And now this.Her.Color slamming back in so hard it hurts.
A soft gasp from the backseat makes my grip tighten on my own thigh. I don’t turn around. I did that once already. About five minutes ago. Just a glance over my shoulder. Quick. Careless. Her hair was a mess around her shoulders. Golden streaks flashing under passing streetlights. Golden eyes, molten and glassy. Her hand fisted in Graham’s shirt while he bent over her like she was the only thing in the world.
I haven’t looked back since.
Another muffled sound. Almost a laugh. Almost a moan.
I shouldn’t look. I look anyway.
Fuck.
She’s straddling Graham’s thigh now, hips thrusting slow. His hands are on her waist. Her chest is flushed. She drags her mouth down his jaw, and I swear I can hear the slide of skin on skin.
She’s taller than most omegas. I never liked those tiny omegas. They always look like they could break in the wind. Not Lark. She’s sturdy but also feminine. Her figure curves exactly the way I dreamed it would. Lush hips. Narrow waist. Strong thighs that tell me she works out. She moves like she knows her body, controlled even when she's worked up.
I imagine her in the home gym. Hair tied back. Tank clinging to her back. Bracing under a barbell while I step in close to adjust her stance. My hands on her hips. Her breath hitching.
The image is instant and too vivid. I jerk my gaze forward again. My hand is shaking slightly on my thigh. It wasn't doing that before.
Jesus Christ. I’m not doing this.
She smells even stronger now. It crawls under my skin, pools low in my gut, and keeps going. I shift in my seat like that’s going to help. Silas doesn’t say anything, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
I should have held my ground and not come on this fucking trip. They didn’t need me at the nesting store. They don’t need me to see this stupid warehouse. Graham and Silas have it covered.
Another quiet murmur from Graham. He’s so soft with her. Devoted even though he’s known her for a fucking day. It makes my chest feel tight.
She laughs again. It moves through me like a current.
When I walked into that room yesterday, something in me snapped into place. Recognition. Heat. Possession. And panic. Pure cold panic. I’m barely holding it together as it is. I can’t care for an omega. I know what I’ve got to give, and it isn’t enough. Not right now. Maybe never.
Coward.
My alpha only speaks to chastise me, now. I don’t argue with him anymore.
I think about the roast I've been working on. The Ethiopian blend. The notes I need to adjust. Anything that isn't the sound of her voice.
Silas clears his throat. The warehouse comes into view.
Fucking finally.
The second the Rover slows, my hand is already on the door handle. It’s not an ejection seat, but it’ll do. We roll to a stop. I’m out before the engine fully dies. Cold evening air hits my face. I drag in a deep breath. Oil and asphalt, faint river water drifting up from the docks. No caramel-thick air pressing in on me from every side.
Just space.
I shove my hands into my pockets and take a few steps away from the vehicle, putting distance between myself and the scent clinging to the leather seats.
Another slow breath. Better. Not perfect. But better.
The warehouse is bigger than I expect. Cleaner, too.
Metal shelving stretches in long rows. Stacked boxes. Labeled bins. A shipping station at the far end where two betas are scanning barcodes and sealing cartons with quick, practiced motions.
It smells like cardboard and old wood and faint lavender. Two exits I can see. Sprinkler system overhead. Clean floors. No trip hazards, no pooling. Good sight lines between shelving rows.
Lark guides us through each section like she owns the place. Because, of course, she does. Graham is immediately at her side, eyes bright, questions spilling out of him in rapid-fire.
“So companies just… send you products?”
