Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Emily
As I lead Jared up my porch steps, a tremble runs through me, along with an emotion far too close to panic.
Why does bringing Jared into my space for a couple of days feel so different from any other time I’ve had a visitor over?
Not that it happens often. It’s been a few months, in fact, since Dominic and his Omega, Chloe, needed a place to crash for the night.
It was the last time anyone came by my home, and it was an emergency, just like now.
Yet, this seems more personal. Is it because Jared’s interested in me? Was this a mistake?
Suddenly, my front door isn’t wood and paint, it’s the line I drew about opening my heart again after Auren walked out, and allowing Jared inside means breaking that promise to myself.
It’s only for the weekend. Come Monday, he’ll be gone, and everything will go back to normal.
My hand shakes as I pull out my key, and I miss the lock, the metal clacking on the plate.
Jared steps up beside me, and his fingers close around my wrist to still the tremor. “You okay?”
The warmth of his body melts into me, and his pheromones spike at our proximity, and it comes as a relief that he can’t sense when mine rise in response.
I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Instead of taking the key from me, he braces the knob with the heel of his palm so it won’t rattle and waits for me to prove how fine I really am.
I peek at him from the corner of my eye. The porch light lifts every bruise on his face into stark relief, the tape bridging his swollen nose, the purple bruises under his eyes, and the backpack hanging off one shoulder.
We’ve come this far. I can’t turn him away now.
I steady my grip, fit the key on the second try, and turn the tumbler. Yeast and cedar breathe out from the dark as the door swings open, and I reach for the switch. Light pools across the living room, laying my private life bare.
“Shoes by the mat,” I say. “Sit. I’ll get ice.”
His gaze bounces around the room, taking in the hand-crocheted throws folded along the couch, the driftwood table I carved last winter, the row of smooth wooden bowls along the mantel.
Through the archway to the kitchen, the proofing box glows on the counter, reminding me I still have bread to finish.
“You can put your bag down there.” I take his prescription bag from him and point to a spot near the hallway. “I’ll show you to the guest room after dinner.”
He crouches to undo his laces, slipping off his shoes to leave by the door before he follows directions and places his backpack by the hallway. “Can I help you with dinner?”
“Focus on healing for now. Kitchen is this way.” I lead him past the living room, where the overhead pendant lights gleam off polished surfaces. “Sit there.”
He perches on a chair at the small table tucked into a corner, his shoulders hunched.
Blood crusts beneath his nose despite the doctor’s cleaning, and the tape across his bridge pulls his skin tight.
The bruising has darkened in the hours since the punch, spreading across his cheekbones like watercolor.
I check his splint without touching it, studying the doctor’s work. The tape runs flat across the bridge, anchoring the plastic support. No bleeding around the edges. Good.
I open the freezer and pull out an ice pack, wrapping it in a clean dish towel. “Hold this to your cheek. I’ll set a timer.”
Jared accepts the bundle, pressing it to his face with a wince. “Cold.”
I take the pain medicine from the bag, read the directions, and pour water into a carved wooden cup, aware of the way he tracks my movements. “You need to eat before taking these.” I tap the bottle with one finger. “Doctor’s orders.”
The bread in the proofing box has risen a bit above the double line, so I pull it out and shape it into a quick boule, creating the perfect surface tension and pinching the edges together through practice before I drop it into a floured banneton.
I had hoped to eat this with the soup in the slow cooker tonight, but now it will have to bake tomorrow. I cover the banneton in plastic wrap and move it to the fridge to cold ferment overnight.
Jared shifts on the stool, the ice pack dripping condensation onto the towel. “Your home is beautiful. I didn’t expect—”
When he stops, I look over to see color creeping up his neck beneath the bruising. “Didn’t expect what?”
He gestures with his free hand. “I don’t know. So… personal, I guess. How much of all this is handmade?”
“Most of it.” I don’t say I made it with someone else in mind. “The things that matter, anyway.”
I open the cupboard for bowls, the familiar routine of feeding someone a groove my body remembers while my mind resists. “Are you allergic to anything?”
“No.” He sounds stronger now, the ice numbing the worst of the pain. “I eat everything.”
When I turn back, I find him watching me with an expression I can’t interpret.
“Good.” I lift the lid on the slow cooker and stir the soup with more force than necessary. “Because there aren’t a lot of options this late at night.”
His laugh surprises me, genuine despite his injuries. “After today, I’m not in a position to be picky. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be able to taste much.”
The comment catches me off guard. There are different levels of scent-blindness, with some Alphas unable to detect pheromones, while others can’t pick up even everyday odors.
Curiosity gets the better of me. “Because of the busted nose? Or…?”
Confusion crinkles his eyes before it clears. “Oh, yeah, it’s because of the busted nose. Only my pheromone pathways are underdeveloped.”
His head drops. “I’ve been through a couple of surgeries to try to fix them, but nothing stuck.”
My teeth clench at the pain behind the words. I hate the word fix when it’s tied to a body that was never broken. “Who said you needed fixing? Doctors, or people who didn’t want to adjust to you?”
He shrugs with one shoulder, eyes on the water drops on the table. “Both.”
I set the ladle in the pot and turn back to him. “Don’t let others decide you’re broken just so their lives are simpler. You’re fine the way you are.”
His throat works. “It would make things easier for everyone else.”
“It makes things easier for people who never learned to pay attention.” I fill a bowl with soup and slide it in front of him, placing a spoon next to his hand. “Eat a few bites. Then we do the pills.”
When he lowers the ice pack to take a cautious bite, the towel’s soaked through, so I trade it for a dry one and guide it back to his face. Eating proves clumsy, but his fifteen minutes aren’t over yet.
“I can’t sense pheromones the way others do,” he admits, “so I miss the cues. I don’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re not a problem.” I fold a hand towel under his forearms so the edge of the table won’t aggravate his bruises. “If you want, I’ll tell you what the room is doing. I’ll tell you when your pheromones are spiking and when it’s safe. We can build different cues.”
Hope and wariness war on his young features. “You’d do that?”
“Eat,” I say, the tightness in my chest almost unbearable. “Then meds. Then bed.”
He obeys, and we eat in companionable silence until the timer beeps.
I gesture for him to remove the ice pack. “Fifteen minutes off now.”
He complies, setting it on the counter. The skin beneath is pale from the cold, but the tape is holding, and the swelling is ugly but stable.
“I’m sorry about the surgeries,” I say as I settle at the table with my own bowl of soup. “No one should have cut into you to make other people comfortable.”
He releases a long, shaky breath. “Thank you.”
I don’t tell him how part of me was relieved. He’s not a young Alpha overwhelmed by my pheromones, and I can never use them to manipulate or take advantage of him.
I also don’t tell him how part of me stung when I learned he’d never read my scent the way others do.
When his bowl is empty, I take it and stand. “There’s more if you want it.”
He accepts with a nod, and I refill it, noticing the way his shoulders relax with each passing minute in the safety of my kitchen.
After we finish eating, I clear the bowls, scrubbing them clean in the sink and placing them in the drying rack. The quiet domesticity feels foreign with someone else watching.
Walking to the pill bottle I left on the counter, I count out a dose. “Here. Instructions say every six hours with food.”
He accepts them without question, swallowing with a wince.
I swap his ice pack for a fresh one and hold it out. “Fifteen more minutes with this. After that, we’ll get you settled.”
The medication works fast, his shoulders loosening as we wait. His posture softens, edges blurring as the pain recedes to manageable levels.
“Thank you, Emily.” His words come warmer now, wrapped in a contented purr that does things to my stomach. “Not many people would do this for someone they barely know.”
I focus on wiping down the counter, removing invisible crumbs. “We’re coworkers, and you needed a place to stay.”
He presses the ice pack to his nose. “Is that all it is?”
The simple question hangs in the air between us. When I heard what happened, I never once questioned his innocence. I believe in him, without evidence, without reason beyond instinct. An instinct I’ve learned to distrust after Auren showed me how easily it could be manipulated.
“The medication is kicking in.” I tap the counter twice. “Time for bed. You need rest.”
He sways when he stands, and I cup his elbow until he finds his balance.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, straightening. “It hit me all at once.”
My hand falls away from his arm, the brief contact leaving an imprint of warmth against my palm. “Come on, I’ll show you to the guest room.”
As I lead him into the living room, his gaze settles on the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, the pattern creating ridges of texture in the dim light.
He gestures toward it. “Did you knit that, too?”
I stiffen. “Crocheted, but yes.”