33. Emmeline
33
Emmeline
“ D
on’t we need to order something?” I ask, keeping my voice low as the waiter talks with Paxton.
Oscar’s been distant since we got here. No attempts to touch me, or talk—so unlike him. The distance hurts more than the act which caused it. He’s struggling, and I can see that so easily.
I regret pushing them away, even though I needed that space and time to come to terms with everything. I could’ve communicated my desire for time.
I could’ve… I could’ve…
“You can if you want something, but they’ve got a speciality menu here. Paxton wanted to surprise you with it, I think,” Uri says, keeping his voice just as low as mine.
“I’ll be surprised.”
He nods, squeezing my hand. I move it over once he lets go, resting on his thigh. Paxton is on my other side, with Sterling and Oscar opposite us.
We’re in one of those overly fancy, very luxurious, private dining rooms. With soft lighting, thick curtains, and an aromatic candle, it’s like heaven for me. I’ve purred twice, even with all my anxiety.
Damn omega hormones.
The table is round, and small enough to feel personal, but also big enough that I can’t brush against anyone by accident. The walls are dark wood and the décor muted tones, and it feels very safe here.
But maybe that has more to do with the strong scents from Sterling, Paxton and Uri, rather than the room itself.
Uri’s rolled his sleeves up, his forearms tense with a quiet energy that keeps making his fingers twitch against his thigh. Paxton looks effortlessly put together, as usual, but there’s a tightness to the way he straightens his cutlery—precise, controlled, even as he chats to the waiter.
Sterling’s collar is popped open, a touch of cockiness in the way he’s lounging back in his seat. But his smirk, that’s what makes him so beautiful. And dangerous.
Oscar… well, my alpha, looks like he’s here under protest. His shirt’s wrinkled, his tie partially loosened like he’d tried to get comfortable and failed, and had a fit about it. His entire posture screams ‘I don’t want to talk about it’, and I feel awful.
There’s water in tall glasses, bread I’m too nervous to eat, and tension thick enough that I could probably cut it with the butter knife I keep fiddling with. It’s quiet, almost too quiet, and every breath feels like it might shatter something.
The male waiter disappears, only for two female betas to appear seconds later with plates of food. Their footsteps are muffled by the plush carpet, and they’re careful as they set plates in front of each of us.
Each plate is a work of art—too pretty to eat and far too small to fill us. The standard of course, when they’re going to bring multiple courses.
At the centre of each one is a delicately seared sliver of sea bass, resting on a swirl of lemon and pea risotto so perfectly shaped it looks piped on with a ruler. Edible petals are scattered around the edge of the plate like confetti. It’s gorgeous.
A drizzle of some kind of herby oil glistens under the lights, and the scent of roasted garlic and citrus hits my nose, making my stomach growl.
Of course, I immediately feel guilty for being hungry. Then again, the baby doesn’t and they are demanding to eat. This is the first time I’ve actually felt hungry since dinner on Tuesday.
Fuck.
I don’t hesitate in cutting off a small piece and biting into it, and my moan of appreciation fills the room. Uri growls low in his throat, and Sterling’s smirk is beautifully wide.
The waitresses make sure we’re settled before leaving, and the atmosphere is somehow both comfortable and tense, at the exact same time.
Oscar is the first to speak once we’re alone. Based on the agitated tapping he’s now doing, I know it must’ve killed him to keep this in. To wait and be patient, to hold his tongue.
He clears his throat. Once. Twice. Then exhales, long and slow, like it physically hurts. “I’m sorry.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, the table falls silent. I freeze. My fork halfway to my lips, food falling off it, as my heart is suddenly caught in my throat.
Across the table from me, Oscar sits, nervously tapping his long fingers against the table’s edge. There’s no pattern that I can discern to the random movements, but I know there’ll be one.
His shoulders are hunched, his head hung low, and his jaw keeps flexing like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t know how to say. The usually sharp edges of his face are softened.
He’s not looking at me, not looking at any of us. Instead, he’s staring down at his plate like the fish might spring back to life and bite him.
Or maybe he’s searching in his water glass for answers that he doesn’t already have.
My hand on Uri’s thigh tightens, and my nails dig into him. He doesn’t protest. His leg is taut beneath my palm, the muscles rigid. I don’t think he’s brave enough to move either.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Oscar says quietly. “I didn’t even realise I had until it was too late.”
I set my fork down gently, afraid that any sudden move might make this moment end. Like I’ll startle him out of speaking, and end his bravery.
I want to understand his side of things. I’ve already made plenty of assumptions, both at the original time of my hurt, and today in the car with Paxton. But now, I get the chance to hear it from him personally.
“I thought… I thought I was helping. I hate HR. They don’t deserve to have jobs. They just mess with everything and get far too involved in how I speak,” he says, glowering at the food. “But I know you, and I’ve seen your anxiety in full force. I know that without a doubt you’d be terrified to have to talk to HR too.
“I didn’t want you to deal with it. I figured if I just disclosed it, then it’d be done. It’s our rule. I followed the rule.”
He finally looks up, and his icy grey eyes meet mine. They’re clouded with something I’ve never seen on him before. I can’t scent him, since he’s doused in enough scent neutraliser that he’d need to scrub his skin raw before his natural smell would come through.
“I didn’t know it would trigger a system alert. I didn’t know it would raise flags. I thought I was just… ticking the box. Taking something off your plate. Making your life easier.”
I can feel Paxton shift beside me. Next to Oscar, Sterling stills. Uri doesn’t breathe. His knee bounces under the table, barely perceptible, unless you’re sitting close enough to feel the vibrations.
Oscar’s voice goes softer, his shoulders drooping.
“I didn’t understand the issue. Not when they told me what I’d done. Not when you stopped speaking to me. Not even when Paxton explained it.” His knuckles are white where he grips the napkin in his lap. “I talked to Lia. She tried to put it into Oscar for me, but it didn’t work. I kept thinking— but I was trying to help her. ”
He exhales shakily, and I can hear the pain in his voice, see it in him, and my heart completely shatters. He hasn’t asked for forgiveness. But it’s his anyway.
I’m not angry anymore. I’m not even upset.
He was helping in his own way. I understand.
“But I hurt you. I see that. I just… don’t understand why. Not the way you need me to. Not in the way that would let me undo it.”
He swallows hard, before looking me in the eyes.
“So I’m sorry. For not telling you. For not asking. For not being what you needed. And I’m sorry that my brain doesn’t work like yours does, because this—” his voice cracks, as he gestures at his head, “this is what always happens. I try to do things right, and I still end up ruining everything.”
His fingers twitch on the table in front of us, his knuckles white. There’s something in the way he breathes—in that shaky exhale that doesn’t quite make it out—that breaks me wide open.
My alpha. My poor, poor alpha.
He’s hurting so fucking badly. So much more than I’ve realised.
Than maybe any of us have realised.
“Oh Oscar,” I gasp, darting up from my seat and rounding the table. He tries to scoot back, to get away from me, but I don’t allow for it.
I drop into his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck, and bursting into tears as I hold him as tight as I can.
“What are you waiting for, bro?” Sterling asks, nudging the chair the two of us are on. His voice is a little too bright, and far too loud. “Give your mate a cuddle and stop pouting.”
And then he does. Oscar’s grip is tighter than mine, his arms wrapping around me with a desperation that makes it hard to breathe. It’s like he’s trying to become a part of me, and with how loudly I’m purring, I don’t think I have any complaints.
His chest presses against me, and I hate the way that the scent neutraliser clings to his skin and hides him from me. I’m his mate. It breaks my heart that he thinks he needs to wear this disgusting armour to be around me.
In contrast, my scent isn’t perfuming anymore—it’s a thick fog of emotion, clinging to the room, making sure everyone can feel how broken I am. I feel like it’s only so strong so it can make up for the absence of his.
“I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’m sorry I made you think you weren’t good enough. I’m sorry you thought I didn’t want you any more,” I sob. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Oscar’s hand runs up and down my back, as he instinctively shushes me. Rocking us side to side, he holds me, letting me feel, as he too absorbs comfort from me.
“Both of you are stubborn,” Paxton says. His voice is even, but he’s so much more relaxed now that we’re at ease. “But this is how it needed to happen. You both needed time to feel, before either of you could see the other’s side.”
I nod against Oscar’s chest, sniffling, but still unable to calm myself down. His breath is still shaky against my ear, so I don’t try to pull away. Not yet, not when we both need this.
“And honestly, I’m glad it’s ended before the weekend,” Sterling says, with a teasing tone. His laugh is louder than it needs to be, but it slices through the lingering tension. “Without work to keep the two of you busy, I’d be scared I might find a dead body.”
“Whose?” Uri asks, in confusion.
Oscar loosens his hold, just enough for me to breathe properly. I look up at him, adjusting myself so we’re more face to face.
“I don’t want to ruin this moment,” he murmurs, his voice thick with regret. “But we’re going to have a feelings talk, and I’ve got a declaration to make.”
I grin. “Another one?”
He laughs, and the tension is completely shattered between us. “Yes.”
I push forward, pressing my lips to his, and let him feel my forgiveness in the best possible way.
Well, the second best, but the only way that won’t get us kicked out of this restaurant.
Oscar cuts it off as I try to deepen it, and he thumbs my pout. “Not here.”
Disappointment fills me, but he’s got a point. I don’t really want to put a show on for everyone.
Well, part of me does, but I won’t.
“Come sit back over here, little dove. We all saw how hungry you were, and I’d rather cut my dick off than let you sit there hungry,” Uri says.
“Castration isn’t the only other option here,” Sterling says. “You could just, you know, pick her up and put her in the seat?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
It’s not a hardship really, when I’m starving. I round the table, moving back into my seat, and reach for my fork.
Sterling leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I’ve been quite clear with the group, but not with you, and I think part of our issues is that we’ve not been open enough. Any of us. We’ve decided to try, but nobody laid out what that would look like. You need that.”
“I do.”
“My therapist said something similar to me this week,” Paxton adds, and my eyes dart to him in surprise. I hadn’t realised he’s been yet.
“You’ve been?” I ask, my voice soft. There’s no judgement or accusation, just my plain curiosity.
How did he find the courage? Before today, I was still far too scared. What was his moment of realisation that he needs help? Our talk on Saturday? Was that really all it took?
He nods. “I told you all that I would, and I meant it. Uri passed on a list to me on Tuesday, and I went on Wednesday.” His tone is steady, his gaze unwavering. “I’m glad I went.”
“How was it?” Uri asks, and I reach under the table to squeeze his thigh again.
“Good. Reaffirming, even. He’s a solid guy, and seems to understand exactly how to help.” Paxton’s lips quirk up, and I can see the flicker of vulnerability in his brown eyes. “I’ve got another appointment next week, and I’m actually looking forward to it.”
“I’m impressed,” Sterling says, his smile curling slow and sly at the edges, like he’s trying not to be too proud in case he startles Paxton. “Then again, I’ve been twice already. Willingly. Without bribery. I’m winning.”
I roll my eyes as the others laugh. “It’s not a competition.”
“And if it were, I don’t think you’d win,” Oscar says dryly. “Paxton’s far more mentally stable. He just needs a confidence boost. You’re a little more twisted.”
Sterling raises a brow, sharp and slow, a grin curling at the edge of his mouth. “In what way, Mr Psych?”
Oscar doesn’t even look at him. His voice is flat, but the way his fingers line up the edge of his napkin, gives away how tightly wound he is.
“You’d kill without hesitation.”
My eyes dart between the two of them, waiting for someone to speak, or to laugh, or even to just react. Oscar speaks like he’s making a statement, and not a joke… and I desperately want it to be one.
“Okay, I was going to go yesterday, but I fainted,” Uri says, cutting off the bickering. I gasp, turning in my chair to scrutinise him.
“That’s because you hadn’t eaten all day,” Oscar replies, dryly. “The doctor said it was a typical case of low blood sugar.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Uri says, and I shake my head, smacking his chest lightly. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“Good.”
I move back into my seat properly, and I can’t help it. I burst into laughter. It bubbles up in my chest and spills out of me, and the others join in.
We look ridiculous—giggling and chuckling over something so silly—but it makes me feel so much better.
So much lighter.