He doesn’t look up. “Apples or bananas?”
I lean against the counter. “Neither.” I snag an orange and then peel it in a spiral. “What’s the plan?”
He wipes the knife clean and then slides it back into the block. His eyes flick up to meet mine. “You’re free to do what you like, within reason.”
“‘Within reason.’” I savor the words, rolling them over my tongue like candy. “Define ‘reason.’”
He shrugs. The motion is almost unguarded. “No running off with any strange alphas. No wild parties. Stay where I can see you.”
“Do you have to see me every minute?”
He straightens, not rising to the bait. “You’re an omega, Helena, and one of high society at that. You know the rules.”
“I’m also a fully grown adult with a graduate degree and a spotless record of public conduct.”
“That’s not what people remember.”
His voice is soft, but the words land with their usual precision. I feel the old frustration building, the urge to rebel just for the sake of it. But then I catch the faint furrow between his brows, and the way his hands flex at his sides, and I realize—he’s as trapped by this arrangement and our untouchable scent match as I am.
Zane always has been.
Which is why we’ve thus far ignored the scent-match between us.
“Fine.” I toss the orange peel into the bin. “Let’s go see the village. I want to smell the air.”
But first I’m putting on a bathing suit under this dress so I can jump right into the sea and forget everything else.
The beach is a perfect crescent, framed by dunes on one side and the stone curve of the old pier on the other. Wind whips off the water. It brings with it gull cries and the stinging perfume of kelp.
I let Zane walk a step behind me, pretending I don’t know he’s shadowing my every move. It’s easier, somehow, to forget we’re not here by accident, to pretend that he’s a fellow tourist or an exiled prince in need of a holiday. Not everything I desire wrapped in an untouchable force.
The boardwalk is quiet but not empty. At the far end, a trio of kids is building a sand fortress with plastic buckets, shrieking whenever the surf threatens their ramparts. There’s an old woman walking her dog, and a couple—hands clasped, heads bent together—tracing slow arcs along the tideline. Everything here moves at half-speed, like the world itself is taking a breath.
I drift toward the little café on the corner, its patio shaded by a battered, blue awning. There are three tables out front with only one of them occupied. The chalkboard sign advertises “Famous Cornish Cream Teas” and something called a “mackerel melt.”
I grin and nudge Zane. “Pick your poison.”
He sniffs, nose wrinkling at the brine. “I’ll pass on the fish.”
“Coward.” I claim a seat facing the water.
He takes the chair beside me and keeps his back to the wall, his eyes flicking from me to the street and back. His vigilance should annoy me, but there’s something comforting about it, too. Like a warm coat you hate but never quite manage to outgrow.
The barista—a kid barely old enough to drive, with hair the color of burnt caramel—brings a menu and flashes me a sunny, not-quite-flirtatious smile. I order a croissant and a coffee. Zane settles for water, and the barista scurries away.
I watch him go, then turn to Zane, arms folded on the table. “Is it always like this here? So peaceful?”
He follows my gaze out to the water. “Sometimes the storms come in so heavy, the whole village shakes. Power cuts, roads washed out, gulls clinging to anything that won’t blow away. Butin early summer, yeah. It’s like this.” He glances at me sidelong. “You’ll hate it after a week.”
I smile. “Bet I won’t.”
He leans back, folding his arms across his chest. “What did you expect, Helena? Monaco? St. Moritz? White-glove galas every night?”
“I expected—” I pause, unsure how to finish. Not Monaco, exactly, but not this, either. Not exile at the edge of the map, surrounded by a chaperone and my own thoughts.
“I expected to be bored,” I settle on, “but I think I might be glad to be bored for once.”
He grunts, but his eyes soften. “You’re not very good at relaxing.”
