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She sounds so appalled I almost laugh. Almost tell her I’ve been in these same clothes for close to two weeks. Almost explain how I started with three pairs of leggings and four shirts. I burnt holes in the thighs of one pair of leggings with my hands, so now I only have two.
The contrast between us alone is enough to laugh at. Branwen looks comfortable and stylish in black leggings made of thick, butter-soft fabric that looks a thousand times nicer than mine, a flowing racer-back tank top, and a fluffy, soft oversized cardigan on top. Even her hair’s been washed and styled. It falls in soft, bouncy curls down her back, dark purple and midnight black, shimmering like onyx.
She’s stunning.
And I’m… seconds away from breaking.
Branwen’s face is set in a mask of genuine concern, and when I don’t respond, she stands up with the clear intention of crossing the room to meet me.
“Sit down, Omega,” Gav orders. He’s seated at the head of the table, slathering butter across a perfectly golden piece of toast. His words are a Command, but his tone is… soft. Almost kind.
I’ve never heard him speak like that before.
To be fair, I’ve only ever met the guy twice, though. So what do I know?
Branwen spins toward Gav, shooting a ferocious glare over her shoulder. “Eat shit, you pompous twat.”
She ignores him, crossing and gently taking my hands in hers. “What in seven bloody circles happened in the six hours since I saw you last? You look like rubbish.”
Her concern makes me want to cry. I want to crumble into her arms and tell her everything that’s happened, but I can’t. I won’t give the Alphas in this room the satisfaction of watching me break so easily. I swallow thickly, determined not to let the stinging pressure behind my eyes turn into tears.
It’s just… It’s been so long since anyone’s worried about me.
“Nothing another good night’s sleep in a concrete cell won’t fix,” I quip, trying to make light of the situation. I try to play it off, because there’s nothing she can do to change things, but I’m positive she doesn’t believe a word that comes out of my mouth.
The sound Branwen releases is half snort of laughter, half pissed-off mama bear, and it makes me smile. Then, she wraps her arms around me, pulling me close and refusing to let me go.
I freeze, muscles tensing at the contact before I gradually relax. I fall willingly—happily—into her warmth, soaking up her care like she’s the sun and I haven’t been outside in years.
When’s the last time I was hugged by another woman? I can’t remember.
Before my mother died, probably.
When Branwen finally pulls back, her smile is soft and knowing.
“Come, sit. We’ll get some food and water into you. You’ll feel right as rain in no time.”
She leads me to the table, urging me to take a seat in the chair next to hers. There’s an empty plate in front of me, and a glass of water placed next to it.
I reach for the water, suddenly not caring if I have permission to drink it. I take slow sips, knowing I can’t gulp it down, even though I want to.
The Alphas always make sure I have time to shower, use the restroom, and brush my teeth, but little things like being able to drink water when I’m thirsty?
Safe to say they conveniently forget about those needs. Completely accidental, I’m sure.
After I’ve slaked my thirst, I set the glass back on the table and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
Everyone’s been quiet since Branwen called Gavran a twat, and I’m not sure if that broke all the Alphas in the room or if they’re simply afraid of her.
Possibly both.
“Here, you like eggs, right?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before picking up the platter and spooning a mound of them onto my plate. “What am I saying? Everyone likes eggs. Except this scrambled shite. In Wales, we at least fry the bloody things properly.”
She leans across the table, reaching for the platter of perfectly toasted bread. Branwen frowns at the selection.
“Toast, is it?” She sighs dramatically. “Looks like someone let it sit out in the sun too long and forgot to salt the butter. Still, carbs are carbs.”
She reaches for the hash browns next and shoots Gavran a look that makes it abundantly clear who's to blame for that particular dish.
