Page 11 of Omega’s Fold

He puts the receiver back on the hook.

He stands with his hand on the phone for a second, the palm flat against the plastic, his head down.

Then he lifts his head and he turns around and he sees me.

“How long have you been standing there,” he says. His voice is level.

I say nothing. I don’t think I can. He has taken my breath away.

The alpha and I look at each other across my kitchen.

“Well, apparently, we need to comply with a two-week cohabitation order. I’m not happy about it either. But it’s two weeks. If you have a spare room, I’ll take it and try to stay out of your way.”

I open my mouth, close it again. Something about his scent makes it impossible for words to come out of my mouth.

He can’t stay here. I can’t have him here for two weeks. I don’t think I have a choice.

My only instinct is to run. I need to walk away from this. Get some space between him and me.

I walk past him, intending to go out the other side but he is close. The kitchen is narrow between the table and the counter. There is no polite way to pass him without coming within arm’s reach, and as I go past him his scent hits me again full force, warm and green and him, and I feel my own step falter for half a stride before I get it back under control.

He goes still beside me as I pass.

I make it to the hall. I keep walking.

Behind me, I hear Caleb saying, “I guess I better put you in Mom’s old room then.”

4. Julian

I go outside to collect my overnight bag from the car. We have had a new arrival since my own. A dog, a lean brown mutt with one torn ear, watches me from a patch of shade under the porch without bothering to lift its head.

Behind me, the yard is quiet. Wyatt has walked off again. I think he went toward the barn but I can’t be sure.

I should be annoyed about it. By most social standards, he is being very bad-mannered, but then I am a total stranger who has turned up at his house and insisted that he put me up for two weeks.

So I suppose I can’t complain.

I hear footsteps on the boards. The kid comes out onto the porch and stops at the top of the steps, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He is maybe sixteen or seventeen, lanky in the way boys are when they have shot up and not yet filled out. His hair is the same brown as his brother’s and his eyes are a similar shade of hazel.

This kid’s eyes are watching everything with a steady amusement I do not enjoy being the subject of.

“Caleb,” he says, and offers a hand. “Caleb Briggs.”

I take the hand. “Julian Duffield.”

“Yeah.” His mouth curves up in a smile. “I caught that.”

He nods at the suitcase. “You want a hand with that?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Suit yourself.”

He turns and goes back inside without waiting to see if I follow. I lift the suitcase up the three porch steps, bumping each one, and carry it through the open front door into the house.

The hallway is narrow and dim after the hard light of the yard. The floorboards are worn soft in the middle. A row of hooks on the wall holds three oilcloth coats, the third far too small for either Wyatt or Caleb.

A pair of little muddy sneakers sits under it. The house smells of coffee and of a stew of some kind simmering low, and under both of those, cleanly and inescapably, it smells of Wyatt.