Page 195 of Tormented Omega


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He brightens. "Progress."

Alex smirks. "You're very proud of every crumb of joy she admits."

"I am. Shut up and play your card, pine tree."

Ragon's scent spikes again. A storm building.

Jasper notices. His gaze flicks to Ragon, then to me, then away.

The next hand plays out. I watch how I lean toward Finn and Malcolm to share a joke, how I don't look down the table to see if my own alphas are watching.

Marie tries twice to hang bait.

"Ragon and I were talking about bonding timelines earlier," she says airily, tracing circles on his wrist. "It's so special, you know? Being a scent match."

"Mmm," Ragon says.

I straighten my cards. Don't rise. Don't look. Don't care. The words slide past like water against stone.

Marie tries again later, leaning forward to snag a cookie. "It's wild you're still unmarked. Especially after five years. But I guess not everyone can be permanent."

Finn chokes on wine. Malcolm kicks him.

I take a slow breath, feel nothing. "Sugar's a little uneven on that one. Take the one underneath."

She blinks, wrong-footed. "Oh. Okay."

Ragon's eyes narrow. Eli looks like he wants to disappear. Drake's gaze sinks.

Finn whispers, "Holy shit," and Alex covers it with a cough.

By the time the second bottle of wine is half gone, the energy is a complicated tangle: the neighbors' warmth, my quiet calm, my pack's confusion and jealousy.

Ragon lets it run another hand.

Then he snaps.

It doesn't look like snapping. It looks like adjusting his posture, setting his cards down, brushing Marie's hand away.

"Verena," he says.

There's something in his voice that makes everyone look up.

I don't. I'm mid-play. I lay a card down carefully.

When I do glance over, his eyes are on me, dark and intent.

"Come sit here," he says, patting his thigh.

The table freezes.

My spine prickles. Not with instinctive obedience. With awareness of being used as a demonstration.

"I'm fine. Thank you."

Finn's fingers tense. Alex's jaw tightens. Malcolm's foot taps.

Ragon's gaze hardens. "Come sit here," he repeats, slower, control wrapped tight.