Except it was damn distracting when Sinclair pulled his chair away from the table, and the rest of the team greeted him.
“Hey, Jes!” York waved.
“Sure took your time, son,” Gareth said.
“Congrats on making it through the probie stage,” Harris added.
Sinclair cracked a smile, like he sometimes did with the others. It made him look younger, actually. Less burdened by the world. Rain had streaked down his T-shirt, and a droplet clung to the side of his jaw.
A small silver band wrapped around his earlobe—it hadn’t been there before. Somehow, Dom knew the smooth, metallic weight of that earring on his tongue, even before his conscious mind caught up. Why the hell does this keep happening?
Sinclair sat down, his gaze locking onto Dom. And that electric tension was back, that wordless defiance in the set of Sinclair’s jaw. That Dom wanted to fuck out of him.
Brain. Stop. Not right now.
Dom didn’t look away. Instead, he waited until the waiter came up to take Sinclair’s order, and Sinclair turned first.
“Yeah, you’ve got a problem,” Gareth muttered.
Like Dom needed to be told that.
The waiter left. The rest of the team fussed over Sinclair; Brad pretended to ruffle Sinclair’s nonexistent hair. Nate hugged him. Alec actually pulled out a flower crown, setting it on Sinclair’s head.
They were accepting him into their family—dangerous. Dom scowled at Harris. But Harris only smirked. They’d argued about hiring that alpha. Now, Harris had won.
Dom hated losing.
Sinclair’s drink arrived shortly after—a marbled mix of dark and white, same as what he’d ordered that very first bar night.
“A toast for Jesse.” Harris raised his glass.
Everyone followed suit. Dom went along because it didn’t pay to make a fuss now. As much as it displeased him to welcome Sinclair to the team.
Over the drinks, his stare locked with Sinclair’s. The man’s lips moved soundlessly: I win.
Like hell he had.
A coil of hot anger hissed through Dom’s veins. He didn’t agree to this. Not to having that guy as his family, not to waking up drenched in sweat, his cock so hard it hurt. Because of him.
Dom swallowed a large mouthful of whiskey, focusing on the burn down his throat. Keep it cool. He’s not worth it. There wasn’t any point in making a scene, not when he wanted to pin Sinclair down and wipe that smugness off his face. With a cock up that alpha’s ass.
When everyone had settled down, and when they’d eased back into conversation, Dom excused himself to use the restroom.
It was only when the door had shut behind him, that he slammed his fist into the wall. No one else has a problem with him. Only you.
Why? Because no one else had someone like Sinclair rip their life apart?
In his head, he heard Gareth’s voice: He’s not Mal.
Only because Dom was fighting to keep it that way. If he hated Sinclair, then there was no way Sinclair could walk out on him, and leave Dom crashing.
Except Dom was still pissed. Because Sinclair had dug under his skin, striking a nerve somehow. I can’t let him get to me.
The fucker hadn’t even tried, and here Dom was, ready to punch a hole into the wall.
Breathe. He sucked in a deep breath, counted to ten, and exhaled. Then he repeated the process another five times. He went to the sink to splash water on his face, the shock of cold distracting him slightly.
The door squeaked open. Dom straightened, wiping his face off.
Of course, who else had to show up, but Sinclair himself?
Dom smelled the cinnamon immediately. He kept his eyes on his own reflection, pulling a paper towel from the dispenser to dry his hands. But he couldn’t ignore the intense presence that had stepped into the restroom, he couldn’t ignore the anticipation that pulled his entire body taut.
They’d been alone together on the job. Dom had ignored Sinclair as best as he could then. But right now—this wasn’t Dom being Sinclair’s deputy. This was just them as alphas. Not family.
He felt Sinclair turn a little to look at him. Sinclair stepped over to the urinals. Then came the rasp of a zipper in the silence, Sinclair pulling his cock out.
Dom remembered the thickness of that cock, the way it had rubbed up against his own. It had grown hard in Dom’s dreams, it had spurted all over, Sinclair roaring beneath him.
He wished he could stop listening to Sinclair piss. He knew he should walk out, right now. But something kept his feet planted to the floor, his tongue heavy, a low thrum of anger still coursing through his veins.
Dom wanted to fight him. He didn’t know how the hell that would turn out.
Sinclair finished with his business, tucking his cock back into his pants. His fly rasped. Then he stepped over to the sinks, took the one right next to Dom’s, and washed his hands.
He could’ve used the one on the far side. He didn’t. He was getting into Dom’s personal space—a challenge.
Dom met his gaze in the mirror.
“You hate me,” Sinclair said.
“Yeah.”
“Why?” Sinclair rounded on him, his eyes flashing. “Because I’m not right in the head?”
Dom kept his own answering violence in check. “Smart one, aren’t you?”
The man narrowed his eyes, a low growl rumbling through his chest. He was getting ready to fight. And maybe Dom would enjoy this—grabbing him, subduing him. Shoving his entire body against Sinclair’s, feeling that raw muscle buck against him. He couldn’t smell anything but cinnamon, now.
The second before Sinclair lunged, the door slammed open.
It bounced loudly off the wall, a sound that cracked through the entire restroom like a gunshot.
Just like that, Sinclair startled, the anger in his face transforming—into shock and fear. He whirled around, turning his back on Dom like he’d completely forgotten Dom was there.
The two alphas who had stepped in looked up, surprised and wary. Sinclair raised his fists—did he think they were going to attack him?
“Psycho,”
