"From what?" I demanded. "From leaving? Is that it? You think the moment this baby is born, I'll run?" I laughed again, and this time it hurt my throat. "Or maybe you want me to run. Maybe the money is your exit clause. Your way of saying 'thanks for the baby, here's your severance package, don't let the door hit you on the way out.'"
"That's not—"
But I didn't wait for his excuse or his idea of a logical explanation that would make everything make sense to everyone except me.
Iturned and ran.
My bare feet slapped against the marble, the sound echoing through the too-large house. I heard Fritz call after me, heard Hastings' chair scrape back.
But I was already gone, racing up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind me.
I pressed my back against it, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest.
And for the first time since the helicopter had lifted me out of my falling-apart caravan and dropped me into this fairy tale, I wondered if Maeve was right.
27
Etienne
The Welsh hills stretchedendlessly in every direction, rolling green waves that broke against gray stone walls and disappeared into mist. The wind cut across the ridges, sharp and cold, carrying the smell of rain that was due to fall again.
It smelled a little like her.
I shook that thought away.
I'd been walking for hours.
My boots were caked in mud, my jacket soaked through from the earlier drizzle, and my lungs burned with the kind of clean, honest ache that came from pushing your body until it had no choice but to shut up and obey.
It still wasn't enough.
The cottage sat behind me somewhere, tucked into a fold of land where the wind couldn't reach it. I'd chosen this place precisely because it was isolated. No neighbors. No noise. Just me and the hills and the sheep that didn't give a damn about pack politics or claiming marks or the fact that I'd left my omega behind in London.
My omega.
Except she wasn't just mine, was she? She was Hastings' omega. The bond proved it. The mark on her neck proved it.
The bond had just appeared. Like a fait accompli. Like Hastings had decided for all of us and the universe had simply nodded and said, "Sure, why not?"
I kicked a rock off the path, watching it tumble down the hillside.
I wasn't angry at Presley anymore. I'd been angry at first, raw and stupid with it, but somewhere between the rugby match where I'd tried to break my own ribs and the silent drive to Wales, the anger had shifted.
It wasn't her fault. She'd been in heat. Out of her mind with need. She'd presented her neck because biology had told her to, because Hastings had made her feel safe enough to do it.
And Hastings... Merde!
Hastings was the one I wanted to punch.
But even that anger was cooling now, turning into something more complicated. Something that felt like understanding, even if I didn't want to admit it.
My phone rang.
I pulled it from my pocket, squinting at the screen.
Fritz.
I answered, pressing the phone to my ear. "Fritz."
