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Chosen by the Champion
By A.L. Morrow
Once Upon a Time
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Sighing, I flop into my desk chair. How many days have passed since that night Tristan went into heat? Three? Four? Five? I don’t know. It’s all gone by in a blur. And yet, in such a short time, he’s somehow managed to haunt every corner of this house. At the rate I’m going, it’ll take me a millennium to recover.
About twenty minutes later, while I’m still staring blankly out the window at the pool, someone knocks on my office door.
“Come in.”
Vincent, dressed to the nines with a teacup in hand, strides in and takes a seat on the sofa. I close my eyes and rub at the lids, trying to ignore the images of Tristan touching himself that immediately flicker through my mind.
“Jack mentioned I could find you here,” Vincent says. “Up early again, I see.”
It’s useless. I might have to burn that damn sofa in the end.
“Yes, well, there’s work to be done on the claiming bill if we expect it to pass.” I swallow down the last of my espresso and reach for the stack of papers sitting next to my laptop.
“Excellent, the team will be glad to have you back. I’ll schedule a call to get you up to speed.”
“Great,” I mumble. I try to concentrate on the page in front of me, but the words make no sense. They’re just a collection of random letters.
Apparently, I can’t even distract myself properly.
Vincent goes quiet. I feel his eyes on me, studying my every movement. After a moment, he clears his throat, and his tone shifts from upbeat to concerned.
“How is your guest faring this morning? In recovery now, I assume?”
As usual, he sees right through me.
“Tristan’s gone, actually.”
“Gone?”
Nodding, I push aside my papers again. “Sometime after midnight. His heat was waning, and it seems he chose not to stay.”
“That’s a shame. I wouldn’t take it personally, though. Some omegas prefer to recover in private. The very scent of their alpha is offput—”
“It wasn’t like that. He left without saying goodbye. He left …” I swallow the lump in my throat. “He left without leaving me any way to contact him.”
“I see.” Frowning, Vincent swirls the liquid in his teacup as if trying to find answers in the leaves. “I’m sorry to hear that. I know how much you liked him.”
“He liked me, too, Vincent. I know he did. I felt it—this was different. Different from Luke.” I sound like a spoiled child shouting and stomping his feet, but I can’t help it. The words must be said. He needs to understand I’m not the same foolish, lovesick boy I was back in those days. I’ve grown.
The omega’s eyes widen. Patiently, he sets aside his teacup and leans over the armrest of the sofa. “Mason, I would never insult you by suggesting what you shared with Tristan wasn’t real. If you say it was more than simple pheromones, then I believe you.”
About the Author:
USA Today bestselling author A.L. Morrow enjoys dreaming up steamy scenes and spectacular settings—often along with a touch of magic or myth. She believes that love is love and likes reading and writing various genres of romance.
In her downtime (what’s that?), A finds delight in scouring for secondhand designer fashions. She briefly lived in a haunted mansion, once took a flight to visit Scotland for a day, and is prone to meeting minor celebrities in random hotel elevators. She resides in the eastern US.
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