Page 6 of The Omega’s Nest

He blushes but appears to be an immovable object.

“I’ll see you guys later,” he calls out. His eyes never leave mine.

“You should go with them,” I say, wincing at the taunts and catcalls coming from his friends as they move towards the stairs.

“What the fuck did I just say?” He’s angry again, but that blush stains his skin in the most enticing way, making him look younger. Is he embarrassed? He smells it. It’s me. They almost saw him with me.

“Go, Leo,” I say and meet his eyes.

“No, damn you, Addie. No. I’m not leaving you—”

“I offered!” I burst out, surprised by the anger and hurt exploding out of me. But maybe I shouldn’t be. If he’d accepted me when we were seventeen, I wouldn’t be here. And it’s not his fault—he had no obligation to accept me. He couldn’t have known I’d be left without an alpha and in this situation not a year later. And I don’t want a fucking pity bond, but I can’t stand this chivalrous bullshit from him when he rejected me.

“What?” he asks, sounding painfully unsure.

“I presented for you and you didn’t … you didn’t want it!” My chest heaves and I know I’m being way too loud, but clearly I’ve not dealt with my feelings about this.

He gapes at me. In fact, he looks a lot like he did when I presented my throat for him—dropped my head, arched my neck, met his eyes. It was a classic and traditional invitation to court me.

“I didn’t …” He swallows a few times. I can’t hear this.

“I know you didn’t, so just—”

“No, that’s not what I’m about to say, let me finish—”

“Everything all right in here?” Tristan asks, the curtain parting to reveal his hastily thrown on clothes, sweat-soaked pale skin, and the looming presence of Benji behind him.

Fear pummels me. If Benji hurts Leo, I’ll never forgive myself. Every time Benji has deigned to intervene, it’s gotten violent. He might not be mated to me, but I am his property by law, and he doesn’t like anyone going beyond the boundaries of the permissible with his property.

Leo’s eyes widen at my scent.

“Please go,” I whisper.

He clenches his jaw but doesn’t move.

“Please,” I repeat as Benji nudges Tristan aside and stalks into the room.

“He was just leaving,” I say to Benji. “Everything’s cool. We were just arguing about football. He thinks we’ve got a shot in the World Cup, ha ha.” That’s how I say it—ha ha—Jesus, an actor I am not.

At least Benji scoffs and some of the tension from his side leaks out of the room. “No one is beating France.”

“Right?” Tristan pipes up, clearly picking up on the need for this charade.

Leo hasn’t stopped looking at me. His nostrils flare with his harsh breaths, and his scowl is terrifying.

“Please,” I try to communicate with a look.

Leo takes a step back, his face contorting with pain, but he doesn’t leave.

He unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, yanks it over his head and throws it at me. He does it in such a blur of movement, all I can do is catch it while Benji frowns between us.

Leo opens his mouth, closes it, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I was right about his size—the singlet he’s wearing does nothing to hide how cut he is. He’s got a new, sole tattoo of a surfboard tangled in what I think are cherry blossoms on his bicep. All I can do is stare at the expanse of him.

His scent pummels me—heartbreak, anger, resignation. It feels like I’m caught in a set and can’t paddle my way out, can only duck, point the nose down, cling to my board, and hold my breath through each wave of his feelings.

He spins and disappears out the door, his scent trailing in his wake.

“What the fuck was that about?” Benji asks gruffly.