ME:What if he does?
The response is immediate.
PAULA:Then you kick his ass and make him grovel. And when you decide you’ve had enough of his begging and crying, take him back. Live the rest of your very happy lives.
Me:Alphas don’t beg.
PAULA:They do when an omega makes them.
I turn off the phone.
A few days later, I hear a car. I'm at the swollen creek, skipping rocks across the water, when the sound of an engine roars up the driveway. Too fast. Too loud. Destroying the peace.
It's him.
I don't even have to look to verify. My body electrifies. Every nerve ending lights up like someone flipped a switch. The bond mark pulses. My heartbeat races. My skin flushes. Pheromones I can't control begin to sweeten the air around me.
He's coming.
I could run. Could throw the duffel in my car and be halfway to the state line before he reaches the cabin. Could deny him this. Denyusthis.
I don't.
Instead, I walk inside. Wash my hands at the sink. Stare at myself in the reflection of the window above the basin. I'm in aworn tee and boy shorts. Hair is a mess. No makeup. Dark circles under my eyes.
This is what's left of me. If he's here, he gets this. This. Raw. Exhausted. Done version.
I don't pace. I sit at the kitchen table. Fingers drumming a rhythm that matches the accelerating thrum of the bond. My body is screaming. Open the door. Bare your throat. Fix this. Fix him. Fix us. I clamp down on it with everything I have. Bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. It cannot be this simple or easy. I strangle the hot biological discord trying to slip away.
The truck door slams outside. Not a polite sound. A violent one. The knock is worse. Three hard raps that rattle the frame. Not a request. A demand.
I don't move. Not yet. Let him wait. Let him stand on my grandfather's porch and feel what it's like to be on the outside for a change.
The second knock is heavier. "Open this fucking door, or I will break it down."
The growl surprises me. He's been controlled since we met. Disciplined. Even when he was pissed about the flowers, he was contained.
This is not contained.
I walk to the door. Force my trembling limbs to move with slow, steady steps. Grab the cold metal of the knob and turn.
He looks like hell. His lips are a thin, flat line. Stubble that's less intentional and more haven't slept in days. Hair wild like he's run his fingers through it a hundred times. His shirt is wrinkled, untucked.
The scent of him—real, live, not a memory—sucks the air from my lungs. The bond howls in triumph. There. There he is.Fix it.
His eyes rake over me. My bare legs. The thin cotton shirt. Somewhere behind me, the bedroom door is cracked open, the nest visible in the corner—sheets and towels twisted intoa hollow of biological surrender—and panic lurches hot and humiliating through my chest. If he sees it, if he understands how thoroughly I've unraveled, my defiance will crumble to nothing. His nostrils flare. Catching the way my body has already begun to betray me. The slick response I can't suppress.
His jaw tightens. A muscle tics. When he speaks, there’s no apology, no pleading, only a river of coursing anger.
"Who the fuck," he rasps from the raw edges of his throat, "is Robert Campbell?"
The bond wants me to fold. To explain. To soothe.
Fuck that.
"None of your damn business," I say.
I mean it with every fiber of my failing, traitorous, omega heart
