28. Emmeline
28
Emmeline
M y heart is thudding in time with each step that I take through the foyer. Logically, I know that not a single person is actually sparing me more than a passing glance, but it feels like there’s so many eyes burning into me.
My stomach churns, and I can’t tell whether this is because I’ve not been around my mate’s scents since I left my house an hour ago or if it’s anxiety.
Probably both.
Sterling dropped me home last night, very reluctantly, and it’s been a rough morning. The gift bag full of clothes from them didn’t help nearly as much as their presence. I’ll have to admit it to Oscar when he asks, although I hope he doesn’t.
My pack made me promise to call if I needed them. Is it my fault that their request was vague and didn’t specify in what circumstances I should reach out?
No.
But was I lying to myself when I repeatedly refused to call them when I vomited? When I spent most of the night tossing and turning, sweating from all of my pores?
Yes.
I’m a mess. The light seems to get brighter as I walk, and it’s awful being in such a vulnerable position.
My breathing is unsteady, my eyes trained to the ground, as I do my best to avoid drawing any extra attention to myself. I feel like I have a giant neon flashing sign over my head, letting everyone know what has happened since I was last here.
The elevator opens as I arrive, and I bustle into the back. I do my best to avoid being touched, but the moment I rest against the back wall, a hand brushes against my own.
I freeze, my eyes darting up in panic, and it’s only when a familiar pair of grey eyes meet mine that I relax. There’s no scent attached to my alpha, unfortunately, and I have to physically stop myself from leaning in towards him.
We’re not at home. This is work.
“Good morning,” Oscar says, smiling at me. I freeze when not one but three members of staff turn to look at us. I tug my fingers away and duck my head.
I don’t know how to reply. I don’t even know what to say.
My heart is hammering so loudly that I can’t hear anything over it. Not the usual quiet murmurings from other staff members or the noises from the lift. I can’t move, I can’t breathe, I can’t do anything.
I peek at the numbers, watching them rise, as the lift moves up each floor. We come to a stop on the floor two below mine, and a few people get off. I’m so tense as I stand here, my hand clutching the strap on my bag tightly, as the doors close once more.
The elevator moves, rising up to my floor, and yet, when it dings, I make a move to get out, and I’m stopped. Oscar clutches at my hand tightly. My eyes dart to his, and the intense look on his face takes my breath away.
Fuck.
He’s beautiful. So sharp, so striking.
But today—he’s my boss . He’s not my scent match, he’s not my packmate—he’s my superior.
“We’ve got a meeting this morning, Miss Whitmore,” Oscar drawls, and I can’t tell if he’s being deliberately bland or if he’s just as unbothered as he seems.
I nod, my legs trembling, and I stay silent. I still don’t trust myself to speak. The air seems to thicken, my scent gland pulsing as my scent tries to perfume underneath the scent neutraliser that I put on this morning.
Announcing my pregnancy like this is the very last thing that I’d want to do, but, goodness, my body doesn’t seem to have gotten the same memo.
I’m just a desperate, hormonal being unable to control myself around him.
Around them.
“I’ll get what’s-his-face to bring us something to drink,” he says. My eyes widen. Is he referring to his assistant here? Does he really not know their name?
Fuck me.
I stand rooted to the spot as the entire lift clears out, his hold still firmly on my arm. Knowing Oscar the way I do, I know he’s not going to relinquish it unless I pull away.
Luckily for him, it’s only the two of us left in the elevator as the doors close, so I don’t bother. Plus, the smile he gifts me is worth every bit of my anxiety.
“How are you feeling? How is your anxiety? What about your nausea?” he asks, tugging me closer to him. My arm brushes against his chest, and goosebumps appear over my skin as my scent glands pulse in eager anticipation. “Have you vomited this morning? Have you managed to eat?”
Each breath I take feels empty, the absence of his scent hitting harder than I thought it would. He’s so sweet, so concerned, and my heart feels so nice and full.
So full of warmth.
But there’s a desperate longing inside of me for that one final connection. We don’t have a bond, not one I can rely on in these kinds of moments, and his scent is the next best thing.
Without it, it feels wrong .
“Did you get much sleep? How was it being in your nest alone last night? Did you cry? Were you able to get comfortable?” He gulps in air and spews out another bunch of questions over and over.
I don’t have the chance to answer one, and I don’t even try. He’s clearly been building these worries up all morning long—maybe even all night. I can’t be certain, but I think the best thing to do is to let him get it off his chest before trying to calm him down.
The elevator comes to another stop, the ding echoing through me, and I’m both relieved and anxious as the doors open, and Paxton is standing there waiting. His scent is strong and comforting, and I breathe in the cinnamon and vanilla like I’m a dying woman in need of oxygen.
I’m sure the black spots in my vision are due to the hyperventilating, but I don’t even care. Wearing a charcoal suit with gorgeous matching loafers, Paxton’s grin is the second most handsome part of him today. His dark chestnut hair is brushed out of his face, and his deep brown eyes are sparkling in the light.
“Morning, little treasure,” Paxton says with a grin. “What do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
He moves his foot forward, holding the elevator open. Oscar’s grip on my hand tightens ever so slightly, and I feel trapped. Sure, I should probably be anxious. Maybe even upset.
But all I feel is relief.
“Aren’t you forgetting Emme’s rule?” Oscar asks, and, if I’m not mistaken, that’s taunting I can hear in his voice.
“Rule?” Paxton’s smirk widens, the sparkle in his eyes making them almost appear like they’re dancing.
“Not to do anything improper at work.”
Paxton’s scent seems to thicken, every slight inhale comes with a sharp and comforting burn from the cinnamon. He seems to stand taller, his already broad shoulders impossibly thicker.
Fuck me.
“Huh, I’m not sure I actually remember agreeing to that rule,” Paxton says with a shrug. “What do you think, Emme, baby? Did I agree?”
“Um,” I choke out, my skin heating up, as my head remains foggy.
“You didn’t. In fact, I know that none of us did,” Oscar says, and, for the first time this morning, he sounds something other than indifferent.
This time, he’s amused.
“That’s a technicality,” I whisper, my eyes darting over Oscar’s face. He smirks, and I shiver under the weight of his stare.
“A technicality is a good thing when it works out in my favour, little treasure,” Paxton says.
I whine, and Oscar steps closer to me, our chests pressing tightly together. He lets go of my wrist and wraps his arm around my waist instead.
“You’re adorable,” he murmurs before lowering his head to my neck. He brushes his nose against my skin, sighing in disappointment. “I hate this shit on you.”
“I don’t think the man who buys it by the gallon on a weekly basis can complain about scent neutraliser,” Paxton teases. “Shall we go through to one of the offices rather than standing here holding the elevator up all day?”
“Yes, please,” I say quickly.
Oscar grins. “My office is only open to you, Emme.”
“I’m not invited?” Paxton asks. I look over my shoulder at him, and he’s smirking, a brow raised.
“You know you’re not. Besides, Emme and I have a meeting.”
“In two hours,” I remind him.
Paxton snorts. “Oscar’s feeling needy, little treasure. He’s been desperate to see you since five minutes after you left.”
Oscar shrugs when I turn back to look at him, my mouth agape. He’s unabashed.
“Really?”
Why is my stomach fluttering? Why does that make me so happy?
It’s obvious, Emme, it makes you feel wanted.
“Really.” Oscar brushes my hair out of my face, cupping my cheek in his hand. “You don’t seem to understand it, Emme, but you’re my top priority. Practically every single thought is consumed by you. They’re loud, insistent, and impossible to ignore—even if I wanted to.
“I couldn’t sleep very well. Not without you there. Not without knowing if you were okay. You’re… everything. At least let me pretend I’ve got some control by waiting until now.”
My skin flushes, heat radiating from my face to my chest, to my core. I can feel my body responding instinctively, my scent glands trying to push my scent out, as I press in closer to Oscar.
I’m so utterly shocked by his words and by how simply he said them. There was none of Uri’s gentle intensity or Paxton’s firm devotion. Sterling would’ve said those words with such forceful possessiveness that I wouldn’t be able to argue.
But Oscar? He says them so easily, so calmly. There’s no inflictions, no altered tone. It’s so fucking hot .
As if there’s not a single doubt in his mind that I belong to him, that he’s accepted the position I now have in his life. He’s just adapted.
And, fuck, does it feel good.
“As much as I’d love nothing more than to interrupt the meeting you two have, I sadly have one of my own,” Paxton says, shaking his head as his phone rings in his hand. Oscar gently tugs me out of the elevator as Paxton gets inside it.
He holds the door open still and squeezes my hand in passing.
“I’ll be sure not to interrupt your day later on to check on you.” Paxton winks and gives me one last grin before stepping back. The elevator doors begin to close—impatient and untrusting as if scared he’ll force them open once more.
Why do I wish that he would?
“I’ll see you later, little treasure,” he says, voice teasing and warm.
Oscar doesn’t even bother saying goodbye. He just wraps his arm around my waist, his fingers spreading ever so slightly. I know that there’s not many staff outside my mates on this floor, but, goodness, I’m nervous.
What if someone in security notices?
What if Jamie, their assistant, realises?
Or what if…
The doors slide shut with a quiet hiss, and, before I can even take a full breath, Oscar leans in.
“You’re flushed,” he murmurs, brushing the backs of his knuckles across my cheek. My responding shiver makes him smile. “And your scent’s starting to push through. You need to be careful if you want to keep your secret.”
“I’m trying,” I whisper, my cheeks burning. I just can’t tell if it’s from excitement or from nerves.
He hums, the sound deep and soft, then tilts his head like he’s debating something. “Then I guess I’ll need to help.”
My heart stutters.
He doesn’t kiss me— not really —but he leans in close enough to press a ghost of one against the corner of my mouth. Not quite lips. Not quite innocent either.
It’s possessive. Intentional.
I freeze.
And then I melt.
My brain is like ice cream on a hot summer’s day, and, if I had any sense about me, I’d be embarrassed by how weak I am. By how easily I’m betraying the rules I outlined for this very reason.
By the time we step into the hallway, I can barely keep pace with him. He still hasn’t let go of my hand, and I don’t ask him to. He’s determined, but, for the most part, it’s innocent.
If you ignore the slick in my panties, the racing of my heart, and the fluttering of my core.
Sure, my scent neutraliser is still managing to hide my scent, but if it wasn’t… well, the entire office floor would smell a desperate omega who is practically dying without her alpha’s knot inside her.
Fuck.
To my relief, Oscar and I don’t speak again until we reach his office. He opens the door without looking, guiding me inside like he’s done it a hundred times before.
My eyes widen, though, when I take in the state of his space. It’s… very fitting for Oscar and somehow very not like him at the same time.
It’s chaotic, and that’s probably the nicest way to describe the mess I’m staring at.
Most of the carpeted floor is filled with paper. There’s piles of it all over the space, in random spots. Each spot has a specific set of things with it—a certain pen, tape, scissors, even a tape measure at one. There’s enough space surrounding each pile for him to sit or walk around it, maybe.
The office space is huge—roughly double the size of Sterling’s—and the air is pure. I can hear something faintly running in the background, and I’m presuming that’s a form of scent neutraliser.
I don’t know, but there’s not a single discernible scent in this room. No Oscar, no paper, not even a hint of stale coffee or tea. It’s unsettling.
Especially when I’m in such desperate need of my mate’s scent.
The windows are floor-length, and, up here, there’s nobody else high enough to see through. I can imagine he likes that.
His office desk is extremely long with room for all of his monitors and equipment. There’s seven different sized screens, all blank right now, and two keyboards. Weirdly, there’s only one mouse.
Despite being unable to see the door past all the screens, his desk is facing that way.
Across the desk, in front of the monitors, are numerous different fidget toys or activities to keep his hands occupied—probably when he’s forced to suffer through a meeting.
“You can sit anywhere,” he says, his tone clipped— is this boss mode? It’s startling the way the heat just disappears.
I nod, looking around the room in surprise. It’s nice to offer me to sit anywhere, except for the fact that there’s no sofas or spare chairs.
He doesn’t even glance at the floor to avoid the piles as he walks towards his desk as if instinctively already knowing where they are.
That’s unsurprising.
“But you should know,” he drawls, and my gaze darts to his face as he sits down into the large, ergonomic desk chair, “that my lap is probably the only comfortable seat here.”
I gasp, and he reaches down for a spinner-type thing with one hand as the other presses a button on the phone.
I flinch when I hear a beeping sound echo through his office, but, within a second, it stops, and Jamie’s voice is easily heard.
“Yes, Mr Remington?”
“Can you bring me through a tray of tea with some snacks from the break room, please? Protein bars or a smoothie, and?—”
Oscar glances at me, raising a brow. I don’t react, not sure what he wants from me.
“Just bring one of everything.”
Then he presses another button on the phone, and the static sound disappears.
“Perfect. Now, maybe you should wait until what’s-his-face has dropped off our things before taking your desired seat,” Oscar says, waggling his brows.
His tone has changed, no longer sharp or abrupt. My heart clenches, realising why—he’s at ease with me, but nervous around Jamie.
And, fuck, if that isn’t the sweetest thing.
I smile and greet each person, nodding at them, and murmuring pleasantries as I move through the office space. It feels unusually packed in here today, but I know that has more to do with my anxiety than with anything being different.
My meeting with Oscar was very interesting, now that the dynamic has changed slightly. Instead of just shooting down the arguably bad ideas, he worked with me to improve them—at least from a financial point of view.
He’s a genuine genius with the numbers, and I can’t be disappointed about spending two hours on his lap. Not with how touchy-feely he is and how loved it made me feel.
Plus, he forced me to eat. I couldn’t manage much, but I did try for him.
My office door is unlocked, and I know for a fact I locked it before I left for my heat leave. I wonder if it was Sterling or someone else who was probing inside.
I don’t like not knowing.
I flick the lights on, and the room immediately feels too bright, too large, despite the fact that it’s much smaller than Oscar’s.
There’s no pure air here, no scent neutraliser to calm me. Without the scent of my pack, the stale air clings like static, and it just feels… wrong .
There’s nothing here that keeps me safe, nothing that soothes me. It’s not sterile, it’s not even clean.
It’s just… horrible.
As I move towards my desk, the chair feels lumpy and completely uncomfortable—nothing like the warmth and safety of Oscar’s lap.
The desk feels cold, and there’s a darkness that seems to be seeping in.
I hate this. I’m completely alone, trapped with the silence I thought I could handle.
But, clearly, I was wrong.
The chair creaks as I adjust, the leather stiff beneath me, and no matter how I shift, I can’t seem to get comfortable.
My scent neutraliser feels too heavy on my skin now, like it’s clinging to me out of spite.
My head throbs. My stomach churns. Every breath I take feels like I’m inhaling dust.
The silence presses in on me, thick and cloying, with none of the quiet reassurances I’ve grown used to—no hum of pack energy, no grounding scent, no idle touch.
Just me, my too-bright screen, and the ache that is blooming behind my ribs. I grip my pen like it might anchor me, like it might somehow stop the trembling in my hands.
It doesn’t.
I turn the computer on, determined to be productive and get some work done. I’ve got no excuse for this spacey-ness—not when I’ve just had a two week holiday.
Once the computer is on, I force myself to answer emails. To review proposals. To stay upright and pretend I’m still whole.
Time stretches, then blurs, and I know I’m getting nowhere near enough done.
There’s a gentle knock on my door. I don’t look up before calling out that I’m busy.
I’m not. Not when I can’t focus on work. Not when I’ve thrown up four times in the last hour, and my head is pounding.
But I don’t want anyone to see me this way and wonder what’s wrong with me.
I can’t give anyone a reason to doubt me or my worth in this building.
Not now.
There’s another knock on the door, this one much more insistent, and I grumble under my breath as I shove my heels back on and quickly try to smooth out my outfit.
I walk over to the door, pulling it open, and I freeze the moment I see who is standing behind Brenda, my assistant. She’s a beta who is in her late fifties and happily married with fourteen grandkids.
She’s so good at her job and usually has such a calm and at ease demeanour. Usually.
The tense look on her face right now isn’t the norm for her, and I feel very guilty because it’s obvious what the problem is.
Behind her is another one of my scent matches and someone who is all too eager to break the rules I outlined yesterday.
The rules Oscar helpfully reminded me that they didn’t agree to.
“Good afternoon, Miss Whitmore,” Uri says, his voice smoother than butter. “I’m sorry to disturb you from… your business.”
I flush. My entire body trembles under the weight of his gaze and the insinuation of his words. I’ve felt so drained, so run down, for most of today. I know it’s my own fault for not telling them how much I’m struggling.
I know if I asked Oscar, he’d have showered and spent the entire meeting letting me take as much comfort as I needed. He’d not have refused Paxton entry into his office or turned Sterling away.
But I stayed quiet in a bid to be professional.
“I did try to explain to Mr Rothschild that you were busy,” Brenda says, giving me a soft smile, despite her stern tone, “but he was adamant that he needed to speak with you.”
“Don’t worry, Brenda,” I reply, shaking my head. “Of course, I’m never too busy for Mr Rothschild.”
She nods, turning to give our boss a look I can’t see. “I’ll just be at my desk if you need me.”
I nod and step back, opening my office door wider so that Uri can come in. He doesn’t hesitate, and when he’s inside, he reaches forward to close and lock the door.
My heart thuds, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks over to my desk and undoes his suit jacket, placing it on the back of my chair. Next is his tie, which he places on the table.
He even undoes the cufflinks on his shirt, pocketing them, before rolling his sleeves up. He shouldn’t be allowed to do this kind of thing in the office.
For a workaholic like me, it’s practically a striptease.
My mouth salivates, and that’s not the only thing getting wet around here. His nostrils flare the moment my scent perfumes, and I know that my scent neutraliser is useless.
At least when I’m this desperately horny, anyway.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, and I shiver. I preen, and he tilts his head. “But I can tell that you’ve not been looking after yourself, little dove. When did your symptoms start?”
“Um, this afternoon?—”
“No, I asked when they started , little dove, not when they began to get worse,” Uri says, shaking his head. I open my mouth to speak, but he tuts, and I close it.
Fuck—this hot teacher attire is far too attractive for my liking.
“Don’t try to downplay it, Emmeline. I’m not looking for a martyr, right now. I’m looking for you to be a good omega and tell me the truth,” he says, his voice deepening as he utters the words ‘good omega’.
My skin is burning, my scent thick and cloying, and I can’t help my whimper of desperate need. It’s like my arousal has gone from zero to two to seven thousand in one beat.
“When did the separation symptoms start?”
I drop my head. “Last night.”
He sighs, and I bite back the whine I want to release. I hate being an omega at work, I fucking despise it. But, right now, the only thing I hate more is disappointing my alpha.
He’s angry at me.
“I’m not angry, little omega,” Uri says, gesturing for me to come towards him. I don’t think my body can move. “I’m upset that we weren’t able to be there. That you don’t trust us enough to let us in yet. But I’m not angry at you.”
I nod, sniffling. “I know I should’ve called.”
“Come here,” he pleads.
I shuffle towards him, keeping my gaze trained at the ground. He grabs me the moment I’m in reach, lifting me to his chest. My heels slip off my feet, thankfully, and I don’t fight his touch.
I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face into him. He brushes a gentle kiss against the top of my head, moving around my office. I don’t know what he’s doing, and, quite honestly, I don’t care.
His scent is faint, buried under layers of scent neutraliser, but I breathe it in anyway.
He pulls my desk chair out and sits down with me in his lap. One arm is securely wrapped around my waist whilst the other holds my back, pressing me to him. The pressure is warm and stabilising.
I squeeze tighter, and his chest rumbles in response. I just need him so fucking badly. With the absence of his scent and the desperation that has been building all day, I can’t help myself.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, nuzzling his head into my hair.
The moment is too comforting. Too perfect.
Fuck. I freeze, my mind immediately remembering exactly where we are and why I put these boundaries in place in the first place. It’s almost like someone has thrown a bucket of ice cold water over me, the tingles shooting up and down my spine uncomfortable and painful.
It’s too dangerous to get used to when we’re in my fucking office building.
“I should move,” I say, trying to pull back. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I play with my blouse instead of touching him again like my body craves.
Uri’s grip tightens, and even my raised brows do nothing to him.
“Uri, I should?—”
“No.” His voice is soft, but there’s no room for argument. With just a simple word, he’s somehow won .
Where the fuck do alpha men get this level of confidence?
Sign me the fuck up.
“Uri, I can’t. I don’t want to?—”
“Don’t want to, what? You’re staying right here where I can protect you.” He shrugs when I frown. “If you’re uncomfortable, use your words to say so. If you’re protesting because we’re at work…”
“Fine.” I cross my arms under my chest, ignoring his smirk.
“You’re not a burden, little dove,” Uri says before I can say anything else. He doesn’t realise he’s saving me from my own stubbornness, really. “You don’t need to prove anything to me. Not your strength or your independence. You’re already everything.”
Tears well up in my eyes, and the sound I make is somewhere between a sob and a whine. Either way, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give me the space I told them I needed—because maybe he understands that I don’t actually need space.
I need love. Comfort. Reassurance.
I need them.
He shifts, reaching behind me to tug open one of my desk drawers. I blink at him in confusion until he pulls out the packet of wipes I always keep in there. I won’t think about how he knows that.
Not right now.
“I should’ve thought properly before coming down here,” he murmurs, ripping open the packet. I continue to stare, my brain unable to comprehend what he’s doing.
He pulls out a few wipes and methodically begins wiping at his skin. He drags them across his neck, paying special attention to his scent gland, and I gasp as his scent starts to become far more clear.
I open my mouth to tell him not to bother, that I’m fine and don’t need anything more from him. I don’t want him to go to all this effort for me—I’m not worth it.
But, as I watch, entranced, as he continues by wiping his wrists, his forearms, and even his collarbone, the words die on my tongue. Each stroke peels away the sharp, sterile nature of the scent neutraliser and reveals him .
Uri.
My alpha.
My scent match.
Black pepper and honey—one of the best scents on Earth.
I’ve spent all day hanging on by a thread, and he knows it. Fuck, I don’t deserve him.
My eyes flutter closed, and I rest my head on his chest, taking in him . The tension starts to bleed from my limbs, the ache in my head starting to ease.
It’s like I’ve finally come home from a day pretending to be someone else—someone capable, someone strong… someone so desperately sad and lonely.
“I can’t give you a full bond right now. It’s not fair to you. But I can give you this. You deserve to feel connected to me—to us,” Uri whispers, brushing his nose along my hairline. I whimper without meaning to, and his chest rumbles in response. “Because you are. No matter where you are or what you’re doing—you belong to us.”
I breathe him in, too content to speak. I don’t want to move an inch.
“Is this better?” he asks gently.
I nod. “I was fine.”
“Fine isn’t enough when you can be better,” he says, brushing a kiss against my temple.
“I was doing good,” I argue weakly. I don’t know why I even bothered.
He laughs, quiet and soft, as he starts to rub my back. “You weren’t, and you’re not. But that’s okay because I’ll hold you until you are.”
And, this time, the knot in my tummy that tightens is from need rather than nausea.
“Have you eaten?” he asks, continuing to rub my back as he breaks our calm silence.
I shake my head. “No.”
“That’s okay,” he murmurs, moving one of his hands away from me. I mourn the loss but don’t comment, not wanting to push him away with my neediness.
I watch as he grabs his phone from the desk, and I’m surprised when he brings it in front of me. I can see him typing out a text to Sterling to pick up something from the local café on his way back from his meeting for me.
“You don’t—” I start, choking on the warmth I feel.
Uri places his phone down and goes back to rubbing my back again. “I’m your alpha, Emme. It’s my job to take care of all your needs.”
I pull away slightly, debating on joking so that I can deflect away some of the uncomfortableness inside me. But the intensity on his face causes me to change my mind.
“I appreciate it,” I whisper. “Thank you, Alpha.”
His chest seems to puff out with pride, and his scent thickens in the way that I love. Sharp, smooth, and spicy.
“I hated letting you leave yesterday,” he murmurs, and I gasp. “But I know you needed that independence. You needed the space. No matter how relaxed you felt, you needed it.”
I did, he’s not wrong. The guys and I had a very relaxing day, and I learnt exactly how they spent ‘Sacred Sundays’. Whilst Oscar immediately tattled that they do spend a lot of it working, the idea of having a full day dedicated to pack, and to their bonds, and to just being together… well, it appealed to me in a way I never expected.
Damn omega biology.
It was perfect, really. We didn’t do much. Just played some board games and had food. I napped with Oscar attached to me like a leech, and it was genuinely such a lovely day.
Even when I said that I wanted to go home, there was no protest. I think they all expected it—I’m sure Oscar would have the numbers—and the only concession was that Sterling could drive me home and lock up my house.
It was easy to agree when I thought about his panic before our date.
“I did,” I admit.
Uri nods, brushing my hair out of my face before cupping my cheek in his large, warm hand. “I know. But, next Sunday, I can promise you one thing.”
“What’s that?” My whisper is barely audible, but, somehow, he catches it anyway.
“We’re not letting you leave.”
Fuck.
If Sundays are sacred, then Mondays are just a reminder that I’m not yet ready to be normal again. I’m not okay, not even for a little bit.
But, sitting here, wrapped in Uri’s scent… well, I’m happy enough to pretend that I am.