“Charming.”
I straighten a little, crossing my arms and ignoring the dull throb in my shoulder.
“Anyway, your room’s upstairs. First door on the right.”
She looks up at me like I’ve just offered her a weather report.
“I know,” she says. “I’ve already unpacked, made the bed, and claimed the drawers. You’re a little late.”
“Fine.” I shrug, then turn toward the stairs.
“You’ve got a real welcoming energy, by the way,” she calls after me.
My shoulders tense, and I hover over the bottom step.
“You’re the one who moved in unannounced.”
“I was told this place was mine,” she fires back.
I shake my head, irritated now.
I thought omegas were supposed to be quiet and timid,submissive, but this one's anything but. She's got real snark, and bite, and I definitely can't imagine her taking any shit from the guys at the Icebox.
“Then I guess we were both misled.”
She doesn’t answer that, and I begin to make my way up the stairs to my own bedroom.
“You can stay,” I say over my shoulder. “Just don’t touch the thermostat.”
“Fascist,” she mutters.
I pause, just briefly. “You say something?”
She looks right at me, her expression completely neutral.
“Yeah: sleep well, roomie.”
I don’t answer, and I don’t look back again, either.
Chapter Seven
Emery
The alarm on my phone had apparently gone off, been snoozed, and then fully abandoned its responsibilities; which means I’m now operating on borrowed time and caffeine fumes.
I’m up and moving in seconds, a frantic scramble across the bedroom as I yank on jeans, a thick navy sweater, and the same coat from yesterday that still smells faintly of diner grease, cold air, and desperation. There’s no time for makeup (wonderful), so I splash cold water over my face, slap on some moisturizer, smear chapstick over my lips, and yank a brush through my hair hard enough to make it protest.
It gives in, just about, and I tug on my beanie while I pray I don’t look like someone who just lost a custody battle with her closet.
Downstairs is silent. There’s no sign of my accidental roommate at this early hour—not that I expect one. After last night’s frosty, territorial-as-hell introduction, it’s obvious Beau Wolfe is not the morning chatter and pancakes type.
It isn’t snowing anymore, but the air bites as I step outside. My car sits under a thin crust of frost. The engine coughs when I turn the key, then roars to life like it resents being awake.
Honestly?Same.
I crank the heat, tug my sleeves down over my fingers, and wait for the windshield to thaw enough to see the world in vague shapes. The town is still dark and unmoving, with the streetlamps buzzing weakly above frostbitten sidewalks. Porch lights flicker around, but from the looks of things, no one is out yet.
I grip the wheel, exhale, and pull away from the curb.
