The knife clatters onto the cutting board as I set it down, my pulse pounding in my ears with frustration and the uncomfortable recognition that she’s right. Demanding she wear protection while I don’t is the height of hypocrisy.
“Fine,” I manage through gritted teeth. “I’ll wear one, too.”
“Good.” She arches her brows. “Go get it.”
I glare at her, jaw muscle jumping, before I turn and stomp down the hallway toward my bedroom.
The bag from the Omega Outreach Program sits crumpled on top of my dresser, where I tossed it after returning from the clinic. I dig through the contents, pushing aside condoms and pamphlets until my fingers close around the box for the nape guard.
It’s identical to Lena’s. Black, utilitarian, and cheap. It has to be unbuckled to come off, unlike the magneticdesigner versions rich Omegas wear as fashion statements, studded with crystals or plated in gold. This one exists for the sole purpose of preventing an Alpha’s teeth from breaking skin during a loss of control.
I turn it over in my hands, the plastic cold and unforgiving. This small device represents everything I hate about the world we live in, a world where Omegas need physical barriers to protect our autonomy, where the burden of prevention falls on the potential victims instead of the Alphas, who can’t control themselves.
The mirror on my closet door reflects my scowl as I pull down my shirt collar and position the guard at my throat.
The straps hang loose while I adjust the curved shield over my nape, my fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar fasteners. The first attempt is too tight, digging into my skin and restricting my airflow. I loosen it and try again, finding an uneasy balance between security and comfort.
When it’s finally in place, I swallow hard, the sensation strange and constricting. My throat works beneath the pressure of the strap, each breath a conscious effort.
Unbidden, my mind conjures an image of Rowan’s mouth there instead of this plastic barrier, histeeth on my flesh, breaking through to leave his Mark, and the thought sends shameful heat spiraling through my body, pooling in my hips. My pulse kicks up, thudding against the restrictive band around my neck.
How would his bite feel? Would I melt beneath him? Or be filled with the unstoppable desire to kill the man who tried to claim me?
The questions scatter when I realize where my thoughts have wandered. I grab my phone from the bedside table, checking the screen as I’ve done a dozen times since kicking him out.
No new notifications.
No missed calls.
No texts.
Just silence.
My thumb hovers over the contacts list. It would take less than thirty seconds to call him. Ten seconds to type a text. A few words to cross the line I drew when I pushed him away.
But the words stick in my throat, blocked by stubborn pride and restless fear. What would I say? Sorry, I kicked you out, but come back because I miss having you inside me. Sorry, I accused you of trying to buy us.
Sorry, I’m right, but I wish I wasn’t.
The phone goes dark in my hand. If Rowan wanted to contact me, he could have done so. He has my number. He knows where I live. His silence speaks as loud as mine does.
I tuck the phone into my back pocket and return to the kitchen, head held at an awkward angle to accommodate the rigid plastic at my nape.
Lena turns from her homework to raise her brows at me. “Well?”
I tug my shirt collar down. “Satisfied?”
A small smile tugs at her mouth. “It looks as stupid on you as it does on me.”
“Then we match.” I return to the cutting board, picking up the knife to resume dinner preparation, and discover that the vegetables have dried around the edges from being left too long in the open air.
“You know,” Lena says, her pencil tapping her textbook, “Rowan wouldn’t care if I got a job.”
My knife freezes mid-cut. “What?”
“When he was here, we talked about college applications and how much they cost.” She flips to a new page in her notebook. “He said lots of students work part-time, and I need real-life experience.”
The knife resumes its motion, faster now. “Rowan’s opinions on your education don’t matter.”
