“Lucien.” Branson’s voice is quiet, yet it slices through me, cutting my laughter into pieces that splinter and fall mercifully silent. He looks at me, golden-brown eyes drilling holes to the back of my skull. “Am I making you nervous?”
“What?No!God, no. Not at all. I’m not nervous. I’m completely, um, comfortable. So comfortable, so…”
“You’re safe with me.” He cuts me off, holding my gaze and rendering me utterly mute. His expression is calm and notably unthreatening, so alpha that it dislocates something important in my brain. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t harm you.”
Oh, sweet Jesus.
He knows I’m uncomfortable. He knows I’m unnerved by him.
How awful.
I can’t let that stand, so I down my whiskey and pour myself another without waiting for Branson to offer to do it for me. Then, I set about making conversation in earnest.
I cover topics ranging from local weather to global warming. I touch on spirituality again, but thankfully, as it’s not really my wheelhouse, I move on before doing too much damage. I discuss world news—a brief bulletin, focusing mainly on Europe, for some reason. From there, I dabble in a bit of history, a bit of politics, and when Ilose my train of thought, I rattle off detailed descriptions of memes I’ve enjoyed recently.
When my reservoir of random facts and general knowledge runs dry, I treat Branson to a blow-by-blow account of the lives of each of my friends. I’m not a fan of discrimination, now or ever, so I tell him everything there is to know about my entire friend group, regardless of whether he’s met them or not. I use words and phrases like “unpack” and “touch base,” and I manage to weave “synergy” into the conversation four separate times, though I don’t recall having much use for the word before tonight.
For his part, Branson looks concerned. There’s a thin ring of white clearly visible all the way around his pupils, and the more I talk, the wider it gets.
“And as for dear old Odysseus,” I hear myself say. “What a fucking nightmare that man had getting home.” Some of what I’ve talked about has been so arbitrary that even I’m not sure how I landed on it. At least when it comes to Odysseus, I know. I did a semester of Classical Civilization in my second year at university, and though it was only a filler, an easy credit, I seem to have retained quite a bit of information about Homer’s epic poem. “Lotus eaters, cannibals, Circe, Sirens…you name it, that poor bastard ran into it and then some… Speaking of names, I’ve alwayslovedthe name Skyler, but Scylla, the nine-headedman-eating monster inThe Odyssey, really put me off it. I just can’t quite unsee it, you know? It’s like when you hear a name and have met a kid that was a little shit with the same name. It ruins it for you. That’s what’s happened with Skyler for me. I hear the name, see the monster. I can’t get over it either. I’ve tried.”
The thin ring of white around Branson’s pupils has stretched worryingly wide. Perhaps he’s not a fan of the classics. No matter. I’ll move on.
“Suppressetine,” I say, slapping my knee. “Now,there’san interesting topic.” It’s occurred to me that I’ve been talking at Branson for a while now, rather than to him, and that’s rude of me. I should be asking him questions and letting him answer. I’ve always had a plethora of questions I’ve wanted to ask alphas about their views on suppressants, but I’ve never had the opportunity to do so. Well, guess what? I’m stranded in the middle of goddamn nowhere with the biggest, most rugged alpha I’ve ever met right now. What better time to do it than now? “Thoughts?” I gesture magnanimously to give him the floor.
His eyes narrow and he tilts his head to the side. “What about them?”
“Are you for them or againsht them?” My speech is very, very slightly slurred, and yes, there’s a chance I am a littletipsy, but luckily, I’m one of those people who hides it well. Branson’s completely oblivious, I’m sure of that. “For or again…sss…t?” I repeat, to prompt him, when he doesn’t answer.
His top lip pulls up as though he doesn’t understand the question. “I’m for it,” he says.
Ha! For it. We’ll see about that.
Watch. He’s going to walk right into this.
“Annd, why’s that?” I ask, placing my elbow on the table and resting my chin on the back of my hand.
“Because,” he says as though he’s talking to someone who is failing to grasp a simple concept, “I believe all human beings should have agency over their bodies.”
Oh.
Yes.
Well, that’s the correct answer.
I must have phrased the question wrong. “But,” I trill, dragging the word out, “and be honest now, as an alpha, wouldn’t your life be a lot better without suppressants?”
He looks genuinely confused. “How’d you figure?”
God. The poor thing. He’s not very bright. “Because, silly, just think how much ass you’d get if omegas weren’t on suppressants.”
Okay.
Oof.
I heard that, and it was unfortunate. I wasn’t expecting to have to spell it out for him, and I vastly preferred my life before I brought sex into an already uncomfortable conversation with my ex-boyfriend’s alpha brother.
“But, Lucy,” says Branson, expression earnest and somehow devastating at the same time, “I get all the ass I can handlewithsuppressants. How would a lack of suppressants change anything?”
