Chapter 53: Breaking Point
Lunch with Xue Lian had gone exactly as expected.
They’d eaten in Bael’s office at the small table by the couch, keeping things private and controlled. No restaurants where paparazzi could catch them, no public appearances that could turn into headlines.
The wedding photos were still circulating, being seen with another omega would create problems Bael didn’t need right now.
Xue Lian had picked at his food more than eaten it, making conversation that danced around what he really wanted to say.
Bael had let him talk, responding when appropriate, but halfway through he’d pulled out his laptop to review a contract that genuinely needed his attention.
"Do you really need to work right now?" Xue Lian had asked, voice light but carrying an edge underneath.
"Unfortunately."
It wasn’t entirely an excuse, the contract did need reviewing, but more than that, Bael couldn’t give Xue Lian everything he wanted yet.
Not full attention, not immediate reassurance, not the certainty that nothing had changed.
Xue Lian needed to understand what he’d walked away from, he needed to feel the uncertainty, the distance, the reality that Bael had moved on when he wouldn’t come back.
Only then would he properly appreciate getting a second chance.
Xue Lian had tried anyway, he stood from his seat and crossed to Bael’s side, settling himself in Bael’s lap the way he used to, arms around his neck, face close enough that his scent was unmistakable.
Light and familiar, deliberately chosen to remind Bael of three years together.
For a moment, Bael had let it happen.
Felt the easy comfort of someone who knew exactly how he liked to be touched, what worked, what didn’t.
Then he’d stood, careful not to be harsh but firm enough to make his point.
"I’m full. And I have urgent work to focus on."
Back to his desk, back to the contract, giving Xue Lian space to process the rejection, Xue Lian’s expression had flickered, hurt, frustration, before smoothing back into understanding. He’d left around five with a quick kiss aimed at Bael’s lips that Bael turned into a peck on the cheek.
A small concession, a reminder that this wasn’t over, just... postponed.
Xue Lian had smiled at that, reading it correctly.
I understand I can’t have everything yet. But I’m still here. Still trying.
Good.
That was exactly where Bael wanted him.
Working for it. Realizing what he’d given up.
Coming back not because it was easy, but because he finally understood what Bael was worth.
***
Now Bael is home, pushing open the bedroom door with his mind already on a shower and maybe reviewing one more document before sleep.
He stops.
Runze is on the bed, face down, propped up on his elbows, a container of ice cream balanced in front of him.
Wearing one of Bael’s shirts, the cream-colored one, soft fabric that hangs loose on Runze’s smaller frame, falling to mid-thigh where it’s ridden up to expose bare skin.
Completely bare.
No shorts, no underwear, nothing underneath except smooth skin that catches the bedroom lighting.
The shirt has slipped off one shoulder entirely, neckline gaping open to show collarbone, the lean line of his chest, ribs rising and falling with each breath. His legs are slightly parted, one bent at the knee, the position casual but the effect is anything but.
Bael’s hand tightens on the doorknob.
His pulse kicks up without permission, blood rushing south before his brain catches up to what he’s looking at.
Alpha instincts surge—omega, available, willing, mine—demanding he cross the room immediately.
He doesn’t move.
"What are you doing?" His voice comes out level despite the reaction his body is having.
Runze looks over his shoulder.
Ice cream on the spoon he’s holding, a small smudge of it at the corner of his mouth.
"Uhh?" Confusion colors his tone, eyebrows drawing together slightly. "What do you mean? I’m just eating ice cream."
Then his tongue slides out, slow and deliberate, catching the ice cream off the spoon in a way that has nothing to do with eating and everything to do with the show he’s putting on.
Bael’s jaw clenches.
Heat pools low in his stomach, spreading through his veins like alcohol, making his skin feel too tight.
This is seduction.
Clumsy, obvious seduction from someone who probably learned it from trashy novels or dramas.
It shouldn’t work.
But Runze is lying there in Bael’s shirt, his shirt, his scent all over it, looking like he’s posing for something explicitly designed to break alpha self-control, and Bael’s body doesn’t care about should or shouldn’t.
His dick is already responding, hardening against his pants in a way that’s going to be obvious the second he moves.
He has options here.
Cross the room now, give Runze exactly what he’s asking for, end this quickly and efficiently.
Or make Runze work for it.
See how far the omega is willing to go, how committed he is to whatever game he’s playing, test exactly how much Runze wants this.
The second option is far more interesting.
Bael forces his gaze away from the bed, looking instead at the bathroom door like this is completely unremarkable.
Like he walks in on his half-naked husband eating ice cream seductively every night.
Then he crosses the room without another word, steps into the bathroom, closes the door, leans against it for three seconds. His reflection stares back from the mirror, pupils dilated, jaw tight, the clear signs of arousal he managed to keep off his face.
He turns on the cold shower, as cold as it goes, the water hits like a shock, washing away the heat but not the want, not the image of Runze on that bed burned into his brain.
He takes his time anyway, washing thoroughly, letting the temperature regulate his body’s response until he can think clearly again.
Until the hardness subsides enough to be manageable.
When he steps out, he wraps a towel around his waist, reaches for a shirt, then stops, and leaves it hanging.
If Runze wants to play seduction games, he should see what he’s trying to seduce.
Bael grabs a second towel and walks back into the bedroom, using it to dry his hair as he goes.
His eyes go to the bed.
His hand stills mid-motion.
Runze has moved.
He’s kneeling now, no longer lying down, sitting back on his heels with his knees spread wide in that flexible way omegas can manage that alphas can’t.
The shirt has slipped further, both shoulders exposed now, fabric barely clinging to his arms, neckline so loose it’s fallen to show his chest. One nipple visible, dusky pink against pale skin, peaked from the cool air or arousal or both, his hands rest on his thighs, fingers spread slightly, drawing attention to how the shirt has ridden up there too.
And he’s looking at Bael.
Eyes tracking slowly over Bael’s bare chest, water still clinging to his skin, following the lines of muscle down his abs to where the towel sits low on his hips, lingering over every detail.
Heat floods back through Bael’s system.
His dick hardens again immediately, straining against the towel, and if he takes a single step forward it’s going to be visible, going to tent the fabric in a way that announces exactly how affected he is.
So he stays where he is, continues drying his hair with slow, deliberate movements, acting like this is normal.
Like his pulse isn’t racing, like he isn’t fighting every instinct screaming at him to cross the room and claim what’s being offered.
Runze should come to him first, or make the next play.
The silence stretches.
Runze’s throat moves as he swallows, then clears it softly.
"Have you had dinner yet?"
His voice is careful, almost innocent, but Bael can hear the slight breathlessness underneath it, and can see the way Runze’s chest is rising and falling a little faster than normal.
Before Bael can answer, Runze shifts.
The movement makes the shirt slip even more, fabric sliding down to barely cover anything, exposing more skin, more of that lean body.
"If you haven’t had dinner yet..." Runze’s hand comes up, fingers trailing along his own collarbone, down toward his exposed chest. "There’s dinner right here."
The gesture is unmistakable.
An invitation.
An offer.
Take me.
Something in Bael’s carefully maintained control fractures, it cracks straight down the middle like glass under pressure.
The towel drops from his hand.
He moves.