My heart was racing. But Logan had given me a courting ring. We were promised. It would be a scandal if he didn’t bond with me.
He was socially killing me.
It had been a fucking year.
“Logan,” I whispered, frantically, “don’t…please, don’t put the phone down. Listen…”
“I said, not now.”
“I’m pregnant,” I got out in a rush.
A long silence.
I was shaking.
I wanted to hurl.
“Typical manipulative Omega.” Logan’s voice became even colder. “You don’t need to lie to gain my attention.”
Fury raced through me.
I balled my hand in my lap. “It’s the truth. You can request access to the records from my private doctor.”
“Were you going to tell me as a nice Christmas gift?” Logan gave a bitter laugh.
Tears gleamed in my eyes. “It’s the perfect gift, whether you want this baby or not.”
“I don’t have time for this bullshit or for you.”
I sat frozen in shock. “But you’re going to be a father and?—"
“It’s John who cares about that. I need to focus on my career right now without some bawling baby in my house.”
“John won’t let you just?—”
“John is a fucking Beta. Stop giving him ideas that make him forget his place. I’ve never had to beat him so much more since he met you. This was never going to work out.”
I gripped the phone so hard that it creaked. “Put John on.”
“Omegas don’t command Alphas. Look, I didn’t want to tell you like this. I intended to wait until after Christmas, but you’ve forced my hand. You knew when we met that we weren’t scent matches. A month ago, when I was away at that medical conference in Houston, I ran into my true scent match at a local bar. It wasn’t planned. It was fate. John wanted to keep you on as a Second Omega, but my treasured scent match is adamant that she won’t bond if there is another Omega in her nest; she’s territorial. So, I’m sorry but I am rejecting you and your child. There’s room in that big, old hotel, right? I am certain that your mother will take you in if you beg.”
Grace, Grace, Grace…
Why are my cheeks wet?
I glance up and am surprised to find myself huddled on Icarus’ hard thighs in a small, rundown office, rather than the silk swathed decadence of my old penthouse room.
Confused, I whimper, still shaking.
My breaths are coming too fast.
“You’re safe,” Icarus murmurs, stroking my hair. “You’re not alone. I’m here. Now, how many paperclips?”
He calmly holds up his palm with his normal trick.
Focusing on the paperclips grounds me.
“O-one,” I struggle to say, moving it with my shaky finger, as my breathing gradually steadies. “T-t-two, t-three, four, five, six.”
