But I can’t take the feeling I’ve had from the start.
Grace is my omega—ouromega. Even though we pushed her away. Even if that means she ends up in some other alphas’ arms because of it.
I will never meet or scent-match another omega.
It’s Grace. Only Grace.
Which officially makes rejecting her the worst decision of my fucking life.
“I should get going.” I need to get out of here before I completely blow up any chance of reconciliation despite how precarious that already is. “Stay safe, Grace.”
“Thank you, Fowler.”
I don’t turn back to look at her again, just head on back to the truck where the squad’s waiting for me.
Vega’s in the cab behind the wheel. His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Are you good, Murphy?”
“Fine,” I say. “Just tired.”
He grunts and leaves it at that. If I was going to open up about it, we both know it wouldn’t be here in front of the guys.
The ride back to the station is quiet. The city’s asleep and the world keeps moving. At the station, I hang my gear and fill out the call log, hands moving on autopilot while my brain is miles away.
It’s not closure. It’s not even a beginning. But I said what I needed to say, and this time it didn’t kill me.
Small victories. I’ll take what I can get.
CHAPTER 11
GRACE
My phone’s shrill alarm pierces through the veil of sleep. I manage to kill it on the second try, a personal best, but the victory is fleeting as the hangover of last night’s rehearsal rolls over me. It’s been a few days since my fall, but my hip still aches enough to make mornings rough. Hip aside, Reverie is the best exhaustion I’ve ever been grateful to have.
I roll out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen for a glass of water.
A knock sounds at the door. Three short, one long. Charlotte’s knock.
I fish a sports bra from my hamper, step into cleanish leggings, and swing the door open.
Charlotte stands there in full warm-up gear and her hair pulled into a ponytail. “Did you see it?”
“My face? Yeah, it’s rough. Let me get coffee and then you can?—”
“No, Grace.” She pushes past me into the living room, clutching her phone like it’s a crime scene photo. “Did you look at your phone?”
My stomach sinks. “I just woke up. I haven’t looked at anything.”
Charlotte’s thumb skitters across her screen. “Just… here.” She passes me the phone.
I brace myself for a meme about figure-skating. Instead, it’s the home page for Old Harbor University’s news site.
The headline is all-caps, like someone is yelling directly into my cornea: REVERIE ICE SHOW: THIS YEAR’S PRINCESS TAKES A FALL, BUT CAPTURES HEARTS.
I snort. “They can’t possibly mean?—”
“They do.” She’s pacing now across my cheap linoleum floor. “Scroll down.”
The article starts with a typical fluff paragraph—The annual Reverie Ice Show opened this weekend to a packed house, dazzling audiences with high-level skating, fairy-tale magic, and some of the most ambitious choreography in recent memory—and then goes straight for the jugular:
