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Both with Craig and with me.
Why is Orion tolerating us?
His word should be law. That’s what I was taught. As long as you have a reputable pack—not some mafia, underground, slavery nightmare—the omega is king or queen of the roost.
But with Orion pulling back from me, I keep it light. “Craig sucks at grocery shopping.”
Orion snorts, tension easing. “Yeah. I mean, I love sour cream and onion, but chips and dips? Not a food group. And downstairs is always in shambles.”
“You don’t have a cleaning staff?” I ask as Orion leads me past the kitchen, into a huge sunken living room filled with masculine leather sofas that reek like the pack and have me twitching to launch myself into the scattered cushions.
“I hate having anyone in the house.”
I wince. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine now.” He shows me the remotes and how to work the TV. “This is where we hang when everyone’s home, which these days is never.”
“You’re always alone?”
“Just me and my buddy Craig.” He jams the remote back into its charger cradle. “I’m banned from HQ until my perfume’s under control.”
Biting my lip, I can’t help giving him a sniff. I’ve grown up around so many crazed omegas, I have a good sense of where they are in their cycles. There’s this sharp, needy undertone that makes me sneeze when one’s edging to their heat.
It’s harder to tell with Orion because I’ve never met an omega who smells so fucking delicious, but if I push past the yummy, coat-me-in-that-shit apple amazingness, there’s a subtle sharpness that makes my nose itch. “When was your last heat?”
“Ten months ago.”
I suck in a breath. “That’s too long.”
“Tell me about it.” He ruffles his hair, rucking up the curls.
Males should cycle through their heat every three to six months, at most. Orion’s coming up on a full year.
As the world champion of avoiding heats, I’m also pretty fucking epic at diagnosing them. “How many hours of omega classes have you taken?”
“Two,” he says with a bashful rub of his neck.
Two!
With all the hormone shit we have to deal with, that’s not even an intro to omega lore.
Orion needs my help.
But does he want it?
“Could I maybe give you some advice? I swear I’m not poaching your territory. Just, I know all the omega stuff, and I know what it’s like, and—”
“Lilah.” Orion reaches in, silencing me by softly cupping my cheek. “I’ll take any help you can give. I’ve been going insane.”
“I’ll help,” I say before I can question why I’m volunteering myself for more trouble.
His touch melts my brain.
Orion shows me the rest of the ground floor. There’s a conservatory with a grand piano that gives me flashbacks of music lesson hell, and a huge bar that connects to the living room and patio where I can picture basking in the warm sun while the alphas rub me down in oil.
I’m swaying on my feet by the time we hit the stairway.
“Go rest. I’ll show you the upstairs later.” Orion escorts me back to the basement. “You sure you don’t need anything?”
