Chapter 38
chapter
thirty-eight
“I don’t give a fuck,” I roar. “Get it done. On my authority.”
Hanging up, I drop my phone to my desk and shove my hands into my hair.
Fucking incompetence. I need Serena’s adoption paperwork dissolved immediately. She shouldn’t have to live one more goddamn minute with that scum’s name attached to hers.
I’m not waiting for our lawyers to get their heads out of their asses. As far as I’m concerned, if they can’t figure it out today, I can find new lawyers tomorrow.
The iPhone clatters down beside the spot where my fern used to sit. The latest in a long line of victims. With a wistful pang, I wonder what Serena would think of my inability to keep a houseplant alive.
She probably wouldn’t even be surprised, given how bad an alpha you’ve been .
The bitter truth swirls around my mind, darkening my mood even further.
I’m already pissed as hell about what she went through. And my entire back is aching from sleeping on the floor of Spencer’s bedroom.
I didn’t want to wake anyone when I got in from the press conference, but when I found them all sleeping in the same room for the very first time, I knew I’d never forgive myself if I walked away. Not to mention—after six hours out of the house, the pain from missing Serena was gutting me.
I would sleep on a bed of nails if it meant being closer to her.
After I tried to open our shuttered bond and accidentally flooded her last night, I begrudgingly put the partition back up. So I know my rage isn’t flowing through to her right now.
Which means this sudden urgency snapping through her blood is all hers.
I brace myself for her fury, knowing I deserve it but not regretting my latest decisions one bit.
I need to know that man will never see the light of day again. And the press needs to know she’s our pack’s omega.
Most importantly, she needs to know that I’m proud to have her. That I have never—not for one second in this entire sordid mess—been ashamed of her.
I claimed her. And I will do it over and over, in every way I’m allowed.
Footsteps patter down the hall, moving too quickly to be casual and too lightly to be one of the guys. When my office doors fly open, I’m already waiting for her, standing beside my desk, ready to take whatever she wants to dish at me .
She pauses in the doorway, her breasts heaving under Jonah’s rumpled T-shirt. My mouth opens, ready to explain calmly.
But she moves faster, scurrying over and looping her arms around my waist, ducking her head against my chest.
“Thank you,” she breathes, shaking. “Just—thank you.”
I embrace her automatically, even while shock echoes through my body. She’s here to thank me ?
And this swell of urgency I feel isn’t anger or hatred it’s… gratitude ?
Dear God —What else have I gotten wrong? How accurate are these feelings coming through? Or is it just me, thinking I know what’s happening without ever really asking her how she feels?
One of my palms cups the back of her head while the other winds around to her opposite hip, securing her against me.
“I don’t want you to thank me,” I reply.
I truly can’t stomach it. Every time she offers even a speck of appreciation, I want to flay myself alive.
Something about hearing me say so must upset her, though, because her scent darkens and her stomach flips.
I sigh, trying to explain, “I’ll never deserve it, after what I’ve done to you. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make all of this up to you, but I don’t want your gratitude. It only throws everything even more out of balance. I owe you . Let me try to make good on that.”
But our little omega just presses herself closer and whispers the words again.