Nothing happens.
My throat feels too tight.
My chest feels hollow.
He looks between us, one, then the other, a little crease forming between his brows.
I turn away before he can voice whatever apology he's probably brewing.
We finish the shopping like a normal family in a normal store.
Frozen vegetables. Yogurt. Toilet paper.
I walk a half-step behind, pushing the cart when Ragon lets me, marking items off the list as they go in—even when they're not the brand or flavor I'd written down.
In the checkout line, Ragon stands at the front, card in hand, jaw set in its usual calm line.
He didn't intervene.
He heard Marie talk about my supposed ignorance, my lesser understanding, my lack of scent-match authority.
He didn't correct her.
He didn't say,being here longer counts too.He didn't say,Vee's knowledge of us matters. He didn't say my name at all.
He just watched and let her put the coffee she likes and the detergent that holds scent better in the cart.
I watch him swipe the card.
There's a small part of me that still hopes, stupidly, for some sign. A look in my direction. A hand on my shoulder. Anything that saysI know you're hurting.
He takes the receipt, folds it, and tucks it into his wallet.
"Let's go."
We load the bags into the truck.
On the drive home, Drake and Marie talk about some show they're watching, their voices low and comfortable. She leans into his shoulder; he drives one-handed for a stretch so he can play with her fingers on the center console.
I sit quietly in the backseat, plastic handles digging into my palms, eyes on the blur of traffic outside.
I wish I could stop loving them.
All of them.
It would be so much easier if my heart would just let go. If the bond threads inside me could loosen and fade and leave me empty instead of tearing every time someone says scent match like a crown and second-hand like a sentence.
But I can't.
I'm theirs.
In all the ways that hurt the most.
And no amount of switching coffee brands or detergent or who sleeps where is going to change the fact that my omega body still lights up when they walk into a room—even when my mind is begging it to stop.
Chapter 15
Drake picks the worst possible night to remember I exist.
