He held up a hand again, silencing me. “Let’s just leave it at thank you.”
He extended his hand toward me. I stared at it for a moment. His fingers were long and elegant. Pianist’s fingers. “You can call me Adam,” he said quietly. “Mr. Sinclair is my father, and I’m in no hurry to fill those shoes.”
He rose smoothly to his feet. “Come along. I’ll drive us home.”
Home.Maybe his home. Not mine. But I stood, my heart jangling in its cage of bones, and followed him.
What else did I have to lose?
4
ADAM
The drive homewas quiet and a bit awkward. Fletcher fidgeted in the passenger seat, picking at a hangnail, staring out the window.
Anywhere but at me.
Back at the police station, when he’d shaken my hand under the harsh fluorescent lights, I’d noticed the scars on his arms. Cigarette burns, dotting his pale skin like cruel reminders. I’d bottled up my reaction, but they bothered me.
Maybe that explained why this Omega was so jumpy, why he’d chosen the streets over a pack. Maybe he’d been hurt by Alphas in the past. I could only imagine.
When we pulled into the driveway, I got out first and shut my door. Fletcher followed, his head down, shoulders tight, like he was replaying last night in his mind.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure why I’d brought him here. Hehadtried to rob me, after all. Still, I couldn’t shake the look on his face when the cops took him away—that fear, that devastation. That wasn’t the look of a hardened criminal. That was the look of someone who’d been cornered.
Once inside, I led Fletcher to the front window, boarded over from the break-in. Glass shards littered the floor, catching the morning light. I glanced at Fletcher. He looked exhausted, but I knew I had to set expectations.
I fetched a broom and dustpan from the hall closet and handed them to him. His eyes widened slightly.
“Clean this up first,” I told him.
“Yes, sir.”
He jumped into action so quickly it startled me, like disobeying meant punishment. My chest ached unexpectedly. I retreated to the kitchen, giving him space while I started a pot of coffee.
As it brewed, I watched him. Fletcher was meticulous, sweeping in small, careful strokes, gathering little piles before sweeping them into the dustpan. Then, shyly, he approached me.
“Do you have a loaf of bread?” he asked softly.
I blinked. “Bread?”
Was he that hungry?
He ducked his head. “It… It picks up the tiny glass pieces you can’t see. I know it sounds stupid, but…”
I reached for the half-used, likely stale loaf on the counter and handed it over. He clutched it to his chest like a lifeline and hurried back to the mess, gently pressing slices of bread against the floorboards to collect invisible shards.
Shaking my head, I turned to reheating last night’s leftover pork roast and glazed carrots. Not for me, but for him. I doubted Fletcher had eaten—or slept, for that matter—and I wasn’t about to let him starve under my roof.
When the plate was ready, I set it at the kitchen island and went over to where Fletcher was finishing up. The floor was spotless, not a speck of glass left.
“Alright,” I said. “That looks good. I made you something to eat.”
He looked up, his eyes round. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, I did. Come on.” I nodded toward the kitchen.
He hesitated, then stood and followed me. I gestured to the bar stool, poured myself some coffee, and leaned against the counter, pretending not to watch as he devoured the meal.
