That Telling MomentChapter 24

Stephen hurried through the Dabney corridors, his heart hammering against his ribs. The brown package was safely disposed of in the furthest stall of the men’s bathroom on the executive floor, wrapped in paper towels and buried beneath more paper towels, like the world’s most disturbing archaeological find. He could swear the scent molecules had attached themselves to his clothes, to his skin.

His fingers trembled as he opened the door to the server room. The familiar blue glow enveloped him, the gentle hum of servers creating white noise that usually soothed his frayed nerves. Today, it barely made a dent.

A stalker. An actual, proper stalker. Someone who not only knew where he worked and had access to the building. Someone who had left that thing on his desk, addressed to Theo, not Stephen. Someone who had watched enough of Lysander’s videos to become obsessed to the point of purchasing a custom order, wanking into it, and then deciding that sending it to his workplace was the appropriate next step in whatever deranged courtship they were imagining.

Stephen slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to his chest, trying to regulate his breathing. This wasn’t the first time people had confused him with Lysander, but it was by far the most terrifying.

The memories flooded back. Being thirteen, out with Dad and Lysander at Nando’s, still barely understanding their own designation, when a grown alpha slid into the booth next to them. “Three male omegas together? What are the odds?” His gaze had lingered far too long on Stephen and Lysander, his hand creeping toward Colin’s thigh under the table. Colin grabbed the man’s wrist hard enough to leave marks. “Touch my sons, and I’ll break every finger you have.” The manager had come over, and somehow it had been them who’d been asked to leave. Not the alpha.

Or the time when they were sixteen. Shopping for school clothes, an alpha following them from shop to shop, taking photos on his mobile, until Colin confronted him and threatened to call the police. The alpha had just laughed. “Public place, mate. Free country.” As if their designation somehow made them public property, specimens to be documented.

This was different. More personal. The package had appeared on his desk before 7:30 AM. Whoever left it had access to the building, worked at Dabney or had connections inside.

With hands that still shook, Stephen pulled out his mobile and called Lysander.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Pleasure Palace, where all your fantasies come true. How may I service you today?” Lysander’s voice was lazy, amused.

“Sander, shut up, this is serious,” Stephen hissed, glancing at the door. “Someone sent me something. At work. Addressed to Theo.”

“Ooooh, intriguing. Was it chocolates? I love workplace secret admirers. So much potential for scandalous photocopier sex.”

“It was one of your products.” Stephen lowered his voice further, even though he was alone. “One of your custom sheaths. Used. With a note about how you looked beautiful in the video and they can’t wait for you to ‘return it to its proper place.’ Jesus Christ, Sander, they got into the Dabney building. They left it on my desk.”

A brief pause, then Lysander laughed. “Oh, that happens all the time. Just bin it.”

Stephen pulled the phone away from his ear, stared at it, pressed it back in place. “Did you not hear what I just said? Someone got into my workplace and left a used sex toy on my desk. A sex toy they think was used by you, by Theo, but they’ve clearly confused us. They think I’m you.”

“Honestly, Stevie, you should see some of the stuff I get sent. This is tame. It’s probably just a coworker trying to rile you up. Messing with the prissy omega lawyer, you know?”

“Are you actually listening to me?” Stephen’s voice rose. “This isn’t about your fan mail. This person thinks I’m you. This person knows where I work. They have access to the building. They left it on my desk before the cleaners had even finished the floor.”

“Look, I get it, it’s creepy, but people get weird about me, get really invested.” Lysander sighed. “Unfortunately for you, identical packaging, identical problems.”

Stephen’s grip on his mobile tightened until the case creaked. “This isn’t a joke, Lysander. This is actually scary. There are security implications. Legal implications. This person could be dangerous.”

“Oh come on, it’s just some knot-drunk alpha with poor impulse control. This is probably the most action his sad little fantasy life has seen in years.”

“How can you be so blasé about this?” Stephen’s voice rose further. “Someone is stalking me because of you. Because of your bloody videos, your custom toys, your entire career.” He spat the last word like it tasted rotten.

“Here we go.” Lysander’s voice hardened. “Saint Stephen, too good for sex work, too pure for OnlyFans. Sorry we can’t all spend our lives in fancy glass offices, Stevie.”

“This isn’t about your career choices!” Stephen was properly shouting now, his voice bouncing off the server room walls. “This is about how your choices keep affecting my life! I didn’t sign up to be harassed because my twin brother decided to monetise his arse for millions of strangers!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry my ‘choices’ are inconveniencing your perfect little corporate life.” Lysander shot back. “Must be terrible for you, all that judgment and moral superiority weighing you down while I’m out here actually making something of myself.”

“Making something of…” Stephen’s voice cracked. “You film yourself getting knotted for money, Lysander! You sell silicone replicas of your arse to strangers! And now one of those strangers has brought that shit to my workplace, because they can’t tell the difference between us. You don’t even care, because you’re too busy raking in the money, driving your Range Rover, flying first class.”

“At least I’m honest about what I do,” Lysander snapped. “I sell a product people want. What do you do? Push papers for rich corporations while pretending you’re morally superior because your arse is clothed while you do it? You’re always fucking judging me!”

“Of course I’m fucking judging you,” Stephen yelled, all pretence of composure abandoned. “Of course I am! Dad wanted better for you than this. You know Dad’s history, what he went through, and you still chose to put yourself in the exact same position. To be used by alphas for their pleasure, to be taken advantage of, just like Dad was when he was still so young!”

The server room door clicked open.

Stephen froze, the phone still pressed to his ear, as David Ryland stepped into the blue glow.

“I have to go,” Stephen said into the phone. He ended the call, shoved his mobile into his pocket.

Ryland stood just inside the doorway. He wore a rumpled button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that Stephen had once traced with reverent fingers in a Swiss hotel room. His hair was a disaster, as usual.

“I can leave,” Ryland said after a moment.

“Don’t bother,” Stephen replied, hating how brittle he sounded. “I was just going.”

“You appear distressed.” Ryland took a cautious step forward. “Your breathing pattern suggests elevated anxiety, and your phone conversation indicated a serious disagreement.”

Of course he’d heard. With Ryland’s hyperacute senses, he’d probably registered every word, catalogued every inflection, filed it all away in that brilliant brain of his.

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.” Stephen moved toward the door. “Maybe you should add ‘eavesdropping’ to your CV, right under ‘abandoning omegas after shagging them.’”

Ryland flinched. Actually flinched. “That’s not… I didn’t mean to overhear. The door isn’t soundproofed, and your voice carried.”

“Well, congratulations. You’ve now witnessed the charming family dynamics of the Huxley twins. Quite the psychological case study, I’m sure.”

“Stephen.” Ryland took another step forward. “What’s wrong? I don’t like seeing you upset like this.”

Stephen laughed, a sound with no humour in it. “Nothing for you to worry about, Dr Ryland. Just the usual occupational hazards of having a porn star for an identical twin brother. Some of his fans can’t tell the difference between us.”

“Explain.” Ryland’s voice took on the intensity of a protective alpha. Stephen’s jaw tightened.

“Why do you care?” Stephen rose to his feet. “We’ve established that our ‘physical interaction was a mistake.’ That ‘the professional and personal complications created by such an association are suboptimal for both our careers and emotional well-being.’ Isn’t that what your text said?”

“That’s not…” Ryland ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more wildly. “I didn’t mean… The text was poorly phrased.”

“You think so?” Stephen’s eyebrows shot up. “It was fucking clear as day to me, Ryland. Crystal clear. You got what you wanted, then decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. Fine. Your choice. But you don’t get to stand there now looking concerned because some alpha confused me with Lysander. It’s not your problem any more. I’m not your problem any more.”

“Someone confused you with your brother.” Ryland persisted, ignoring the deflection. “In what context? Did they approach you? Was there a threat involved?”

“Why are you doing this?” Stephen stepped back as Ryland moved closer. “Why are you suddenly acting like you give a shit? You left, remember? You literally fled the country rather than talk to me about what happened. You’ve been avoiding me for days. So why now?”

“Because you’re scared,” Ryland said.

The words sat between them.

“You’re attempting to mask it with anger, but your physiological responses indicate genuine fear. Your pupils are dilated, your breathing is shallow and rapid, and your hands are still trembling.”

“Stop analysing me.” Stephen wrapped his arms around himself, forcing his hands still. “I’m not one of your experiments.”

“No,” Ryland agreed quietly. “You’re not.”

Something in his tone made Stephen look up, properly look at him, for the first time since he’d entered the room. Ryland looked terrible. Exhausted. The shadows under his eyes had deepened into bruises. His clothes, while always somewhat rumpled, bore the distinct appearance of having been slept in.

“I should go,” Stephen said, moving toward the door. “I’ve got actual work to do.”

“Stephen.” Ryland reached out, his fingers barely brushing Stephen’s sleeve.

The contact sent a current through Stephen’s body. He jerked away, unable to bear even that slight touch without his carefully constructed walls threatening to crumble.

“Don’t.” His voice was raw. “You made your choice in Geneva. You made your feelings perfectly clear in that text. You don’t get to touch me now.”

“I made a miscalculation,” Ryland said, his hand dropping back to his side. “The situation in Geneva… my response was suboptimal.”

“Suboptimal.” The word was bitter on his tongue. “You keep using that word! My performance was clearly so suboptimal you couldn’t even bear to see me the next morning.”

Ryland’s eyes widened. “That’s not… You misunderstood. I didn’t leave because of your performance. I left because of mine.”

Stephen shook his head, already backing toward the door. “Save it. I’m not interested in your rationalisations. Whatever happened in Geneva is over. We’re over. Or rather, we never really started, did we?”

“Please,” Ryland said, and the word nearly undid Stephen completely. “Let me explain. Let me help with whatever’s going on.”

“I’m done, Ryland.” Stephen’s hand found the door handle behind him. “Any other alpha would have just said ‘sorry, not interested’ after a disappointing shag. But you had to spell out exactly why I wasn’t worth your time. ‘Suboptimal for our careers and emotional well-being.’ God, I actually thought you were the one for me.”

He yanked the door open, pausing in the doorway.

“At least Lysander’s boyfriend pimp is honest about using people. You just dress it up in bigger words.”

The door closed behind him with a decisive click, leaving Ryland alone in the blue glow of the server room.