Page 12 of Omega’s Forward

Neither of us says a word. Thirty seconds of shared air and the room already smells like the two of us. It’s that fast.

My mouth floods. Lower down, my body starts reacting, that warm loosening I have felt exactly once before in my life, with this same man standing in the doorway of my father’s office. I breathe shallow, through my mouth. It didn’t help then either.

He looks at the bed once. Then at me. His face is the worst part. He looks stricken. Pupils blown, jaw tight, chest moving. If he looked smug I could work with smug.

He shifts his weight forward, half an inch. I watch him catch himself and stop. I am counting the steps between us.

One clear thought gets through from a long way off: two weeks of this is going to be a catastrophe.

I’ve not seen him since that first disastrous meeting. I had a notification from the Bureau that he had requested my phone number but I refused to authorize its release.

The Bureau can play its part here. If it wants to insist on us following its pathway, we can. I’m not going outside of its rules and doing whatever it is that Callahan wants. The Bureau might not like it, but its sheer bureaucracy is going to work in my favor. I’m going to use the damned place like a shield.

“Mr. Rourke — may I call you Everett?” Callahan begins. His voice is low, almost a growl. It sends a shiver running through me.

“No.”

He almost visibly startles and I’m unexpectedly pleased. He didn’t expect that.

“I need to be clear that I have no intention of completing this match,” I say. “I will comply with requirements because that is the easiest route out of this. But it will go no further.”

He looks as if I’ve punched him in the face, which is funny because I’ve seen him take actual punches with a lot less emotion than he’s looking at me with right now.

I study his big broad face. He’s genuinely surprised. He thought I was going to fold like a good little omega the moment that I picked up his scent. Typical alpha.

He might smell like heaven itself, but that doesn’t mean he is any different to the rest of them.

The second knock arrives, snapping me out of it. Callahan turns to face the window.

I open the door, my mouth tight.

The man in the corridor is a slightly built beta with a leather folio under one arm and the durable good cheer of someone who has done a thousand of these.

“Mr. Rourke. David Sun, Omega Match Bureau.” He steps inside, and I watch our combined scent reach him. He looks pleased. Sicko. “And Mr. Callahan is here already. Wonderful. Shall we sit?”

We sit. Sun takes the desk chair, turned around to face the room. I take the near end of the sofa. Callahan folds himself into the armchair by the window, which is too small for him.

“Normally,” Sun says, opening the folio, “I’d begin with a formal introduction, but I believe you two have already met in person.”

Callahan’s eyes snap to me. They’re a startling blue. I look away.

Sun continues, “Even so, would you like me to take a photograph of this moment? People like to have a memento. You might like to frame it later.”

“No photographs,” I say.

“So noted.” He uncaps a pen. “I’d also recommend a handshake.”

Callahan is already leaning forward, one enormous hand half extended. He is smiling. Actually smiling, like the office and the scream and the get out never happened. Like he has been looking forward to this.

I am on my feet moving back. I know why Sun wants this. He wants us to touch. That’s the worst thing we could do. “I’d rather not.”

Callahan’s hand withdraws. His face closes. “Sure,” he says, flat.

Watching it happen is like watching a light go out. Good, I tell myself. He arrived open, friendly, ready to make the best of this, and that is exactly what I cannot afford.

“It isn’t personal.” It is entirely personal. If that hand closes around mine in this sealed room, I cannot warrant what happens in the thirty seconds that follow.

“Perfectly usual,” Sun says, serene, writing something down. “Plenty of pairs prefer to pace themselves.”