I open the window and let the air in. Somewhere outside, Bastion is revving his bike and pretending the world can’t catch him. Wyatt is probably in the kitchen, nursing a third or fourth beer, waiting for me to show up. Emery is—fuck, who knows. Probably drawing comics about how stupid my face looked while I refused to acknowledge she exists.
Oh, I’m aware she exists.I’m so aware it burns me up alive from the inside out. Her scent soaking through the entire house during her heat. Her bubbly personality. Her bright blue and purple hair making her easy to see in every room no matter how crowded.
She’s my omega. She might also be my family’s downfall.
I slam my fist into the wooden desk. Pain ricochets up my arm.
“Shit.”
There’s a knock. Not loud enough to be Bastion, too assertive to be Wyatt. That leaves one option.Emery.
“Everything okay in there?”
I don’t answer quick enough for her, it seems, as she pushes open the door and peeks her head in. Her cotton-candy hair is up in a messy bun and she’s already got streaks of paint on her arms. She also has a half-eaten blueberry muffin in one hand.
Emery looks around—I assume for the source of the loudbang.Her gaze zeroes in on my clenched fist, and she frowns. “You really hate this, don’t you?”
I force a laugh. “What, PR events and debuts?”
Emery levels me with a look. “Me, Ranier. You really hate me, don’t you?”
I let out a deep breath and rub my temples. My fist still stings. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Emery grins. “Is that a no?”
I want to say it is. I want to say she’s a headache, an inconvenience, a PR disaster. I want to say all the things my father would have said, with the same icy conviction.
But I can’t make myself say any of it.
My body relaxes as I try to surrender to whatever is coming. “You ever think maybe this isn’t about you?”
“Then who’s it about?” Emery pops a bite of muffin and chews slow.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
She waits, patient as a sunrise.
I glance out the window. The streetlights paint long bars across the floor. “Every time I think I have a handle on things, you do something that ruins the script. You were supposed to be a disaster, and instead you’re?—”
“Charming?” she supplies with a mischievous grin.
I roll my eyes. “Unmanageable.”
She beams. “I try.”
We lapse into silence. It’s almost comfortable.
Emery tilts her head. “If I was really that much of a problem, you’d have sent me home already.”
“You think I have that much power?” It comes out more bitter than I mean it to.
“I think you have all the power,” Emery says, serious now. “But you don’t want to use it.”
There’s a steel in the set of her jaw, a challenge in her eyes. Emery stands, muffin wrapper in one hand, and walks to the desk. She leans over, close enough that I catch the edge of her scent—sugar and candy.
She smells delicious.My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. I curl my fingers into fists beneath the desk, nails bitinginto my palms, and force myself to exhale slowly through my nose. The room suddenly feels ten degrees hotter, my collar too tight, as if someone’s cranked the thermostat and cinched a belt around my throat.
Emery meets my gaze. “If you want me to go, just say it. Enough is enough.”
