“We’re not done talking about this,” he growls. “I mean it. This shit is happening way too often to ignore. I’m here to keep an eye on everybody, but my boss made it clear, I’m here to protectyou.”
The disdain he conveys in the one word proves that he’s not very fond of his job. He shakes his head, staring at the ceiling. The huge silver watch he always wears glints in the bathroom lighting as he swipes a hand through his messy dark blond hair.
He grumbles a variety of colorful curses andfinallyheads out.
“You’re not feeling so good?” Damian asks, climbing into bed at my side. His long blond hair is down, falling around us as he lies facing me.
His tattooed hand stretches out, and he barely runs his fingers over my cheek. I get the slightest hint of his tart blueberry scent, but the suppressants deaden my sense of smell to almost nothing.
“No,” I whisper.
My face feels hot as my eyes squeeze shut.
It’s getting worse.
I’m sick all the time lately.
If I didn’t know what was causing the symptoms, I’d be afraid I have a serious medical condition.
“We can cancel the show tonight,” Damian offers.
My eyes pop open, and he blinks as he studies my face for any indication that I might agree. He looks so hopeful, and it makes my chest tight.
“No way. I’m okay. We can’t disappoint the fans.”
He sighs.
We’ve had this same conversation at least a handful of times over the last few weeks…but he still tries.
Am I an awful person?
He’s worried.
It’s plain to see.
Both he and Ravvi have tried to talk to me about what’s happening, but if I mention the suppressants, they’ll have a shit fit.
It’s not like they don’t know what’s causing my symptoms.
Someone wouldn’t have to be a genius to figure out that I haven’t had a heat during this entire tour. Add in the fact that Ravvi always seems to know everything, and I don’t even want to think about it.
“I’m really starting to worry about you, Cove,” Damian says, shaking his head. “If you destroy your health, you might not be able to come back from it. Is fame this important to you?”
I frown.
It’s not just fame.
It’s a chance to support myself.
It’s an opportunity to honor my uncle’s memory.
The ability to prove that I can make something of myself, despite my designation.
Why is that so hard for people to understand?
Alphas and betas can do anything they want. They pick a career goal, and if they put in enough hard work, they can make it a reality.
Why isn’t that true for omegas?
