"So we're being tested."
"We're being assessed." Ragon's jaw ticks. "There's a difference."
"Not to me."
He sets his mug down with deliberate care. "He'll be here at five. I want the house presentable. I want you presentable."
"You want me to perform. To prove I'm not the broken omega who makes everything harder."
His eyes flash. "I want you to be yourself. Your actual self. Not whatever defensive version you're building in your head right now."
"My actual self is tired, Ragon. My actual self doesn't want another alpha coming in to judge whether I'm worth keeping around."
"No one is judging that."
"Aren't they?" I laugh, sharp. "You said he wants to see if he can protect both omegas equally. That means he's deciding if I'm worth protecting."
"Vee—"
"I'm going to take a shower. Make myself presentable. Like you asked."
I stand before he can respond. I'm halfway to the door when he speaks again.
"He's going to ask questions. About you. About your history. About what you need."
I stop.
"I’ve already talked to him about our situation, but he’ll want to know more,” he continues. “I'm going to answer honestly. "Because he deserves to know what he's walking into. And because you deserve an alpha who understands you."
"I already have alphas who are supposed to understand me." I don't turn around. "How's that working out?"
The silence that follows is heavy enough to feel.
I leave before he can answer.
At four-thirty, I'm in my room staring at my closet like it's a test I'm going to fail.
What do you wear to meet the alpha who's supposed to fix everything?
What do you wear when you're the problem he's being brought in to solve?
I settle on leggings and a soft grey sweater that doesn't cling. I braid my blonde hair because leaving it down feels too vulnerable. I look at myself in the mirror and see someone trying very hard to appear stable.
Marie knocks on my door.
"Hey," she says, poking her head in. "You getting ready too?"
"Yeah."
She steps fully inside, and I notice she's wearing a dress. A pretty one, pale blue, with her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looks... intentional. Like she's thought about this.
"I'm so nervous," she admits, sitting on the edge of my bed. "What if he doesn't like me?"
The question is so absurd I almost laugh. "He's going to love you. You're their scent match."
"But I'm not his." Her fingers twist together. "What if he thinks I'm... I don't know. Too much? Not enough?"
I should feel sympathy. I do, sort of. But mostly I feel exhausted.
