That Telling MomentChapter 23

Stephen arrived at Dabney early on Friday, having survived four entire days of post-Geneva mortification. He’d managed to avoid Ryland for almost ninety-six hours, ducking into supply cupboards, bathrooms, and once, memorably, Victoria Harlow’s empty office when he’d spotted that familiar mess of dark hair at the end of a corridor.

Clearly, this was a sign he was healing. Emotional growth. Resilience in the face of sexual rejection and subsequent workplace humiliation. If he could just get through today without another Ryland-related crisis, he could spend the weekend ceremonially burning his sexual confidence alongside the still-in-packaging knot dildo he’d picked up from a parcel collection point but been too embarrassed to take for a ride because of its deeply unrealistic girth.

The office was blessedly quiet at half seven, most of Dabney’s employees sensibly choosing to arrive closer to nine. Stephen preferred these stolen moments before the corporate machine lurched into full operation. No alphas watching him. No colleagues speculating about his relationship status. Just the comforting hum of the air conditioning.

He rounded the corner to his desk, coffee in hand, mentally rehearsing his opening arguments for the Morrison brief due Monday. Then he stopped short.

There, sitting square in the middle of his meticulously organised desk, was a package.

This wasn’t the usual interoffice mail in its branded envelope. It wasn’t packaged in the familiar yellow of a courier service. This was a plain brown parcel, about the size of a shoebox, with no return address, no delivery slip, no identifying features whatsoever except for a name scrawled across the top in thick black marker:

THEO HUXLEY.

Stephen stared at it, coffee halfway to his mouth.

“Oh, fuck off,” he muttered, setting his coffee down with excessive care, as if sudden movements might cause the package to detonate. “Not again.”

The handwriting was in block capitals, pressed so hard into the cardboard that the pen had torn through in places. A serial killer’s manifesto or a nursery schooler’s first attempt at joined-up writing. Hard to tell.

And the name. Theo. Not Stephen. Theo.

His twin’s professional pseudonym.

“Right,” Stephen said to the empty office. “Because this week wasn’t already going swimmingly.”

He glanced around, half-expecting to see Mann-Fielding or one of the other alpha arseholes lurking behind a potted plant. The office remained deserted, the early morning silence broken only by the distant sound of a hoover several floors below.

It had to be them, didn’t it? The alphas who’d previously left the omega heat-scented candle on his desk. Now that he was no longer under Ryland’s protection, they’d clearly decided it was open season on the male omega again. Back to the good old days of designation-based harassment disguised as “office joshing.”

He should probably call security. Or HR. Or possibly just sweep the package directly into the bin.

Instead, Stephen found himself reaching for the package with the resigned fatalism of a man who’d already accepted that this day was going to be an absolute shitshow.

“If it’s another one of those fucking candles,” he muttered, sliding his finger under the tape, “I’m going to shove it so far up Mann-Fielding’s arse he’ll be sneezing out synthetic pheromones for a week.”

The tape gave way with a satisfying rip. Stephen folded back the cardboard flaps, bracing himself.

The scent hit him like a physical force.

Not the artificial, chemical approximation of omega heat that had permeated the candle. This was the real thing. Potent, undiluted, and familiar in a way that made his stomach lurch.

Lysander.

His twin’s scent, magnified and concentrated to a degree that made Stephen’s head spin. He could almost taste it on the back of his tongue, sweet and musky and wrong, so fucking wrong, here, now, in the middle of Dabney’s sterile corporate environment.

“What the actual fuck,” Stephen whispered, yanking his hands back as if the package had burned him.

Morbid curiosity overrode his better judgement. He leaned forward, carefully parting the tissue paper inside with a pen from his desk.

The pen caught on something silicone, pulling it partially free of its wrapping. Stephen found himself staring at one of Lysander’s custom omega sheaths, wrapped in tissue paper like a christening gift from Satan’s particularly twisted godmother.

He knew what they were. These silicone sheaths were designed specifically for omegas to wear during their cycles, the material engineered to absorb and retain their unique scent and slick. It allowed omegas to pleasure themselves while simultaneously infusing the toy with their biological signature. Then alphas could purchase these scent-saturated sheaths for their own use, sliding themselves into what was essentially a premium wank sleeve suffused with genuine omega pheromones.

“Jesus Christ,” Stephen hissed, recoiling so violently his chair shot backwards and slammed into the desk behind him.

The turquoise packaging bore Lysander’s signature, along with a certificate of authenticity Stephen truly wished didn’t exist: “Personal Scenting Session, Custom Order #347. This sheath has been personally worn by Theo during intimate content creation to ensure maximum pheromone saturation.”

Horrifying enough on its own. But tucked beneath it was a handwritten note on expensive stationery, the same block capitals as the package label:

“Thought you should have this back, now that I’m done with it. You looked so beautiful in that custom video having fun with this. Can’t wait for you to return it to its proper place. XOXO, Your biggest fan.”

Stephen’s stomach heaved. The sheath had been used. Extensively. Some alpha had rutted into it God knows how many times, probably whilst watching Lysander’s videos, and then decided the appropriate next step was posting it to Stephen like a demented romantic gesture.

Someone had paid premium prices to fuck a silicone replica of his twin brother’s body, then sent it to him at work.

“Right,” Stephen said, his voice unnaturally high. “Absolutely normal morning. Nothing to see here. Just a sex toy that some delusional alpha has mistaken for a Valentino gift set.”

His hands shook as he shoved it back into the packaging. This wasn’t another case of workplace alphas being arseholes. This was something else entirely.

A stalker. Someone who had gained access to Dabney’s offices, who knew exactly where Stephen’s desk was, who was confusing him with Lysander.

“Okay,” Stephen whispered, pressing his palms flat against the desk. “Okay. Think.”

He needed to warn Lysander. The custom order number should make it possible to track the buyer. Lysander could check his records. Then they could report this to the police, get a restraining order, possibly invest in some industrial-strength pepper spray and a trained attack dog.

Stephen pulled out his mobile with trembling fingers. As he scrolled to Lysander’s contact, a thought struck him: what if the stalker was in the building right now? What if they were somewhere in these empty offices, watching him?

The previously comforting silence of the empty office suddenly felt oppressive, every shadow potentially concealing a threat. The weight of unseen eyes pressed against the back of his neck like cold fingers.