"I already did." My knuckles are white on the cart handle. "The moment I ran from our wedding.”
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps beneath his skin. "You're being dramatic."
There it is. The dismissal I know so well. The subtle implication that my feelings are too big, too much, too unreasonable.
Heat floods my face. My pulse pounds in my ears. Around us, the store has gone quiet. Even the muzak seems to have stopped. Everyone watching this scene play out like it's a soap opera.
"I'm being honest." I straighten my spine, even though every instinct screams to make myself smaller. "For the first time in two years. I should have left you a long time ago."
"Because of them?" His voice goes sharp. Cuts through the air like a whip. "The Negrorio Pack? Is that what this is about?"
My heart stutters. Stops. Restarts at double speed.
"This is about me." My voice is rising. I can't stop it. Can't control it. Two years of swallowed words clawing their way out. "About you making me feel like I was too much. Too loud. Too obsessive. About you controlling everything from what I wore to who I talked to to how I organized my goddamn grocery lists."
"I was helping you." He steps into my space. His scent crashes over me like a wave. My omega recoils so hard I feel it physically, like something twisting in my gut. "And now you're living with four men? Making a fool of yourself? They're using you, baby. Can't you see that? Taking advantage of a confused omega."
"Don't call me baby." The words come out flat. Dead. "And don't pretend you care about what's good for me. You only care that you lost control."
His hands clench into fists at his sides. The charm is slipping. I can see it cracking like ice over a frozen lake. "You're making a mistake."
"The only mistake I made was staying as long as I did." I push my cart forward, forcing him to step aside or be hit. "We're done, Callum. Accept it."
I make it three steps.
His hand closes around my arm.
"We're not done here."
The grip is immediate. Tight. His fingers dig into my bicep hard enough that I gasp. Around us, I hear someone inhale sharply. Mrs. Johnson’s can of soup hits the floor with a clatter.
"Let go of me." My voice is too high. Too panicked.
"Not until you listen."
"I said let go."
His fingers tighten. Pain shoots up my arm, bright and sharp. I can feel each individual fingertip pressing into muscle. "You're hysterical. You need to calm down and think about what you're throwing away. I'm offering you a future, Jessica. Everything you ever wanted."
"You don't know what I want." I try to pull away. His grip is iron. "You never did."
"I know you're scared." He leans closer. His breath is hot on my face. The scent of him is choking me. "Confused. Those men have filled your head with ideas. But you can't do better than me, baby. We both know you can't."
Something inside me snaps.
The fear transforms. Alchemizes into pure, white-hot rage.
I bring my knee up hard between his legs.
His hand releases me instantly. He doubles over with a howl that echoes through the store. The sound is animal. Undignified. Deeply, viscerally satisfying.
"Touch me again," I tell him, my voice steady now, "and I'll aim higher."
Somewhere behind me, someone starts to clap. Slow. Deliberate. Then another person joins in. Then another.
I grab my cart. My hands are shaking so hard the metal rattles. I walk toward the checkout. One foot in front of the other. Don't look back. Don't engage.
Behind me, his footsteps.
