“How often do you come up here?” West frowns.
“Around once a week or so, but usually we bring him groceries.”
“And you have no ideawhyhe came out here?”
“It’s not our place to judge how a man deals with his grief,” Christopher nearly snaps. “His wife left him, and now hisdaughter doesn’t even call. Give him some grace.” He pauses as we pull up to an actual log cabin in the middle of the forest, only a beat-up old pickup in front of it. “There’s actually…one last thing you should know about Roland.”
Sam’s brow furrows as he parks and turns around. “And what would that be?”
“Roland…he’s been self-medicating since he was a teenager to keep everyone thinking he was a beta, but he’s actually…an omega.”
twenty-eight
Jo
Amale omega?
I’ve never met one in real life, and they are rare as hell.
“What the fuck?” Sam snaps, his anger coming out full-force. “This is something you should have told us about!”
“Language,” Whitney chides, shaking her finger. “We are only warning you because he does have a…scent. His body stopped reacting to the suppressants a few months ago. Not even his daughter knows he’s an omega.”
“I…” I shake my head, at a loss for words. “This issonot what I was expectin’. I’ve never met a male omega.”
“It…caused some issues when he started to date Adela’s mother.” She leans forward, like she’s about to tell the world’s biggest secret. “She was analpha.”
Welp, that explains it. Female alphas are just about as rare as male omegas.
Suddenly, I have a feeling I know exactly what Isaac Thornfield and Roland Olivier had their argument about. If he found out the best friend he always thought was a beta was actually the designation he had been raised to hate…I don’t see how that could go well.
I open my mouth to say something, but then Sam is hissing, “Shit!” and putting his arms over my head. Heart pounding, I glance out the front windshield to see a man standing there in ratty jeans and a T-shirt, a damn shotgun aimed at the car.
It’s nearly impossible to tell what he’s yelling about, but I think I get the gist.
He thinks we’re intruders.
Which, I guess, we are.
But then Christopher throws the door open. “Roland! Roland, it’s us! It’s just us! Put the damn gun down!”
Despite his haggard appearance, Roland really is quite pretty. His lips are lifted in a snarl as he barks, “Who the hell are they?”
He must’ve been pretty young when he had Adela, considering he can’t be much older than forty.
“You know,” Whitney huffs, shuffling out of the backseat, “if you hadn’t refused to have a cell phone, we could have had West call you. But instead, you made us trek all the way out to the middle of the forest like we’re…” she lifts her hands in frustration, “mountaineers!”
“Why would West need me?” He frowns, the shotgun lowering slightly.
West opens his door. “Mr. Olivier, I need to speak to you, please. It’s about Adela.”
Roland’s face pales as the gun clatters to the ground. “Addie? Is she okay? Is the baby okay?”
Well, this is not the reaction of a man who sent his daughter away for being pregnant.
I try my luck, stepping out of the car. “She’s okay—for now. But we—Westreally needs to speak to you.”
West’s parents look shocked as hell. “What baby?” Whitney hisses to her husband.
