Chapter Eighteen #3
The scent of other omegas wasn’t as potent.
Or foul. It was unpleasant, but neutralised somewhat, Dylan’s fragrance in my nose and on my clothes heavily diluting it.
I still relied on shots and sprays, but even then .
. . they never extinguished the symptoms entirely, only muted them to a tolerable level.
If I encountered the opposite designation even briefly, the space behind my nose would ache.
If I had no choice but to be in their presence for hours, the dizziness would make an appearance, and my stomach would roil, but at least I wouldn’t have blood gushing from my nose—or the vomiting and fainting—as I would without those preventive measures.
The symptoms would diminish once I was in the house, in my den, and the scent was scrubbed clean from my skin.
But as of now, with the medication and Dylan’s company, the effects were almost non-existent.
The difference between this moment and before our mating was significant.
The barest wisp of light-headedness teased at the corners of my vision.
That was all. He wouldn’t cure me—it was a permanent fixture of my anatomy—but with him around, I was granted a reprieve.
The world was bearable.
“Here it is,” he announced with an upbeat hop, guiding me around a corner to our destination.
“Bob’s Cooking Stuff” was written in bold lettering above the shabby door. Though the second “o” in cooking was conveniently incomplete.
I resisted the urge to retreat.
“Come on.” He waved at me, and with a bracing inhale, I instructed Raegan to guard the door before following him in.
I was surprised to see the inside wasn’t as bleak as the exterior, though Dylan would have found higher quality appliances in a shop near—
“Stop it,” he warned, and I raised an eyebrow in question. “You’re being judgy. It might not be the level of pomp and elegance you’re used to, but it’s more than fine.”
“I said nothing.”
He snorted. “You don’t have to. I’m familiar with most of your subtle tells by now.”
“Oh?”
He meandered down the aisle adjacent to us, scanning the uncoordinated shelves and pausing to pick up an aluminium tray with six round cavities dented in it.
He tucked it under his arm and carried on to the next section—utensils—because that structure of organisation was logical.
“You’re a blank canvas, or you try to be,” he revealed, his gaze homed in on his task.
“That means, whenever you slip up, even the tiniest fraction, it’s more obvious. ”
I watched him rifle through a cluttered pile of spoons. None of them shared the same function or shape. Why weren’t they individually boxed? “Such as?”
“You clench your jaw a lot,” he said simply.
“That’s your main one. It gets more prominent depending on the emotion you’re trying to hide.
Mild irritation whenever I argue with you is a small pulse followed by the driest stare imaginable.
But full-on murderous rage?” A gust of air expelled from his nose.
“I’m surprised you have any teeth left with how hard you grind them. I can actually hear it.”
“Is that all?”
“Nope, you have this look . . . I can’t describe it, but it’s not your default aloof guise, it’s almost flatter?
You use it in a range of contexts. If someone says something stupid, if you’re stuck in a situation and you’d rather be anywhere else, if you disapprove .
. .” He reeled them off as if he had them memorised.
“It’s all about the circumstances. You did it when we came in here. It’s how I knew you were being judgy.”
“Hm, very observant,” I said, and he grabbed what looked like a medieval torture device. My interest was piqued. “What on earth is that for?”
“It’s a nutcracker.” Apt. “I’m surprised Lori doesn’t have one. I want to make the coffee and walnut cake from her recipe book, so I need one to crack open the walnuts.”
“Very well.”
He moved on, releasing an excitable sound I’d never heard before as he snatched up a selection of hollow wire shapes. At least they were in a box. “Cookie cutters,” he said, brandishing them like a trophy. “Now I can actually make proper gingerbread men instead of just melted-looking blobs.”
I lifted the item next to it. “Do you need a deformed pair of steel forceps too?”
His lips thinned. “That’s an aid for shaping meatballs.”
I glanced at it, the label confirming his statement.
I set it down.
“There’s another one,” he exclaimed, pointing at my face. “Your eye twitches when I prove you wrong or correct you. As if it royally pisses you off not knowing everything.”
“Careful, darling,” I pitched my voice low, relishing the way his pupils dilated. “It’s starting to sound like you pay very close attention to me.”
He huffed, spinning away, his cheeks flushing. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
His astute observations didn’t rankle me as much as they might have with anyone else.
I’d spent a lifetime conditioning my reactions, tempering any hint of expression that may pierce the surface and expose me.
It was how I’d been trained, groomed to be a controlled and unfeeling leader.
Emotions were a vulnerability, they splayed you open, and in my position that was dangerous.
I’d had little practice around animation.
My brother was the exception, but he restrained himself where it counted.
My mother was softer, but he’d been chastised for displaying it in front of me—and had been punished with our separation.
Anyone else I’d interacted with throughout my life had behaved similarly.
Calculated. Distant. They didn’t want to offer up any advantages to me, as I didn’t in return.
Dylan was expressive, though deciphering his every objective and cause had progressed slower than I’d anticipated.
It had taken time to interpret why he felt the way he did in certain situations, because his reactions were often peculiar to me.
He must have thought the same. Looking at me, seeing an unreadable, unfamiliar canvas staring back at him—my lack of response to affairs he would have exaggerated.
I’d disarmed around him, allowing him the opportunity to translate the mannerisms I obviously wasn’t quick enough to smother.
It was bewildering he even had the eagerness to do so.
We carried on, Dylan browsing while I quietly scrutinised what he chose.
The shop wasn’t never-ending, mercifully, and it wasn’t long before we reached the final aisle.
His arms were full, so I’d gone to the front door to grab a flimsy basket.
There were people at the opposite end of the row to Dylan when I returned: a young couple and an elderly omega.
I hadn’t thought anyone else was in here with how quiet it was.
“Thanks,” he said, dropping his loot into the basket and taking it from me.
I nodded, my attention drawn to the couple. The Alpha had her arms looped around the omega’s waist as he surveyed the shelves. They were laughing, the Alpha digging her fingers into the omega’s sides to coax a reaction. She kissed his neck, a tenderness in her expression I couldn’t place.
It looked . . . real.
“Will you stop it,” the omega chided, his voice laced with mirth, though he was scowling. “I’ll be quicker if you stop bloody tickling me.”
The Alpha huffed dramatically. “I’m bored. We haven’t even had dinner yet.”
“You’re such a whinger. I’m going to take my sweet time just to get on your nerves.”
She sucked her teeth. “I could use my command, get you to hurry up.”
He peered over his shoulder, a challenging fire in his eyes. “Try it, Bea, and we’ll see if you can still pop a knot after I’m finished with you.”
I tore my gaze away.
Dylan was beside me, witnessing the same scene.
“See . . .” He leaned in, his voice a whisper. He was clearly suppressing his mirth at the omega’s threat. “I’m not the only disobedient omega.”
He pivoted, resuming his scan of the disarrayed collection of oven mitts.
It wasn’t the first omega I’d seen today to prove his declaration correct, though this was a more cinematic visual.
We’d passed many with tattoos, coloured hair, piercings, clothes no omega in my circle would ever be permitted to wear.
There were many unmated. It was striking.
In truth, I’d never let myself truly regard them, never cared to view them differently.
Every time their smell assaulted my nose, I remembered my father, recalled my presentation and how he’d locked me in a room with omegas in heat—an attempt to “cure” my affliction.
I’d spent the night with them clambering over me, vying for my attention, regardless of my pain and disinterest. Instinct had taken over, but I’d felt like death in the morning, crawling out of the room covered in blood and vomit.
I was unable to knot, and my father never let a day go by without reminding me of his disappointment.
I’d based my entire perspective on one experience, had shunned them, resented them, because that single instance was all I saw. All I’d wanted to see.
Until I met Dylan.
Initially, I’d predicted he was like the others.
He had an attitude, and a resilience I’d never encountered, but what other goal could he possess besides my money, my genetics, my rank?
Selfishness. He hadn’t given me reason to assume it.
He never forced it. His impulses dictated, but he never took more than I was willing to give.
In fact, he resisted any time I tried. He’d unbalanced my impression of omegas from the start, though it was a recent development for me to become receptive to acknowledging it.