Page 28 of Omega’s Fold

“He’s a grown man,” she says. “He has a car. If he wants to leave, he can leave. I am not running a bed and breakfast for government alphas, Wyatt Briggs, and I am not taking him off your hands so you can pretend this isn’t happening.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“Good,” she says. “Then you can figure out what you want to do about it like a grown man yourself.”

She pats my arm once, gentle, and goes back into the hall to find the boys.

The drive back is worse.

I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is. Finally, after what seems like years, I pull into the yard behind the barn.

I am out of the cab before he has his hand on the door handle.

I go straight for the house. I hear the passenger door open behind me and I hear his quiet footsteps on the gravel and I do not turn. I go up the porch steps two at a time. I go through the mudroom. I leave my boots on, which I never do. I go through the kitchen and I head for the stairs.

I make it as far as the sink.

I stop at the sink because my body stops me. I put both hands on the edge of the counter and I stand there and I breathe. I am sweating so much that my hair is wet at the temples. My shirt is sticking to my back. I turn the faucet on. I cup my hands under it and I splash it on my face.

The boys’ voices ring out, Matthew loud, Caleb quieter. They come in and go up the stairs, feet banging. They come back down minutes later with bags. The front door goes again and the engine from Donna’s truck starts up.

They are gone.

It is just me and him.

I straighten up. I turn around.

He is standing in the kitchen doorway. His face is very carefully still. His pupils are very large.

I take a step toward the doorway. I mean to go past him to the stairs. I mean to go up to my room and shut the door and put my head under a cold shower and stay there until my body gives up on me or until the house catches fire, whichever comes first.

I take a step. He does not move out of the way.

I brush against his shoulder.

That is all it is. A brush. My shoulder against his shoulder. Nothing. Less than nothing.

I stop.

He stops breathing. I can hear it. I can hear the small catch of him, the pause, and then the slow careful letting out of air through his teeth.

I turn my head.

He turns his.

We are very close. I can see the line of his jaw. I can see the place on his throat where his pulse is beating hard under the skin. I can see his mouth.

His hand comes up and he puts it, flat, on the side of my neck.

His palm is warm.

I make a sound. I don’t know what the sound is. It is not a word.

I kiss him.

His mouth is hot. His other hand comes up and finds my waist and his fingers close on the flannel of my shirt, a handful of fabric, and he pulls me in. I let him.

My hands find the front of his sweater. I pull. I push him back against the doorframe. He makes a sound into my mouth that is low and surprised and pleased.