by Piper Vaughn
“But you like breakfast,” Avery said softly. He sounded almost embarrassed.
“I do.” Dylan smirked and moved farther into the room.
Avery met Dylan’s stare once more.
“You were making breakfast?” Dylan asked. “For me?”
Avery scrunched his nose. “Trying.”
Stepping around the counter, Dylan saw the reason for all the noise. A frying pan lay facedown on the floor and what he assumed were pieces of a bowl lay scattered around, coated with what looked like milky eggs.
“What happened?” he asked still surveying the scene while figuring out how to get Avery out of that mess without cutting up his feet.
“Well, I thought I’d warm up the pan. That’s what the lady on YouTube said to do.” He pointed at his laptop, opened on the counter. “And I started to mix the eggs, but I poured too much milk in them so I was cracking more when I realized I forgot to put oil in the bottom of the pan. So I poured some oil in the pan, but I guess the pan was too hot already and the oil popped and hit me in the cheek.” He pointed at his face, his voice getting higher pitched and frantic with each word. “It could have hit me in the eye. I thought it did. It scared me and I knocked over the eggs and the bowl broke then I stepped on a piece of glass. Then I bumped into the stove and the pan slid off, and there was no way I was going to touch that hot bastard.” He huffed and the most distraught look came over his face. “I just wanted to make you breakfast.”
After a second, Dylan glanced down at Avery’s foot. “Are you cut bad?”
Avery looked down, then back up and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he said and tossed the towel in the trash can. Dylan didn’t see or scent much blood.
A smile curled Dylan’s lips as he weaved through the obstacle course the kitchen floor had become. When he reached Avery, he reached up and brushed his cheek with the back of his knuckles. “That’s really sweet, Av. Thank you.”
Avery blushed. “I didn’t do anything.”
“But you wanted to.” He dropped a kiss on Avery’s forehead. “That’s what matters.”
Avery lifted one shoulder in a shrug then leaned into Dylan’s chest. Dylan wrapped his arms around him, realizing for the first time he was standing in the kitchen bare-assed naked.
Avery must have read his mind because he chuckled and said, “You don’t have any clothes on.”
“You’re right. I obviously didn’t think this through.” He pressed his hips into Avery’s abdomen and smiled at the sharp intake of breath that came from him.
“What were you making?”
Avery groaned and rubbed his stubbled cheek against Dylan’s shoulder. “Huh?”
“For breakfast.” Dylan chuckled at his distracted mate. “What were you cooking?”
“Um….” Avery huffed out a breath and tilted his head to the side to look at the counter. “Omelets?”
Dylan held back another laugh. “Was that a question?”
“Don’t be a dick, Dylan.” Avery shoved at his chest, separating them, but not stepping away.
“Okay, okay.” Dylan lifted his hands in placation. “What if I help?”
Avery eyed him and nodded.
Dylan gestured toward the bedroom. “Let me get dressed first, and you need to get cleaned up.”
He felt Avery’s burning gaze like a physical touch as it slid over his body. His cock twitched when Avery’s tongue peeked out, wetting his bottom lip. “Why do you need clothes on?”
And God, Dylan wanted to forget breakfast and bend Avery over the counter, but eggs were drying to the floor and nothing said unsexy like flaky egg caked in floor cracks. Plus if they started something right now, they wouldn’t be leaving the loft all day. That was an unspoken promise. One Dylan had to force himself not to think about.
“Come on.” He took Avery’s hand and led him to safety and toward the bedroom.
A hand brushed down Dylan’s spine and over the swell of his ass.
Dylan growled. “Brat, if you don’t quit, we’ll never leave here.” Not today. Not ever if Dylan had his way.
“Promise?”
His growl melded into a laugh. Avery would be the death of him.
WHEN DYLAN exited the room half an hour later dressed in a gray henley and dark jeans, Avery had the kitchen picked up and was on his hands and knees scrubbing at crevices with a coarse brush.
“Hey, you.” Avery beamed, standing to toss the brush in the sink and wash his hands. After he turned off the tap, he walked over to Dylan and rose up to brush a kiss over his cheek.
“Hey back.” Dylan smiled at him when Avery picked up a huge green mug and handed it to him.
It smelled like…. Dylan took a sip. Oh my God, it is. The bite of roasted espresso, the syrupy sweetness of caramel sauce, and the kick of salty goodness mingled on his tongue. He glimpsed the espresso maker Avery so rarely used, then looked at his mate’s smiling eyes staring back at him from over his own mug.
Dylan thought he smelled Earl Grey in the midst of kitchen cleaner. Appetizing. Not that he drank a lot of tea, but he was becoming accustomed to the many flavors of which Avery partook.
Avery shrugged. “Thought you could use a pick-me-up.”
“You have no idea.” Dylan set down his mug, leaned closer, and took Avery’s from his grasp and set it next to his. He leaned over and took Avery’s lips in a soft kiss, pulling away when Avery tried to deepen it.
“Good morning.” He smiled down at Avery.
“Mornin’,” Avery whispered back, holding his gaze through a long moment of heated silence.
Jesus.
“You ready?” Dylan croaked, looking over at the food on the counter.
Avery’s expression fell. Dylan couldn’t have that. “Cooking’s not that hard,” he added and sidled close to his mate. “Besides,” he said, his breath tickling Avery’s ear, “it can be fun. Sexy.” He felt the shudder that rocked Avery’s body.
“Come over here.” Dylan nudged him to the island where everything was laid out. Avery had even put out another bowl, a metal one this time. Dylan hovered behind him.
With a kiss to Avery’s neck, he reached for the baby spinach and butcher’s knife. He slipped the handle of the knife into Avery’s grasp after setting out some mushrooms and stacking the leafy greens. “Chop,” he ordered and directed Avery’s hand with his own, cutting up the vegetables. Once Avery got the hang of it, Dylan cracked open half a dozen eggs into a mixing bowl, smaller than he’d like, but it was all Avery had. Maybe they should cook at his place next time.
When he was finished, he turned to Dylan, the tint of joy evident in his eyes. “What next?”
“The eggs.” Dylan dropped a kiss at his temple then scooted the bowl in front of them. Curling around behind Avery, Dylan demonstrated with a fork how to whip the eggs. “It’s all in the wrist.”
Avery smirked back at him. “I’m good with my wrists.”
When Dylan chuckled, he took the bowl and fork from him, jerkily starting and stopping until he got the hang of it. Dylan leaned over and started the burner, placing the pan over the fire and drizzling it with oil. Waiting for it to heat, he bent over Avery and licked a line from collar to earlobe, sneaking his hand under the hem of Avery’s sweater and button-up.
Tension crackled around them like electricity. Heat blazed through the normally cool kitchen
“Mmm,” Dylan moaned low in his ear. “Maybe I should have you for breakfast.”
The clatter of metal on metal told Dylan that Avery had quit mixing. Probably best. Avery’s head fell back to his shoulder and he tilted it to the side, his lips parted with racing breaths.
“You like that idea?”
“Ungh,” Avery grunted at the same time Dylan brushed his fingers over his nipple. Avery nodded, jerking his head up and down against Dylan’s shoulder.
“I like it too, brat,” he whispered.
Avery gasped and arched his back when Dylan pinched the stiff bud. He rocked his hips back an
d forth in a tempting, heated motion over Dylan’s cock.
“If you don’t stop, we’ll never leave on time.” He could barely talk through the rush of blood echoing in his ears, much less think.
“And that’s a bad thing?” Avery let out a thin moan.
Dylan nipped at his ear, his jaw, his neck. Then he patted Avery on the ass and stepped back. Avery whimpered and Dylan caught him at the waist when he looked like he’d crash to the floor.
When Avery turned around and steadied himself on the counter, Dylan said, “Yeah. We both have jobs. People are depending on us.”
The look on Avery’s face told Dylan he understood, but he didn’t like it.
Dylan grinned and leaned in to drop a kiss on his forehead. He breathed Avery in—lust, musk, and perfection. “We can pick this up later.”
Avery scowled.
Breakfast only took a few minutes to finish, but the memory of how it had begun lasted Dylan all day long.
Chapter Seventeen
FRIDAY MORNING arrived with a storm. Avery tried not to take the lightning and rain as a bad omen, but he was a nervous wreck all day. Several times he almost caved and called Dylan. As far as his mate knew, Avery had plans with Jaden that night. But any time he came close, he remembered Dylan had hidden the first text from Snowflake, and his resolve returned.
At Mr. Otis’s house, Avery scrawled down the address and handed it to the old wolf. “If you don’t hear from me by ten, call Dylan at this number, okay?”
Mr. Otis nodded, looking solemn. “Are you sure about this? I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Avery, but I don’t want you getting hurt. It could be dangerous.”
Avery waved off Mr. Otis’s concern with feigned confidence. “It’ll be fine. This is a precaution. I’m not worried.”
Mr. Otis didn’t appear convinced. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
Without thinking, Avery leaned down and gave Mr. Otis a quick hug. The wolf smelled like menthol and musk. Oddly, the scent comforted him. It had become familiar after all these weeks.
He pulled back and cleared his throat. “I’ll call you later.”
Mr. Otis reached out to grasp his hand for a second. “You’re a good man, Avery Babineaux.”
Avery gave him a shaky smile and left before Mr. Otis’s kindness made him break down.
Back home after finishing his route, he dressed with care. Lake Oswego was a wealthy, exclusive suburb, and Avery was willing to bet the attendees of this auction would match. No middle class Joe Blow could afford to buy a personal sex slave. These people had money, and even though Avery didn’t have much—for now—his attire would have to say otherwise.
He dressed in the perfectly tailored charcoal Tom Ford suit he’d purchased for his sister’s wedding. Beneath he wore a black cashmere sweater over a classic white button-down. A plum-colored silk scarf and purple, semibrogue leather lace-ups completed the outfit. His hair he combed forward to partially cover one eye.
After a critical inspection in the mirror, Avery decided he looked moneyed but not ostentatious. It would have to suffice. He didn’t want to give the impression he was trying too hard.
He allowed himself an hour for the drive. He knew from googling that the house backed up to the lake. It had its own private dock and boathouse, and what he imagined was one hell of a view.
Thanks to his GPS and his research beforehand, Avery found the address without trouble. The long driveway was sheltered by overhanging trees, lessening the downpour from the storm. He parked his Mini Cooper amid the luxury cars that lined the circular courtyard and sat there for a moment, gathering his nerve.
When he felt confident enough, he exited the car, straightened his jacket, put on his haughtiest expression, and strode up to the door as if he owned the place.
A man in a black suit responded to his knock. With his earpiece, the bulge at his waist, and his brawny muscles, Avery pegged him as a security guard.
“Sir,” the man said. “Where are you coming from?”
Avery almost slipped and answered Portland. At the last second, he remembered the password from Snowflake. “North Carolina.”
The man stepped aside. “Right this way.”
Avery followed, chin up, back straight.
“The merchandise is on display in the formal living room. Down that hall there, second door on the left. You may register there and claim your bidder number.”
Avery’s stomach lurched and bile rose in his throat. He forced himself to nod dismissively and walked down the hall projecting the unwavering confidence of someone who’d been spoiled and catered to for the majority of his life. It wasn’t as if it strained his acting abilities.
He entered the living room to find a collection of men and women who looked much like his parents—upper class, white-collar types. Most were Caucasian, although there were some other ethnicities mixed in. A man at a table next to the door asked for his ID. Avery thanked whatever deity existed he’d remembered to bring the fake one he’d bought when he first started college. It listed a false name, address, and birth date, but he’d spent enough to ensure it could pass for real to even the most well-trained eye.
The man handed him a card that read fifty-two. Then Avery finally allowed himself to look around the room.
The “merchandise”—and God, it nauseated Avery to even think that word—was a lot more varied than the clientele. The girls shared common traits. They were thin, pretty. Some lovelier than others but all young. None of them could be older than their late teens, and some even appeared to be prepubescent. They wore nothing but their underwear. Bare chests and panties for the girls; skimpy briefs for the few boys. They all looked—and smelled—terrified.
Avery couldn’t contemplate it. The sight of them, the scent of their fear, sickened him. He wanted to snatch them all up and run, get them away as fast as possible. Instead, fighting to keep his expression blank, he wandered the room.
How did these people look so normal? How could they be so calm? Avery thought when someone was truly evil, as these people must be, it should show on the outside too. There should be a sign, some outward indication of their revolting inner natures.
Anyone in this group could have easily passed for the businessmen and women he saw in downtown Portland, dressed in nice suits and dresses as they went about their workdays. Or like the members of his father’s country club or his own family. They could’ve been anyone.
They didn’t look like the type of sickos who would purchase another human being, a child, and use them for sex against their will. But they were—they were—and Avery could feel the start of a panic attack at sharing a space with them, breathing the same air, at the thought they all assumed he was there for the same reason.
His gut twisted violently enough Avery had to put his hand on the back of a chaise lounge to steady himself. He noted the security guards that lined the room. He’d guess they were European—they had that sort of look about them—and it felt like something out of a Hollywood mobster movie. If Avery hadn’t been scared shitless, he might have laughed at the craziness of it all. Laughed or maybe sobbed hysterically.
He couldn’t afford to lose his cool. He was a Babineaux. How many high society parties had he attended in his lifetime? He’d grown up putting on plastic smiles and mingling with shallow, entitled people. Nothing mattered more to his parents than appearances. If Avery knew anything, it was how to pretend.
So he faked it. He strolled the room with his most bored expression in place. Inwardly he was seething, growing more and more anxious as the minutes passed.
By the time a man entered the room and announced the bidding would start, Avery feared he might break down and vomit. Or shift from the stress. These children were being sold. Right that very second, while he sat there. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, not without risking his own life and thereby losing any chance he had of helping them. And Lacey.
Oh Jesus.
Why hadn’t he told Dy
lan? Why had he thought he could do this alone? How could he have been such an idiot?
He should’ve taken the information they’d gotten from Snowflake straight to the police. He should’ve—
Avery’s thoughts broke off in a jangle. A man had entered the room behind the auctioneer. A man he recognized.
Detective Melnyk.
Avery’s head spun. The tall blank-faced blond was dressed like all the security guards and had an earpiece in place.
Oh God. He’s part of it. He knows. He’s involved.
The words repeated in Avery’s head, over and over, gaining volume, speed. He clenched his sweaty hands tight in his lap and prayed Melnyk didn’t spot him among the men sitting around the room.
Avery had to escape. He had to get out right now, before Melnyk saw him. His skin prickled and his temples throbbed, but he couldn’t jump up and run off without drawing attention to himself.
Pulse racing, he forced himself to stay there. He watched with his heart and stomach in turmoil as one after the other, the boys and girls were paraded to the front of the room. A guard ordered them to step up onto a low platform. Then they were instructed to turn this way and that while the auctioneer called out amounts and the people around him calmly raised their hands to bid.
It went on like any other auction Avery had attended with his father, which made it even more obscene. He fought the urge to scream with every passing minute.
Finally after maybe a dozen sales, the auctioneer announced a break. One of the other guards approached Melnyk, and Avery used the opportunity to slip from the room unseen. Or so he hoped.
He fled while trying to appear as if he wasn’t. A man near the door asked if he was all right. Avery dismissed him with an airy gesture. “Please give my apologies to the host. There’s an urgent matter that needs my attention. You understand, I’m sure.”
The man nodded, and Avery strode from the house. He walked to his car at a near jog, jamming his thumb on the key fob to unlock the doors.
Once he had it open, he nearly dove into the car. He started the ignition with trembling fingers, reversed from his parking spot, and sped down the driveway as fast as he dared.