Chapter 12
Alfie
The little mouse turns to face me, tugging at the hem of his pajama top to straighten the garment, and fixes me with an intense gaze.
“Well,” he says firmly, “I have just done you the favor of a lifetime.”
Now, look, the medication I take impairs me. It’s a known side effect of the drug. On top of that, I was in a deep sleep when the doorbell rang. I’m not at my best right now, and I acknowledge that, but I sincerely don’t understand what’s going on.
“W-what do you mean?” I sound exactly as vague as I feel.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He pauses, eyes drifting to the left.
He raises his hand to his temple to push up the glasses he isn’t wearing and drops it again.
“I’ve saved you”—he points his nose a little higher in the air than normal—“from bedraggled omegas and an army of snooty relatives who want to see you mated to their offspring. Yes…that’s it.
I’ve saved you. I shall attend functions as your partner while I’m here, and together, we’ll chase off prospective suitors and their parents to boot. ”
I must be a little turned around from the events of the night because when Jensen speaks, a lot of what he says makes complete sense.
What happened on my doorstep minutes ago was highly irregular.
I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s the first time an omega I’ve afflicted has left without me using my voice on them.
It’s almost as though the little mouse saying he’s my omega had the same effect as it would have if he really were my omega.
It’s the most confounding situation. I have questions, and a lot of them, but I can’t deny that, despite the extreme irregularity of the circumstances, having an omega leave my property without coercion is a relief.
And there’s absolutely no denying that the prospect of being freed from the leering looks I get bombarded by every time I so much as set foot out of my house is an appealing one.
I can’t stand the pressure that comes with my title—the matchmaking, the jubilant, jealous glances in my direction when I so much as greet an omega.
The pressure, the disappointment that follows me everywhere.
It’s been relentless for years. Decades, in fact.
If what happened here tonight was anything other than a fluke, having an omega on my arm—regardless of the circumstances surrounding the arrangement—might well turn out to be one of the most liberating things that’s ever happened to me.
“Naturally,” says the little mouse, placing a hand on his hip, “as I’m going above and beyond duty, I’ll be expecting compensa—”
“If it’s payment you want, it’s payment you’ll get. Name your price, and it’s yours.”
“Money?” he blinks indignantly. “I don’t want money, lord. Don’t be so gauche.”
Gauche?
Me? Gauche?
The audacity of this little man. No one has ever, and I really do mean ever, spoken to me like this.
I’m so stunned, I’m hardly able to form a full sentence. “I, er, what do you want then?”
“Information,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and looking awfully pleased with himself. “Knowledge is power, and all that. I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase—”
The events of the day—and night—catch up with me suddenly, and a wave of exhaustion crashes into me. “Mr. Lawlor, please. Speak plainly. What is it you want?”
“I want to know”—his little nose crinkles disdainfully—“why you smell like this.”
Ah.
There it is.
Can’t fault him for asking, I suppose. An alpha with no scent and no pheromones is something most people could live three or four lifetimes without ever encountering.
“I’m heavily medicated,” I tell him. “The drug I take suppresses my scent.”
“You’re on a suppressant? That’s terrible.” His eyes narrow in confusion. “I, I don’t understand though. I’ve read that for an alpha, taking a suppressant is like ingesting clinical depression. They say it’s like being half-asleep and less than half-alive.”
His description of what it’s like for an alpha to be suppressed is one of the most apt I’ve heard. “Yes,” I agree. “It’s a lot like that.”
His top lip rides up, causing pearly incisors to gleam. “So why would you do that to yourself?”
I sweep the back of my hand across my forehead and look down. “Because what happens when I’m not is worse.”
He blinks, and I can almost hear the gear levers in his brain clicking. “What’s worse than eating depression and sleepwalking through life?”
“Hurting other people is worse,” I say quietly.
“But, you, you don’t seem like the kind of person who’d hurt others.” His eyes are enormous. Bigger than ever and naked without his glasses to shield them. “I mean, you were quite rude to Sid this morning, but usually, you seem harmless.”
“I’m not someone who wants to cause others harm,” I clarify. “I’d never, ever want that, but hurting people can be a side effect of the gene alpha males in my line carry.”
His head tilts to the side quizzically. The little mouse is a curious fellow. I’ve noticed that he enjoys putting his nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m not sure he can help it, even though I am sure he must have an inkling, an instinct, warning him to be careful around me. “What gene is that?”
I understand the question, and I don’t begrudge him asking it, but I hate saying the word. Hate thinking it. Hate that it’s part of my DNA, and more than anything, I hate what it’s done to the omegas who crossed my path before I accepted my fate and started taking my suppressant.
“You’ve heard of my kind, Mr. Lawlor,” I tell him.
He shakes his head, pinching his lips together.
“You have. If you search your mind, you’ll find everything you need to know about me buried in stories read to you during your childhood.
You’ll remember the whispered warnings you received about men like me as a boy.
” He shakes his head again, but slower this time.
“You’ve heard of alphas like me. All omegas have. ”
He opens his mouth and licks his lips, swallowing with a dry click.
“C-Casanova?” His eyes are wide as saucers. He knits his fingers together at his sternum and moves them slowly upward to cover his scent gland. A subconscious gesture, I’m sure, but one I can’t help noticing. “You carry the Casanova gene.”
“Yes,” I say quietly. “Domas Nova. A mutation of the DRD2 and DRD4 dopamine receptor genes. Or as I call it: The Casanova Curse.”
“I see,” squeaks the little mouse. I’ve frightened him, and unfortunately, his reaction is natural. At least, it’s natural for omegas who meet me like this. Impaired. Less than half the man I usually am. Believe me, if I weren’t, his reaction to me would be very different.
“Please don’t be afraid. As I said, I’m heavily medicated, and thus, completely subdued.”
“Sh-should I be here?” he whispers, looking around us. “Is it wise?”
I sigh deeply. “I admit that I thought long and hard about offering you the position here because of your designation, Mr. Lawlor, but you were by far the most qualified person to apply, and I…I’ve been on treatment for almost a decade without incident.
I am completely”—I mean to say impotent, but I can’t seem to make my mouth form the word—“impaired. I couldn’t…
I can’t cause you any harm as I am now, even if I wanted to.
Is it wise for you to be here? I don’t know for sure, but I think so.
I do know that I didn’t want to discriminate against you because you’re an omega, so I believe offering you the role was the right thing to do, and I hope you agree.
If you aren’t comfortable here, or if you’re afraid of me now, I understand, and we can—”
“I’m not afraid,” squeaks the brave little mouse. “I’m very well read. I know all about Casanovarism, the treatments, and the outcomes, and I’m definitely not afraid.”
“Well,” I say. “I’m glad to hear it.”