5. Bee #2
Her eyes narrow. “Your neck.”
My hand flies up. “Bug bite.”
“Bullshit.” She leans forward. The snack bag lowers, which is serious. “That is a claiming mark. Fresh. And unless a very inventive mosquito got through Layn security, you got that from him.”
I should lie. I should protect the sacred privacy of my accidentally married alien situation. “I did,” I say.
Loora’s expression cycles through shock, delight, concern, and academic hunger so fast I almost hear the slide projector clicking in her head.
“Say no more. Actually, say everything. Every detail. But first, are you safe? Was this consensual? Because I have read things about Layn Alphas, the tongue secretions, the sensory manipulation, the separation sickness, and if he pressured you—”
“He didn’t.” The answer comes too sharp, defensive enough to embarrass me. “I chose it. I chose him. I wanted him.”
Her face softens, but not enough to lose the worry. “Okay. Then I’m happy if you’re happy.”
“I’m married.”
The snack bag drops. For three whole seconds, Loora says nothing. That may be a personal record. “Excuse me?”
“I’m married. Maybe. Sort of. Not on Earth legally, I don’t think, but on Layn, definitely, spiritually, biologically, royally, permanently, whatever the hell that means.
So, during sex, he asked if he could mark me.
I said yes because I thought we were being hot and weird, and now I’m his Omega princess. ”
Her mouth opens.
“No smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are definitely smiling. I need you to knock it off, so we can figure out what to do about this.”
“Again, not smiling. And why are we not just trying out omega princess tiaras?”
“Loora.”
“I’m sorry, but accidentally marrying an alien prince during sex is not exactly the worst thing in the world.”
I push away from the desk, too full of fear to sit still. “You don’t get it. Sky says there is no dissolving it. He says the bond is permanent. He says his family will recognize me. I didn’t even know what I was saying yes to.”
That sobers her. “That part is not funny.”
“No, but you still look like you’re two seconds from asking what the ring looks like.”
Her eyes flick toward my hand. “Loora.”
“I am curious. But I still don't see the need for the freak-out. You wanted the man. Wanted him enough to give him your v-card. I mean, it's not exactly the Victorian age. But that still usually means you had pretty powerful feelings for him.”
“You don’t get the problem. Why should I expect you to?” The words come out before I can stop them, sharpened by panic and aimed at the softest place I know. “Most of the time, you’re so thirsty for a man, any man, especially an alien man. Why would you get it?”
The office goes silent.
Shit, I don't mean that. No. I reach for her, but she recoils. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Loora closes the snack bag. Not dramatically. Not with a snap. Just folds the top once, then again, careful and precise, as if containing crumbs matters more than whatever just split open between us.
“I’m not thirsty,” she says.
My stomach drops. “Loora—” I reach for her again.
“But a girl could use a drink. Hell, even a sip.” She stands, tall and glittering and suddenly so still that every inch of her becomes armor.
“I started growing in fourth grade. By high school, I was already six feet tall, and the boys were just starting to reach my shoulder. I was always too much body, too much height, too much everything before anyone knew what to do with me. So I got into art, fashion, shape, color, things that made being stared at feel like a decision instead of a punishment.”
Shame crawls up my throat. I am lower than the sludge of pond scum.
She keeps going, voice steady, which makes it worse.
“Try fitting in when you’re wearing high fashion nobody gets yet because you’re determined to be yourself.
Always. Try wanting someone to look at you and not make you feel like a landmark.
So yes, Bea, if an alien prince looked at me like I was the answer to a question his whole body had been asking, I might enjoy that.
I might even want it. In a freaking heartbeat. ”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did.” Her eyes shine, but her chin stays high. “You just didn’t mean to say it where I could hear you.”
She lifts her bag, tucks it under one arm, and walks to the door.
Before she leaves, she turns back, and her neutral face, blank of any emotion, is worse than anger.
“You are so busy pretending you are above wanting him that you can't see that wanting is not the weakness. Lying to yourself is. So laugh at me for being unashamedly myself. I’ll cry for you not being yours at all.”
Then she is gone.
The closed door stares at me. I sit because my knees have become unreliable.
For a long moment, my office exists in pieces: the screen glow, the folders, the gray window, the faint scent of Skylor still clinging to my blouse.
My throat burns. My eyes burn. The bond twists hard enough that my hand goes to my chest before I remember it is not a thing I can grab.
The door flies opens so fast it nearly hits the wall.
Skylor fills the doorway, eyes gold, posture lethal, every soft thing from this morning gone under a sheet of pure Alpha. “Who hurt you?”
I blink through tears. “What? Huh?” Damn this bond. "No one."
“Give me the name.” His voice is an inhuman snarl. “I will destroy them.”
The absurdity breaks through my shame. I almost laugh and sob at the same time. I sniff. “You can’t destroy someone who hurt my feelings.”
He gives a double-blink, and his shoulders roll back. “Of course I can.”
“Skylor.”
“If the injury is emotional, I will choose an emotionally devastating method.”
A laugh escapes. It hurts. “That is not comforting.”
He rounds the desk and wraps me in his arms. “It should be.”
“It is terrifying.” I sniffle against his neck. Breathing his scent and settling when I don't deserve comfort. I deserve the rack. A bed of a thousand needles in the forest while ants eat away my flesh.
“I am terrifying. He pulls back. His gaze roving over my face. "You have been crying.”
“I know.”
“Who?”
“No.”
His jaw tightens. “Beatrice.”
“You cannot destroy my best friend because I hurt her and then felt bad about it.”
The gold in his eyes flickers. “You hurt her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m scared, and apparently when I’m scared enough, I become a terrible person with excellent aim.”
His face closes. Great, another victim of my precision. I slide out of his arms. I cannot tend every wound in the room while Loora’s words are still bleeding on the carpet.
“I have to fix this,” I say.
Skylor looks toward the hall as if Loora might still be within royal-destruction range. “Shall I—”
“No.”
“I could apologize on your behalf.”
“Absolutely not.”
He inclines his head once, accepting the boundary so visibly that it lands in the center of my chest. “Whatever you need, mate. I will wait right here.”
“You will wait in your office. Or how about this: don't wait at all.”
His ears flatten. I should be weaponized. Hired by the army and used for search-and-destroy missions. “I will be across the hall,” he finally says.
“Thank you.”
When he leaves, the office feels too quiet again, but this quiet has direction.
I open the bottom drawer and pull out the emergency chocolate Loora hid there three months ago under a sticky note that reads: For morale, menstruation, murder prevention, and meetings that should have been emails. Sea salt dark. Thank God.
Loora’s office door is half closed. Her snack bag sits on her desk, still shut. Closed. I knock with one knuckle. “Can I come in?”
Her voice carries through the gap. “Depends. Are you here as my editor or my friend?”
“The second one,” I say. “If she’s still allowed in.”
A pause.
“Did she bring chocolate?”
I hold the bar up even though she cannot see it. “Sea salt dark,” I say, pushing the door open.
Loora stands with her arms folded, bracelets stacked up on both wrists, expression cool enough to freeze fire. I step inside and close the door before I lose courage.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She lifts a brow.
“No, I mean it. I am so sorry. What I said was ugly and cheap, and it was not true in the way I said it. I was scared shitless and lashing out because I'd just discovered that I’m married and I didn’t even get to pick a dress or have you there.
Because you absolutely would have been there as my maid of honor, probably threatening the florist and making sure the favors had personality.
And now I’m rambling, and none of this makes it okay.
” I put the chocolate on her desk with both hands.
“I hurt you. I’m sorry. Forgive me? Please? ”
Loora studies the chocolate first. Then me. “Apology accepted.” My shoulders collapse with relief. “Not instantly healed,” she adds.
“I know.”
"You've got a lot more sucking up to do, and I need more bribes."
She opens the chocolate with surgical precision, breaks off one square, and does not offer me any. Fair. "This is a good start." She chews thoughtfully as I drop into a chair, and she does the same. Halfway through the bar and silence, she says quietly. “It hurt because part of it is true.”
“No.” She shakes her head. "No, Loora, it's not. I was wrong. So very wrong—"
“Were you?” Her voice stays even. “Not the thirsty part. I’m not desperate in the pathetic way you made it sound.
But do I want someone? Yes. Do I sometimes wish there was a man or an alien or somebody who looked at me and wanted all of this, not despite the space I take up but because of it? Also yes.”
“Loora.”
“I’m proud of myself.” Her chin lifts. “I love my style. I love my work. I love that I built a life where being tall, loud, fashionable, and hard to miss became the point instead of the problem. But sometimes I still wish I had someone to share it with. Someone who touched me like I was not an obstacle course or a dare.” She gives a small laugh with no humor in it. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing.”