Lincoln: I talked to Bayleigh. She’s okay. Just laying low tonight.
A second later:
Milton reacted
I don’t reply.
I toss the phone face down, grab the beer, and take a long swallow. The bitterness hits my tongue wrong, stomach twisting again. Like I’m punishing myself for something I didn’t do.
Or for something I want.
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” I tell myself, rubbing a hand over my face. “She’s not yours. You don’t even want her.”
Liar.
I lean back against my headboard, stare at the ceiling, and replay everything I’ve been trying to forget.
Her face when she realized someone was stepping in for her. The way she stared at me like she didn’t know whether to thank me or run. The little motion she signed afterward—fingers to lips, then out.Thank you.
I didn’t even know what it meant until Lincoln told me. And then—the softness behind it hit me like a blow.
I drag a hand over my jaw, exhaling hard.
This is adrenaline,I tell myself.Instinct. She was scared. You intervened. Anyone would’ve.
But it’s bullshit, and I know it. I’ve stopped fights before. Stepped between teammates and fans. Broken up bar brawls. Not once did it feel like this. Not once did I feel like my entire body decided on its own that the omega in front of me mattered more.
I grab a second beer from my mini-fridge, tap it against the side of the nightstand, and let my head fall back.
Her scent hit first.
Then those eyes.
Big. Wide. Dark with fear, then confusion, then—God help me—trust.
When I followed her down the street afterward, it wasn’t logic. It wasn’t duty. It was instinct.
A slow burn settles low in my stomach, and I swallow against it. I’m not a fucking teenager. I don’t get worked up over some omega I barely know?—
Except apparently I do, because the minute I saw that picture of her smiling at Lincoln, my entire body reacted like I’d been shoved.
My fingers tighten around the bottle. I take another long drink, but it doesn’t dull anything.
The room is too quiet and still. Too full of every thought I don’t want to have.
I switch channels again. Sports. Cooking. News. Weather. Back to sports. None of it registers. All I see is her face when she looked up at me, hands trembling around that folder. All I hear—even without sound—is the little gasp she made when I stepped closer.
My stomach twists into knots. I’ve never been affected like this by an omega in my life. Never needed one. Never wanted one. Not even Gina. I mean, she was hot and an okay fuck, but I didn’t have this instinctive pull toward her. Especially not like this one.
Not my rival’s sister. Not my brother’s date. Not the omega who should be miles from us in every possible way.
So why the fuck can’t I stop replaying how I met her? The fight, her scent, her thank you, or her leaving without looking back.
Maybe that’s why it hits so hard. She didn’t cling, didn't fawn, didn’t even stay long enough for me to ask if she was okay. She just thanked me and walked away.
And I—I let her go.
But I didn’t want to.
