Page 53 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe because I’m tired and I talk too much when I’m tired.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close.

She finishes her last sandwich, then crumples the wrapper and pushes to her feet.

“I should go. I have an early day tomorrow.”

“Of course.” I stand too, gathering the empty wrappers and bottles.

We make our way through the building and stop at the elevators.

“Good night, Sophie,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”

Her eyes soften, just slightly, before she looks away.

“Good night, Ethan.”

She steps into the elevator and the doors close behind her. I watch them for a moment longer than I should, then turn and head for the back entrance.

Ethan.

She said my name. Not Mr. Brooks. My actual name.

The sound of my name from her lips makes my chest tighten, then a warmth spreads through me, building, making me catch my breath.

I shake my head, trying to clear it.

She’s here to do a job. Nothing more.

But as I walk back toward the house, the night air cool against my face, I can’t stop thinking about dark eyes and the way she sat on that cold floor and ate her sandwich, not giving a damn how she looked.

It made me feel like I was getting a glimpse of the real her for the first time.

Which, considering that I’m supposed to be the sensible one, makes no sense at all.

CHAPTER 16

Max

I’m eight years old, standing in the doorway of my father’s study, watching him sign documents at his desk. The lamp casts harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines around his mouth.

“What do you want, Maxwell?”

His voice is cold, like always, making my throat tighten the moment I hear it. I open my mouth to answer, but no sound comes out.

“Speak up, boy. I don’t have all night.”

But I can’t speak. I’m frozen, my feet rooted to the floor, my tongue heavy and useless in my mouth. The shadows in the room grow longer, darker, reaching toward me like grasping fingers.

“Worthless,” he says, turning back to his papers. “Just like your mother.”

I wake with a gasp, my heart slamming against my ribs.

For a moment, I don’t know where I am. Then the details filter in. The familiar weight of my blankets, the soft glow of moonlight through the curtains, the faint smell of woodsmoke drifting up from the fireplace downstairs.

Home. I’m home.

He’s been dead for twelve years. Why does this dream still come for me, every fucking year like clockwork?