13. Victor
Victor
Clara flits around the café like a leaf on the autumn wind. She smiles and laughs and talks to every customer like they’re already her friend. Maybe they are. I wouldn’t know. I don’t know who Clara considers a friend and who she doesn’t.
I’m avoiding her but I can’t stay away from her. Every part of me battles with itself when I’m around her, and it’s killing me. My alpha is very fucking clear. She is our mate. He wants her. He wants her so badly it makes my teeth ache. My cock throbs every time I get close enough to scent her.
But laid over that, like mold on a perfectly symmetrical pumpkin, is me and all my fucked-up baggage. Trust me. I know how fucked up I am.
There’s the reasonable voice in my head, too. The one I ignore for everything. It says my experiences aren’t universal. That just because something happened once doesn’t mean it’ll happen again. That I’m not doomed to misery.
Fuck that voice.
I glance down at the sketch pad in front of me and add some shading to the drawing. The bell over the café door jingles, and in walks Deputy McBadge from the night everything spiraled. He looks even more clean-cut and heroic in daylight. His eyes go straight to Clara.
And, as a man, I don’t blame him. She’s beautiful. Flawless skin, maybe no makeup—or she uses it so well you can’t tell. Curves that dip and swell in all the ri ght places. Thighs peeking out beneath a little skirt that makes me want to sink my teeth into her.
No, as a man, I don’t blame Officer Fuckface at all. But as an alpha? It takes everything in me not to go rip his damn head off.
He shouldn’t be looking at my omega.
Which is, of course, hypocritical as hell.
Like I said—baggage.
Instead of going to the counter, he weaves through too-tight café tables like he owns the place, headed straight for Clara.
He’s got that disgustingly hopeful smile.
When you grow up with a twin who can’t hear well or speak, you get damn good at picking up the same skills.
I don’t have to be close to read their entire conversation.
Small talk. Boring as hell. She’s humoring him.
I’m just about to slip out before she sees me when one word on his lips catches me.
Date.
Now I can’t look away.
Her eyes widen. Her mouth forms a soft, surprised O.
“I—” she stammers, glancing around. But I’ve already moved into the shadows. Some bitter part of me feels vindicated. Another part—some dumb, traitorous piece of my heart, drops like a stone.
She doesn’t know how obvious she is. Or that we’ll notice. The Deputy’s probably been sniffing around for a while. He's safer, more stable. That’s all omegas need, right? Security.
Her scent is nice, sure. But that doesn’t mean anything. There’s no psychic link. No perfect fate-tied person. That’s all bullshit made up by Romance novelists like her. He’s the right choice. She’s going to take it.
And when she doesn’t tell the guys, it’ll be the ammo I need to get Bram to break the lease. Get us the hell away from this psycho omega.
“ No.”
I blink, thinking I misread her lips.
“I’m sorry,” she adds. “I’ve found scent sensitivity.”
The Deputy frowns. His jaw tightens, a flicker of something sharp passing through his eyes before he smooths it away. He exhales, the sound measured, too even, and finally nods.
“I didn’t know,” he says.
She shakes her head, brushing it off.
I can’t watch the rest. My stomach twists. A lead weight settles low and hard.
She can’t actually believe in this. That we could be mates? All of us?
I slide along the edge of the café and push out the front door. The bell above it jingles, too bright against the weight pressing on my chest. Just as I pass the display window, I glance back. She’s helping an elderly man box up his order, her smile soft and easy in a way it never could be with me.
Rain drizzles steady over Main Street. I tug my jacket higher around my neck, sparks from my lighter flaring as I cup it against the wet. Smoke curls up, mixing with the damp air.
For a second, I just stand there under the awning, watching her laugh through the glass. Warm light spills over her like she belongs in it. My reflection in the rain-streaked window is nothing but a shadow.
If she really is my mate… I’ll ruin her.