pillows.”

"Fine. Good enough.”

He rolls his eyes, strokes the seat. “Have you ever ridden one?”

“No.”

“Knew it.”

“What does that mean?”

He looks me up and down. “You seem two-quick to play it safe.”

“I don’t.”

“Name one thing that you ever did that was risky?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

His smirk says it all.

He swings a leg over the bike and sits down. Somehow he looks even hotter, which seems pretty rude.

“You’re scared,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

He pats the seat behind him. “Get on.”

My heart stutters.

“We’re not going anywhere on horseback.”

“Don’t think we’re riding anywhere just because I said riding.” he scoffs. “Come on.”

This is a bad idea.

The mate bond is already humming under my skin Getting close to him will make it ten times worse.

But he’s challenging me. And I can’t seem to find the off switch for that.

So I climb on behind him.

Mistake.

The bond hits like a live wire. Heat. Pressure. I Need. I hold onto hid shoulders to keep myself steady and I can feel my chest pressing into the back of him through my hoodie.

He goes still.

“Siren—”

“Don’t.” My voice sounds unsteady. “I'm proving you wrong.”

He laughs quietly. “You hate losing.”

“Not to you.”

Good." He reached around and adjusted my thigh. “Hold on tighter Wait a minute If we were on the move, you’d be flying off.” I clasp my hands around his waist.

His breathing changes.

Mine does as well.

The garage is quiet except for the distant whine of tools and the sound of our uneven breaths. Everything is so electrified.

“Felix,” I whisper.

“Yeah.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“The worst.”

Yet neither of us moves.

His hand remains on my thigh. My arms so much as quiver around him. His heartbeat is a quick, constant rhythm under my forearms.

He shifts slightly, just enough so I catch the edge of his profile.

“You know what the real problem is?” he says low.

“What?”

“I don’t know if I want to push you away or pull you closer.”

My breath catches.

He turns more. His face is just inches away from mine. Those watery blue eyes with threads of gold. His wolf right there.

“Siren—”

The garage door starts opening.

We jerk apart. I scramble off the bike. He rises so quickly he almost knocks it over.

Sunlight pours in as the door rises.

Donovan’s car rolls inside.

Alpha Donovan. Felix’s father. My new stepfather.

Perfect. Felix’s face goes blank. Cold. Controlled. “Stay quiet.”

“What—”

“Just don’t talk.”

Donovan steps out, briefcase in hand. He studies us.

“Felix. Soren. What are you two doing down here?”

“Showing her the house,” Felix answers smoothly. “She wanted to see the garage.”

Donovan looks between us. Felix is unreadable. I most certainly am not.

“I see.” He closes the car door. “Soren, I assume Felix has been good to you.”

I nod quickly. I nod quickly.

“Good. Felix, we’ll talk later. Pack business.”

“Yes, sir.”

Donovan heads upstairs.

Silence.

I let out a shaky breath. Felix stares at the stairs, jaw clenched.

“That was close,” I whisper.

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t respond.

“Felix—”

“Go to your room, Siren.”

“What?”

He looks at me, expression frozen. “Tour’s over. Go.” He looks at me, expression frozen.

“Why—”

“Now.”

I leave.

Because what else can I do.

I take the stairs two at a time, rush through the maze of hallways, shut myself in my room, and press my back to the door.

My heart races. My hands shake.

We almost— We nearly did — or something like that.

No. We didn’t. No, we didn’t.

But it felt like the ground shifted under us.

I drop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling.

This house will kill me.

Either the bond will, or Felix’s mood swings will, or the constant danger of being caught doing something we’re not supposed to do.

My phone buzzes. My phone buzzes.

Unknown number: We shouldn't talk to each other. For now.

I stare at the message. Then throw my phone across the room.