ISAAC #2
“You’re making that decision for her. You’re calling it protection, but you’re still taking the choice away from our mate.”
My stomach drops. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
He’s got that annoying look on his face like he’s been presented with a problem he doesn’t understand.
One without an obvious solution.
But I don’t want him to fix me. I don’t think I can take it.
“You don’t actually believe that,” he says eventually, almost as if it’s a test.
I let out a humourless laugh. “Right. You and that telepathy. Thank fuck for you.”
“You’re acting like you’re some burden she has to carry,” he says carefully.
I roll my eyes. “We both know our—your girl has enough burdens to carry. She doesn’t need another.”
“I think you’ve convinced yourself she’s happier not knowing.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he steamrolls over me, refusing to let me butt in.
“I think you’ve convinced yourself that you’re protecting her by staying away.”
Still no chance to argue. No escape from any of it.
“And I think if you were being completely honest, you’d admit that you’re terrified she’ll look at you differently once she knows.”
I hate him.
I hate this conversation.
Most of all, I hate that some stupid, traitorous part of me feels relieved that someone has finally seen me.
Seen the ugly bits I keep hidden. The pathetic bits I dress up as selflessness.
The truth hidden under it all.
“I don’t know when I’m going to tell her.” I keep the if silent.
Evander studies me for a second, but then nods. “Okay. Tell me about Brett.”
He’s not pleased, but he’s willing to accept that for now. It makes everything worse.
If he were still angry, I could argue. If he were judgmental, I could dismiss him.
Instead, he’s just… moving on.
And that leaves me to stew on his words. The only thing worse than being alone with my thoughts is being alone with Evander’s, too.
I give him the Brett update. Accountant trainee, queried expenditure, all the thrilling shit that usually keeps us employed.
Evander nods, making a few notes. “Perfect. Thanks for handling that.”
“Not like I had a choice,” I say, trying to tease.
Based on the narrowed eyes, I don’t think it worked.
“Seems like there’s enough of that going around,” he bites back.
Cunt.
I shove my chair back properly and get up. I grab my jacket and throw it on in a hurry.
“Where are you going?” Evander demands.
“I’ve got work to do. You’re all caught up, so you’ve got no use for me right now.”
“Isaac—”
“I’ve got work to do,” I repeat firmly.
He sighs, but I stride out of our shared office, and I don’t look back.
Sterling is standing in the corridor and gives me a nod as I pass him. I don’t return it.
He’s an interfering cunt as well, and I don’t care for making small talk right now.
If I stay here another minute, there’s a very real chance I’ll do something stupid.
Somehow, despite everything, I don’t realise where my feet are taking me until I’m already halfway to Cassidy’s office.
By the time I realise where I am, it’s too late to pretend my body doesn’t know how to find her when the rest of me is falling apart.
I want her.
So fucking badly.
I stop outside the Fashion Department, staring at the glass doors like they might tell me what the fuck I’m doing.
I consider turning around. I genuinely do. Then someone exits the department carrying three garment bags and holds the door open for me.
The universe has spoken. Decision made.
I mutter a thank you and step inside.
The familiar scents hit immediately. Fabric. Fresh coffee. Expensive perfume. The faint metallic tang of equipment.
But none of it is her.
The door to her office is open, and I catch sight of her before she notices me.
Annoyingly, everything inside me relaxes the second her scent reaches me.
Strawberry cream. Vanilla musk.
Strawberry shortcake.
She’s sitting cross-legged on her chair, her shoes abandoned beside her desk. Her brown hair is pulled into a loose knot atop her head that’s already halfway to surrendering completely, honey-toned strands escaping to frame her face.
The morning sunlight spills through the windows behind her, catching against the glossy lengths and turning them almost gold.
She bites absently at her bottom lip as she concentrates, completely unaware she’s doing it, which somehow makes it worse.
I’ve spent months trying not to notice things like that.
Trying and failing.
Her green eyes are narrowed at whatever catastrophe is happening on her screen, lashes fanning against her cheeks every time she blinks.
One hand taps a pencil against the desk, while the other twists a colour sample between neatly manicured fingers.
Colour samples are spread across every available surface, although I have no idea why, considering she seems to be drawing something.
Fabric swatches cover half her desk. More are piled on the spare chairs. A small mountain has somehow formed beside her keyboard.
This chaos on anyone else would kill me off, but on her, it’s adorable.
She’s tiny in the oversized office chair, practically swallowed by it, delicate wrists emerging from the sleeves she’d rolled up earlier.
Somehow, she manages to look professional and completely incapable of finding anything she put down more than five minutes ago.
She’s frowning at her monitor, muttering under her breath as she sketches something out.
“This is ridiculous,” she says with a sigh.
She puts the pencil down, stretches, and reaches for her mug.
The movement pulls her shirt taut across soft curves before she slumps back down again.
She must find it empty because she groans and looks personally offended by the discovery.
Fuck, she’s adorable.
I snort, and her head jerks up. For a second, panic flashes across her face before she realises it’s me.
Then she smiles like she’s happy I’m here. It loosens some of the tension I’m carrying, and I don’t hesitate before entering her office and closing the door behind us.
“Morning, Isa,” she says brightly.
Isa.
Fuck.
“Morning, shortcake,” I murmur, giving her a half-smile. “How has your day been so far?”
“Surprisingly good,” she admits, looking down at her computer as a flush blooms down her throat.
Her scent sweetens, vanilla musk warming beneath the sugar, and some awful part of me wants to be the reason it keeps doing that.
“I didn’t expect to get to see you this early,” she says. “Van mentioned he was running late, so I figured you’d both be busy.”
I shake my head, not wanting to get onto the subject of my best friend, the traitor.
“What’s going on in here, hm?” I ask, moving towards her desk. “Can I sit?”
She nods. “Sorry, it’s a little… all over the place. Harlan’s given me a task.”
Probably to hide from her, if I’m being honest.
Asshole.
Cassie starts gathering swatches from the spare chair, stacking them into neat little piles that somehow make the chaos look worse.
“I’m sorry,” she says, blushing as she gestures to the now empty chair.
Her toenails are painted glittery silver, which feels like Cassie trying to be bold while pretending she isn’t.
“It’s not something you need to apologise for. I’m the one invading your office,” I tell her, easing into the seat before she can say sorry again. “Besides, I’ve seen worse.”
She gives me a suspicious look, moving back to her seat. “Where?”
“Evander’s office, every time he says he has a new system to trial.”
Her mouth twitches. “I’m sure he does have a system.”
“Evander’s system is always just random piles. He calls them systems because he’s allergic to anything that exists outside a spreadsheet.”
A laugh slips out of her before she can stop it, soft and bright enough to make something behind my ribs loosen.
There she is.
That’s my girl.
No. Not mine.
Fucking hell, Isaac.
She tucks one bare foot beneath her thigh, still smiling as she reaches for the nearest sample, and the way her fingers test the fabric like she’s choosing something for a nest should not affect me the way it does.
But when an omega picks fabrics, next comes the nest, and, well—no, Isaac, she’s not fucking yours.
“Harlan wants more palette options for the client’s amended seasonal direction.”
“That sounds… like something you’d enjoy,” I offer, and she grins at me like I’ve handed her something instead of simply noticed.
“I can’t lie, it’s very fun.” Her smile widens, then falters, her eyes dropping to her paper, and her shoulders hunching in on themselves.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, leaning over the desk to get a little closer to her.
“Nothing I want to talk about,” she says softly. “What about you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I lie.
Her brows lift, and although I don’t like that she’s taking an interest in me, I appreciate that she doesn’t look as upset anymore.
I sigh. “That was unconvincing, wasn’t it?”
She grimaces, offering me a half shrug. “Sorry.”
I adore her.
Cassie sets the fabric down and turns fully towards me. “Was it something with Evander?”
I stare at her. “Why would you assume that?”
“Because I know he came to find you after he left me, and that was only twenty minutes or so before you arrived,” she says. “The probability that someone else ruined your day in that time is quite slim.”
“And you know my day is ruined because?”
“You’re doing the thing I normally do. Only better,” she admits, and there’s a softness here I wasn’t expecting. “Like someone has personally offended your entire sense of emotional order.”
I blink quickly, then sigh.
She flushes immediately, scent sweetening with embarrassment, strawberry cream blooming in the small office. “Sorry. That was… crossing a line.”
“No,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be. “No, shortcake. There’s no line you can cross with me.”
And that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it?
Her shoulders ease, but the concern stays in place.
That’s the problem with Cassie. She doesn’t just notice people’s problems. She makes room for them in her schedule before the person can even work out how to ask.
It’s part of what has made me fall for her.
Equally, it’s what makes this impossible.