That Telling MomentChapter 25

_A note before this one: this chapter contains a graphic attempted sexual assault. It is not between our leads, and it is interrupted. But it is violent, frightening, and described in detail. Please look after yourself. If you need to skip this one and pick up at Chapter 26, you’ll have everything you need to continue._

Stephen hunched over his desk, surrounded by regulatory documents and cold coffee. The Dabney office was eerily quiet, most of his colleagues having departed hours ago for pubs, partners, or whatever passed for a social life among corporate lawyers.

His third cup of truly abysmal coffee sat forgotten beside him, the murky surface reflecting his equally murky thoughts. The EU’s cross-border data regulations had been designed by sadists who’d never had to implement their own Byzantine creations. Stephen squinted at paragraph forty-seven, subsection C, which appeared to simultaneously require and prohibit the exact same data transfer protocols.

“Bloody brilliant,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Perfectly clear. Just transfer the data without transferring the data. Perhaps we should try quantum tunnelling. Or carrier pigeons.”

Work was his only refuge these days, the sole distraction from both the Ryland situation and the stalker nightmare. He could almost pretend his life wasn’t falling apart when he was busy untangling legal knots that would make Houdini weep. Almost.

The building’s automatic lights clicked off in sections as the motion sensors decided that Stephen’s minimal movements didn’t count as signs of life. The darkness crept closer, leaving him in a shrinking pool of desk lamp illumination.

The sudden roar of a hoover starting up in the corridor made him jump so violently he knocked over his disgusting coffee, sending a brown tsunami across his meticulously annotated printouts.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed, lunging for his bag to rescue his laptop before the caffeinated flood reached it. Papers scattered to the floor as he fumbled with napkins, dabbing frantically at the spreading stain.

Yep. Definitely time to go home.

Stephen’s hands trembled as he gathered his things, exhaustion and frayed nerves making his usually precise movements clumsy. He’d spent the past week jumping at shadows, flinching when colleagues approached his desk too quickly, scanning every package with the suspicion of an airport security guard with something to prove.

He shoved soggy documents into his bag, grimacing at the coffee smell that would now permeate everything he owned. Tomorrow’s Stephen could deal with that particular joy. Tonight’s Stephen just wanted to get home, crawl into bed, and pretend the world outside his duvet didn’t exist.

The lift journey to the ground floor felt interminable, the fluorescent lighting turning his exhausted reflection in the mirrored walls a sickly grey-green. He straightened his tie out of habit, as if looking presentable might somehow counterbalance the fact that he was leaving the office at a time when most sensible people were already into their second REM cycle.

The doors slid open with an overly cheerful ping, depositing him into the cavernous marble lobby that always made Dabney feel more like a particularly soulless art gallery than a place of business.

“Worked late again, Stephen?”

Stephen’s heart tried to exit through his throat before he recognised the voice of Frank, the night security guard who manned the reception desk after hours.

“Oh, hi Frank. Yes, just… catching up on some things.” Stephen attempted a casual smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

Frank, a kindly man in his sixties who’d been with Dabney since the Jurassic period, gave him a concerned once-over. “You alright, lad? Looking a bit peaky.”

“Fine, just tired. Those EU data regulations won’t decipher themselves, unfortunately.”

“My Ellie’s got a job interview at the bakery tomorrow,” Frank said, reaching for his phone with fatherly pride. “Want to see her in her new outfit? The wife helped her pick it out.”

Stephen’s smile softened into something genuine as Frank proudly displayed photos of his teenage daughter in a sensible blouse and skirt. “She looks lovely, Frank. They’d be mad not to hire her.”

“That’s what I said!” Frank beamed, then his expression shifted back to concern. “It’s late, Stephen. Want me to call you a taxi? Not good for a young man to be out alone at this hour.”

“I’m fine walking to the tube,” Stephen insisted, despite it being well past 10 PM. “It’s only a few blocks, and I could use the fresh air.”

“If you’re sure,” Frank said doubtfully. “Just… keep your wits about you, yeah?”

“Always do,” Stephen replied, waving as he pushed through the revolving doors into the night.

The moment the cool air hit his face, doubt crept in. Perhaps a taxi wouldn’t have been such a terrible idea. But the “Get Dad Out of That Bloody Deathtrap of a Flat” fund wouldn’t finance itself, and cabs were luxury items in Stephen’s carefully budgeted existence.

He plugged in his earbuds and pulled up a true crime podcast he’d been listening to religiously over the past couple of weeks. The woman’s cheerful voice describing a particularly gruesome dismemberment filled his ears as he walked briskly down the deserted street. Every few steps, he found himself glancing over his shoulder, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

“It’s just paranoia,” he told himself firmly. “This is what happens when you binge-watch horror films and listen to true crime podcasts until you fall asleep.”

He was a grown man, for God’s sake. A grown man who’d once successfully argued a regulatory compliance case before a panel of hostile EU commissioners. He could certainly manage a walk to the bloody tube station without a parental safety check-in.

He turned off the main road, deciding to take a shortcut through a dimly lit side street he normally avoided. The street was narrow, flanked by office buildings with dark windows. Exhaustion weighed on him, and the shortcut would shave five minutes off his journey.

The footsteps behind him registered gradually, slipping through the barrier of his podcast like water through cracks. Slightly too fast. Slightly too close. The rhythm not quite matching the casual pace of a fellow commuter.

Stephen increased his speed, his heart rate climbing steadily as the footsteps accelerated to match his pace.

It’s just another person walking home. This is London, for Christ’s sake. Eight million people crammed onto a bit of land the size of a postage stamp. Of course there are other people about.

Except it was past 10 PM on a weeknight, and this particular street was a corporate wasteland at this hour, populated primarily by cleaning staff and security guards, all of whom were safely ensconced in their respective buildings.

The hand that grabbed his shoulder came without warning, spinning him around with disorienting force. One of his earbuds fell out at the sudden movement, clattering to the pavement as he found himself face to face with a vaguely familiar man.

Blond, mid-thirties, expensive watch, business casual clothes. Forgettable. After a moment of panicked confusion, Stephen placed him: the guy who sometimes queued behind him at the Pret near Dabney, occasionally nodding in that way strangers do when they recognise each other from regular encounters.

What he wasn’t expecting was the look of terrifying familiarity in the man’s eyes, the possessive gleam that suggested he knew Stephen far better than a passing acquaintance from coffee runs.

“Theo, finally,” the man said, breathless. “I’ve been waiting for you to notice me.”

Stephen’s stomach dropped. “I’m not Theo,” he said, striving for calm but hearing the tremor in his own voice. “My name is Stephen. Stephen Huxley. I think you’ve confused me with someone else.”

The man’s smile didn’t falter. It widened, indulgent. “Always playing hard to get. It’s cute, the little games you play with your fans. But we both know who you really are.”

“I’m really not Theo,” Stephen insisted, taking a step back only to find himself against a wall. “I’m his brother. His identical twin. We look alike, but we’re different people.”

“I loved your last video,” the man continued as if Stephen hadn’t spoken. “The one where you were begging for it, on your knees, looking up at the camera with those pretty eyes. I’ve watched it every night since you posted it.”

Stephen’s hand inched toward his pocket, fingers curling around his mobile. “Look, I appreciate that you’re a fan of my brother’s work, but I’m not him. I’m a lawyer. I work at Dabney.”

“I know exactly who you are,” the man said, stepping closer. “We have a connection, Theo. I’ve felt it from the beginning. The way you look at the camera, it’s like you’re looking right at me. And then when I saw you at Pret that day… and kept on seeing you there, just looking right at me…”

“I wasn’t looking at you,” Stephen said, anxiety sharpening his tone. “I don’t know you. I was buying lunch. I don’t make videos. I write regulatory compliance briefs that make people wish they’d chosen another career.”

Something shifted in the man’s expression, a ripple of displeasure. “Stop it. This isn’t funny anymore.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Stephen said, attempting to sidle along the wall toward the street entrance. “This is a genuine case of mistaken identity. I can give you my brother’s business email if you want to contact him professionally.”

The man’s hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside Stephen’s head with enough force to make him flinch. “No,” he snarled, his breath hot against Stephen’s face. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t know me.”

Stephen’s heart hammered against his ribs. “I don’t know you,” he said, enunciating each word. “Because I’m not the person you think I am.”

“I left you a gift,” the man said, leaning closer. “Did you like it? Did you think of me when you touched it?”

The package. The omega sheath. The note. Stephen’s mouth went dry.

“That was you? You left that… thing at my office?”

“I wanted you to have something personal,” the man said, reaching out to touch Stephen’s face. “Something to remind you of our connection.”

Stephen jerked away from the touch, revulsion crawling over his skin like insects. “There is no connection,” he said firmly, abandoning attempts at gentle de-escalation. “You’re delusional. I am not Theo. I have never made videos. I have never met you outside of occasionally being in the same Pret queue. Now please, step back and let me pass.”

The change was immediate. The man’s expression contorted from adoration to rage, his features twisting into something barely recognisable as the same person.

“You fucking tease,” he spat, grabbing Stephen’s shoulders with bruising force. “You put yourself out there for everyone to see, you make us want you, and then you act like we’re nothing.”

“Get your hands off me,” Stephen said, his voice steadier than he felt. “Right now.”

Instead, the man shoved him hard against the wall, the back of Stephen’s head connecting with brick hard enough to send stars dancing across his vision. Pain bloomed at the base of his skull, sharp and disorienting.

Training from the self-defence classes Colin had insisted both twins take after their sixteenth birthday kicked in through the haze. Stephen brought his knee up sharply, aiming for the groin, but the man twisted away at the last second. The blow landed on his thigh instead. With a growl, he grabbed Stephen by the throat, squeezing enough to make breathing difficult.

“Stop fighting,” he hissed, his face inches from Stephen’s. “You know you want this. You show the whole world how much you want it.”

Stephen slammed his fist into the side of the man’s head, a solid punch that made his attacker stumble backward, releasing his grip. He lunged for freedom, but the man recovered quickly, tackling him with enough force to send them both crashing to the ground.

Stephen’s mobile skittered across the pavement, the screen shattering on impact. He clawed at the ground, trying to crawl away, but the man flipped him over, pinning him down with his superior weight and alpha strength.

The alpha’s scent hit him. Sharp, acrid with aggression, tinged with the unmistakable musk of arousal. Wrong. Too acidic, too possessive. It poured off the man in waves, a biological declaration of intent that Stephen’s hindbrain registered with primal clarity. His body tensed, every cell rejecting the alpha pheromones that coated his skin, impossible to shake.

“Get off me!” Stephen shouted, his voice echoing off the building walls. “Help! Somebody help!”

The man’s fist connected with Stephen’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. His mouth filled with the copper taste of blood. Another blow, this one to his ribs, drove the air from his lungs.

“Shut up,” the man snarled, his hand tangling in Stephen’s hair, slamming his head against the pavement. “Just shut up and take it like you do in your videos.”

Through the ringing in his ears, Stephen realised with growing horror that the man was fumbling at his belt, trying to undo it one-handed while keeping him pinned.

“I’m not Theo,” he gasped, struggling against the weight on top of him. “Please, I’m not him. I’m his brother. I’m Stephen.”

“Stop lying,” the man grunted, managing to unfasten Stephen’s belt. He yanked at Stephen’s trousers, dragging them down his hips. “You’re Theo. My Theo. Mine.”

“Please don’t,” Stephen begged. “Please stop. I’m not who you think I am.”

“You’re exactly who I think you are,” the man said, his hand moving to his own zip. “The omega who’s been teasing me for months. The one who looks at the camera like he’s begging for it.”

Stephen’s vision blurred with tears of pain and terror. His trousers and pants were yanked down to his knees now, the cold night air shocking against his exposed skin. Rough hands forced their way between his legs, groping and invasive, making him flinch and try to close his thighs against the violation. His thoughts fragmented into disjointed prayers, pleas to a universe that had apparently decided he deserved this particular nightmare.

Then a figure appeared at the entrance to the side street. A man in a business suit, initially frozen as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Hey!” the businessman called, his voice uncertain. “What’s going on there?”

The weight on top of Stephen shifted as his attacker glanced toward the voice. “Fuck off,” he shouted. “This is private.”

The businessman took a step closer, his expression changing as he processed the scene: Stephen pinned to the ground, trousers pulled down, face bloodied, eyes wide.

“Get off him!” the businessman bellowed, breaking into a run.

The stalker hesitated, calculating. Self-preservation won out. He scrambled off Stephen, preparing to flee, but the businessman was faster than he looked. He launched himself at the stalker, tackling him with the precision of someone who’d played rugby at university.

They crashed into a row of bins, the metallic clatter adding to the chaos as they grappled on the ground. The businessman was shouting something about citizens’ arrests, his voice carrying in the quiet street.

More footsteps. Concerned voices. Someone stooped beside Stephen, a woman in a waitress uniform from the late-night cafe around the corner. She draped a jacket over him.

“It’s okay,” she said, helping him pull up his trousers, shielding him from view with her body. “You’re safe now. We’ve called the police. They’re on their way.”

Stephen nodded, his throat too tight to form words. Through shock-blurred vision, he watched as two men from the cafe pinned his attacker to the ground while the businessman sat on his legs.

The stalker was still screaming that Stephen was Theo, that they had a connection, that everyone needed to mind their own business. But his voice seemed to come from very far away, fading beneath the roaring in Stephen’s ears as shock settled over him.