Chapter Seventeen #4
“Give me your hand,” I said, waiting. He stared down at me—a complicated mental calculation whirring in his head, no doubt—before he relented, intrigue winning out.
My eyes focused on the stiff angle of his fingers instead of the insinuation of my position, and I swept my thumbs lightly over his knuckles, gently massaging the area.
“My grandma had arthritis, and this helped her.”
He made a faint groaning sound in his throat, so quiet I almost didn’t pick it up. It didn’t sound entirely pained. “You don’t have to do that.”
I want to. “I know.”
He said nothing, no protests, no further attempts at evasion, so I carried on.
The flames reflected over the tough skin, dancing and flickering, and I followed their pattern with my thumbs, tracing wherever the light hit.
It obviously suited him better—the dimmed, warm tones rather than the full beam of a main light, or even the sun.
His office was the same, his desk positioned away from the windows and the blinds often drawn.
I hadn’t given much thought to the purpose behind it until now, or how the accommodations he made for himself were so subtle, easy to overlook.
I’d noticed before how he’d angle his face away from bright lights, or reach up to rub at his temples but stop himself, as if his eye irked him yet he refused to draw attention to it.
Was it hurting him now?
He’d clearly felt comfortable enough to remove his brace, needing a relief from wearing it constantly, no doubt.
Why hadn’t he taken his patch off too? Unless it had to remain in place, or the room needed to be in pitch darkness first. Or was it because of me?
The possibility of my judgment. Would he have removed it if I’d gone to bed?
That thought bothered me more than it probably should.
He shouldn’t be uncomfortable in his own den.
“You know . . .” I started, chewing over my words until they sounded neutral in my head—a general invitation instead of a demand or prying. I wouldn’t risk his walls shooting back up from detecting any ill intent in my tone. Though he was familiar with my branded lack of finesse by now.
I doubted he’d take it personally.
“You could take your patch off too, if it’ll make you more comfortable?
” I shrugged casually, still not looking up at him.
Eye contact would add too much pressure.
“It’s not exactly the same, but my grandma wore glasses, and they really got on her nerves sometimes.
It seemed like a relief for her to take them off at night. ”
For a long moment, there was nothing—I barely even heard the man breathe. I hazarded a glance upward, keeping my head tilted so it wasn’t as obvious, but he was staring at the mantlepiece anyway, a faint crease to his forehead as if stuck between assessing my motivations and debating his answer.
Eventually, he said a simple, “I’m fine.”
I cast my eyes downward again, content he hadn’t taken offense—no idea why that notion was suddenly important to me.
His reasoning was his own, but since he hadn’t outright stated it couldn’t be removed, I assumed it was a level of exposure I hadn’t earned the right to witness.
He was already showing this much, giving me access to parts of him he typically masked—whether intentionally or not—yet he was resolute in some secrets remaining locked tight.
I respected that.
There was another silence, longer, but not nearly as heavy.
Except, I could sense his gaze boring into me, watching my movements—or just me in general.
I didn’t know for sure, as my concentration was on my task, but the perception made my skin prickle.
Heat was rising from the soles of my feet, blooming across my chest and up over my neck and cheeks. Luckily, I could blame the fire.
“You and your grandmother were close?” he asked, and I didn’t jump at the sudden, low timbre curling around my ears. Definitely not.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, smiling at the memory of her. “It was just the two of us for so long. She was my best friend, my biggest supporter, my rock.”
“Was she . . . like you?”
I frowned, looking up—regretted it instantly, but held firm against his penetrating gaze. “What do you mean?”
“Defiant.”
I snorted. “Oh, yeah. I definitely took after her. She told Alphas to go fuck themselves daily—usually when they tried to tell her she couldn’t do something because she was an omega or they used their Alpha command on her.”
I pitied any poor fucker who did that.
He hummed, tearing his gaze away again. A contemplative look crossed his face, his eye twitching as if I’d told him a mind-blowing fact he couldn’t grasp. “Is that common?”
“What? Alphas using their command to—”
“No,” he said, still staring into the fireplace. “Omegas refusing to obey.”
I blinked at him. Was he being sarcastic? “I mean, yeah. Why wouldn’t it . . .” I trailed off, a thought sparking that induced a scoff. “Wait, did you think I was an alien or something? The only omega in history to be a stubborn arsehole?”
“Of course not.” Another lie. An embarrassed deflection from being mocked.
It confused me.
And pissed me off.
“Why should we conform?” I countered, my tone belligerent.
“Nature forces us to be submissive, it’s not a choice.
It’s bullshit that we’re expected to roll over and comply because our instincts make us seem “weaker.” Respect should be earned.
Alphas don’t deserve my obedience just because of their designation.
They should prove themselves worthy, not take from me as if it’s their God-given right. ”
Caine grunted, and I jerked at the realisation I’d pressed too hard into his bone.
“Shit!” I brushed my thumbs over the area in apology. “Is that any better?”
“Hm. It’s my mistake for riling you.”
He hadn’t asked for a lecture and there I was, giving him one anyway.
I sighed, my voice only slightly less defensive when I added, “Being an omega sucks. I have Minnie, and I wouldn’t change that for anything, but it doesn’t rewrite the facts.
Do you honestly think we enjoy being subdued?
I mean . . . I’m sure some do, and whatever floats their boat I guess, but the opinions of a few shouldn’t dictate the entire designation.
That’s the point. We should be able to make our own decisions on how we live. We should have free will.”
His head tilted. “You don’t like being an omega?”
I met his stare, resolute. “I don’t like being oppressed.”
Caine regarded me, and I felt stripped bare.
I didn’t like it. Not one bit. I’d revealed too much.
I’d let my mouth run away with me, been too passionate, and now he knew more than I’d ever wanted him to.
He once again had the upper hand—more leverage, fodder for exploiting.
It had to be the heat in here, the cosy atmosphere, it meddled with my defences and coaxed my tongue loose.
It was his turn.
“What happened?” I asked, lifting his hand to signify my meaning. But guilt punched into me just as quickly as the indignant words left my mouth. Why do I have to be such a prick? “Fuck, no,” I backtracked, floundering. “Don’t answer that. I didn’t mean—you don’t—”
“A fight,” he said, unperturbed by the question—or at least, his automatic response wasn’t a cutting quip.
“It was a ridiculous dispute. Aaron flirted with the omega daughter of the now extinct Rushton pack’s leader.
He endured several punches, but it somehow escalated and I ended up taking a wine bottle to the face. ”
I winced. “Your eye?”
He nodded. “Our father was furious at us for causing pack disruption—at me, for entertaining my brother’s antics—and since he was such a stickler for punishment, he had his enforcer mutilate my fingers with a hammer and refused to call in the doctor to set them.”
My eyes and mouth dawned wide in horror. “Fucking hell, Caine. That’s . . .”
“You asked.”
“I know.” It was a reflex reaction, but I squeezed his hand tighter. “I’m sorry. Not just for what happened, but for asking at all. I shouldn’t have. It was invasive, and none of my business.”
Caine’s jaw popped, but I suspected it wasn’t in anger. “It’s fine. On both counts.”
I stared down at his fingers, the rough skin, the contorted shape, resisting the urge to lean in and .
. . I didn’t know what I wanted to do. My mind was reeling.
I struggled to even fathom how any parent could possess the inclination to be so vicious toward their child.
Caine wouldn’t be squeaky clean in the violence department—I wasn’t na?ve enough to believe he’d earned the fear he invoked by being a saint—but that didn’t mean he deserved to be abused by his father either.
No one deserved that.
“He sounds like a total dick,” I spat, assuming pity wouldn’t be very welcomed. I wasn’t the type to piss on graves, but I tacked on, “Good riddance.”
Caine hummed an assent, the corner of his lips twitching upward a fraction.
I wondered if that was the extent of the cruelty.
Unlikely. I’d learned the vague details about Caine’s scent condition from his mother at the mating ceremony.
I hadn’t pried further, and I wouldn’t. I’d already picked at wounds I had no right to, and it felt like one of those topics that were strictly off limits.
He displayed his other disabilities openly, challenging anyone to see them as a “weakness.” Sure, he was reluctant to remove his patch, but I sensed it was a matter of distrust, of principle, rather than an active desire to erase it from existence—except in the sense of pretending it had no effect on him.
He made every effort to hide this one, refusing to even give its presence airtime, implying there was more under the surface: a story or memory that compelled him to keep it a secret from the world.
Or someone had made him truly believe it was something to be ashamed of.