Seen but not heard, a rule that all Omegas had to learn at an early age.
Be ready to serve,was another. There were so many, and any same person who didn’t grow up at Lockswells House wouldn’t understand half of them. But for me, and those that lived there, knew better. We learned, or we were dealt with the consequences of not obeying.
And certainly that would happen here, even if Alpha Harris gave me space like he was right now.
The pain would come.
It was only a matter of time before I’d end up stepping over a rule that I didn’t know about and he’d strike me as though it was second nature.
Today’s outing was just another layer of the man. Another way to watch him, to learn what he wanted of me.
I was no closer to figuring that out as I had been yesterday.
I couldn’t figure out if he wanted my body or my mind at this point.
No one wanted my mind, and that scared me more than any act he’d request of my body.
My mind wasn’t my own anyways, my thoughts were all tucked away under a heavy lock and key. I forced myself to keep my thoughts unreadable on the surface,because there was no other way to live the life I had otherwise.
My desires would never matter.
It wouldn’t matter if Alpha Harris wanted to hear them. They’d be brushed aside moments after they were spoken or dealt with.
Clients hated talking, yet that seemed to be all this man wanted. To talk, formeto talk.
And I wasn’t sure that would be possible. I didn’t have words to wrap around my thoughts.
Wiping a lone tear that slid down my cheek, I gave the outside world one last look. I wouldn’t want something that I never had, my desires and comfort were two of those things.
If the man wanted to mess with my mind, he already achieved that.
I’d have to try harder to learn him; I’d have to work harder to read his wants. He wasn’t like Alphas before, and I had no option but to be up to the challenge.
***
I found Alpha Harris in his office, the door left open. He was on the phone, voice low and clipped, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard.
Working.
Not that it mattered to me—his attention was locked on whatever conversation he was having, and I wasn’t part of it. Which gave me a chance to really look closer. The office, like the rest of the house, was pristine.Minimal. No framed photos. No clutter. Just clean lines and quiet surfaces.
The window behind him faced the manicured front yard.
And as I stood there, watching him speak into the phone without once looking up, I wondered if any part of this house had ever been meant to hold someone like me.
My gaze drifted to the desk. There, half-tucked beneath a leather folio, was a notebook.
Plain. Black. Not decorative. The edges were worn, like it’d been opened a hundred times.
I didn’t move toward it. Just watched it.
I had learned to pay attention to what people left visible. It told you what they wanted you to see. Which meant the real story was always somewhere else.
And maybe, just maybe, Vincent Harris was more than the quiet man with perfect posture and a spotless kitchen. Maybe he was someone who didn’t leave fingerprints—only patterns.
Maybe to some, this man was simple and kind, but there was more to him. It made sense on why he was so difficult to read while others had been easy.
Turning, my feet made their way, soundless like always, to a nearby bookshelf. There wasn’t much, just books about budgeting and a few odd history books. A couple of bookmarks stood out just so from one of the books, like Alpha Harris was working his way through reading it.
