THIRTY-ONE
Jez
I WAS SURE I HADN’Tactuallyslept for a week straight, even if that’s what it felt like. After I’d come back to my senses, Gage had dragged me to his room and made me take a shower, followed by a hot bath. He’d given me soup and crackers, along with an entire bottle of some kind of neon-blue sports drink, and then he’d let me fall asleep in his bed.
I didn’t really have a lot of experience with sleeping uninterrupted for long periods of time. Living on the street, sleeping made you vulnerable. And on those rare occasions when I’d crashed on someone’s couch, sleeping there too long made it feel like I was overstaying my welcome.
Most of the parts of my body that had been aching before were still aching—but it was a different kind of discomfort. Old and stiff, rather than fresh and raw. It was my brain that felt like someone had packed it in cotton wool, though.
My thoughts were slow and stupid. My eyes felt gritty and swollen. My neck and back felt like they belonged to someone three times my age, which was ridiculous since I’d been passed out on a nice fluffy mattress instead of on a park bench or in a concrete doorway.
As soon as I stirred, my stomach made it clear that tomato soup and saltines hadn’t been enough food after days spent in an artificial heat, burning through my body’s nonexistent reserves.
I was used to getting by on the bare minimum. But that also meant that I knew what it felt like when I was skirting the edge too closely.
I was skirting itnow.
I’d refused food after Gage first brought me here and locked me in the attic, afraid it might be drugged. When I’d finally started eating, half of it came right back up after the thunderstorm sent me into a PTSD episode. Later, Gage had made me pancakes the night we’d slept together, but that had been days ago.
Omegas were designed to live off their body’s reserves during heat. Unfortunately, I’d barely had an ounce of fat to draw on.
Hunger cramped my stomach. I tried very hard not to be reminded of the other ways my body had cramped—with sexual need and emptiness—when I’d been injected with the heat-stim shot. I tried even harder not to think about what had come afterward.
The mental wall Heath had thrown up between us groaned and shifted with sudden strain. Metaphorical chunks of concrete crumbled from the gaps... but the barrier held. My stupid omega hindbrain whined at the enforced separation from my mate. I silently snarled at it to shut the hell up. I didn’twantto feel whatever Heath was feeling; just like he didn’t want to feel whatIwas feeling.
The bedroom door cracked open.
“Hey, kitten,” Gage called through the gap. “You awake? I heard you moving around.”
“Yeah,” I said reluctantly. “I’m up.”
“I want you to eat something,” he said, and my stomach gave an enthusiastic gurgle of agreement with the idea. “You can haveanother bath afterward, okay? But you really need to get some calories in you.”
“I don’t want to see Heath,” I said in a rush.
The door opened a bit wider. “He’ll steer clear. Honestly, I think he’s still sleeping.”
He wasn’t, but I didn’t say that aloud.
“Okay,” I agreed, knowing that if I didn’t eat some proper food, I was going to be completely useless.
Gage opened the door all the way. “Great. Come down to the kitchen. Do you like shepherd’s pie?”
I had no idea what shepherd’s pie was, but it didn’t matter. “It’s fine. I’ll eat anything.”
Gage’s borrowed terrycloth bathrobe was so huge on me that I had to roll up the sleeves and lift the hem so I didn’t trip on it. But it was warm, and soft, and it smelled like sweet Christmas bread as I wrapped it around me and padded down to the kitchen.
