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He turns his head and presses his lips to the pulse point on my wrist, drawing my attention to the fact that I still have my hand pressed against his forehead, as if I’m worried he’ll strike if I release him.
“That’s okay, cherrybomb,” he murmurs against my skin. “I can wait. I can be patient if I have to be.” Something about his tone tells me he’s lying through his teeth right now to make me comfortable. And I can’t appreciate it more. “My pack mates are fuck ups.”
A surprised giggle bursts from me and he grins, curling his hand around my wrist to pull my palm from his face as he settles more fully against me. Not in a sexual way, but to soothe me, wrap me up and make me feel safe. And damn if I don’t melt under him into a puddle of Sadie goo.
“It’s the truth.” His fingers play with the end of my braid. “They never should have left you alone if you didn’t want it.” His forehead kisses mine. “I promise I won’t do the same thing, Sadie. I’ll be right here for as long as you want me. Okay?”
I nod. “Okay.”
Swift curls his arms around me, still laying on top of me, and even though I should be uncomfortable as hell, my eyelids droop, and in moments I’m asleep surrounded by the scent of coconut, sea salt and sunshine.
Chapter 9: In which I have to face the consequences of my actions
I wake up alone the next morning, and although I know it’s ridiculous, I feel a pang in my chest. The newly awakened omega in me can’t help but feel rejected that I’m not with my pack, with my bonded mate. Even Swift apparently didn’t want to stay until morning, even though he promised me he would.
I roll onto my back, taking the blanket with me to keep my breasts covered. The remnants of my crop top are still tangled around my shoulders, but obviously the ruined fabric isn’t doing much to protect the titties.
Why I want them covered, just in case, is absurd as well. They’ve made it clear I’m going to sleep alone, wake up alone, be alone.
That’s fine. Totally flipping fine. I don’t give a shit.
Because even though half of me is begging to go find our pack, the other half of me—the one I’ve been a lot fucking longer—doesn’t really want them. I mean, yes, when I was a teenager, before I very much did not present as an omega, I imagined what it would be like to be an omega. Everyone one does. Or at least everyone who doesn’t already know if they’re an alpha or an omega does. Those of us that are solidly beta always imagine what being one of the other designations would be like.
So I’ve imagined being an omega. Going to one of the omega academies scattered around the country, learning things like managing pack dynamics and nesting and how best to care for your alphas. I’ve thought about attending one of the omega conventions where packs can sign up for thirty minutes of an omega’s time and what it would be like to be courted, to be coveted.
But I gave up on all of that a long time ago. I’m a beta. Have always been a beta.
None of this was in my future. None of it should be in my future.
What should be is countless one-night stands until I find a beta that doesn’t make me want to tear my hair out—Ethan’s blue eyes flitter through my mind—one that I can actually imagine having a life with, and then I’d get married and maybe pop out a beta or two and hope like hell whatever sickness I had when I was younger isn’t hereditary.
But there’s no guarantee of that. Hence, why I don’t actually date people, I don’t make connections. I don’t do relationships. Sure, I’m on birth control, and I make sure anyone I have sex with—last night excluded because I was obviously temporarily insane—wears a condom.
I don’t want kids. I don’t want to pass on years of doctor’s visits and blood transfusions and medications onto some poor unnamed child, and I don’t want my husband or partner to deal with it, either.
It’s easier this way.
With the reminder of just how much I fucked up last night fresh in my mind, I roll out of bed and bring the blood covered sheet with me. A glance in the hallway shows it’s empty, so I make a dash for the bathroom, where I take a quick shower to clean off Swift’s blood and my slick.
I pull on jeans and an oversized cropped t-shirt. I scrape my hair into a messy bun and then grab a pair of socks and my white high top Nikes before heading into the rest of the house.
I’d hoped that I’d gotten up early enough to slip out without anyone noticing, but three members of the pack already occupy open concept living space. Swift is in the kitchen, ingredients, bowls and measuring spoons scattered over the island. I’m assuming he’s making breakfast, but I can’t figure out what it is. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of low slung gray sweatpants that should be fucking illegal. But even though there’s no fabric on the top part of his body, there isn’t an inch of naked skin. Every bit of Swift, from his neck to his fingers, to his abs, hips and I’m sure farther down under that gray fabric, is covered in ink. Barbells glint from his nipples and, holy shit, he’s even sexier than I thought.
I drag my gaze away from him to Logan, sitting on the couch with a mug in one big hand and a tablet in the other. His glasses are on and his red hair is sticking up, either from sleep or from someone running their hands through it. He’s also shirtless, his freckled skin and a few tattoos on display, and wearing a pair of blue plaid pajama pants. There’s a furrow between his brows at whatever he’s reading, an intense look of concentration on his face.
The last member of the pack present is the one I want to see the least. Maddox slumps at the island, a laptop in front of him. His hair darkened with moisture, clinging to his forehead. His tan skin flushed. He’s wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a tight tank top, damp with sweat. There’s a pair of running shoes on his feet, and based on the thick green drink in front of him, he’s already worked out for the day and is in a recovery period.
Swift sings under his breath while he dices green onions. “She’s my cherry pie. Cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise. Tastes so good, makes a grown man cry. Sweet cherry pie.”
“Will you shut the fuck up,” Maddox grumbles, from where he’s slumped over a stool on the kitchen island. “We get it. You ate out the new omega last night and she tasted like cherries.”
My brows arch and my cheeks heat, even as his words slap me in the face. The new omega. New. Implying that there have been more. That there are still more, maybe. I have the brief thought that they put me in that tiny room so far away from them because they already have an omega upstairs. One that’s been here longer, that Maddox likes more than me, and the beginning of a whine sounds from my chest before I smother it.
But not fast enough. They hear it.
All three of their heads whip in my direction. The stool scrapes across the floor as Maddox stands abruptly. Logan is a little more leisurely about it, but his light green eyes are entirely focused on me.
Swift gets to me first. Wrapping me up in his tattoo covered arms, his lips pressing into my forehead as he rocks me back and forth gently. “What’s wrong, Cherrybomb?”
