Twenty-Three
TWENTY-THREE
Mia
EMIEL LOOKED TERRIBLE . There was no other word for it. Either I’d been too out of it last night to really register the extent of his injuries, or else the swelling had gotten worse since the fight; I didn’t know which.
I’d seen the amount of abuse he’d taken in the cage fight. I’d just managed to convince myself that since he was an alpha, and he’d been upright and functioning afterward, he’d be okay.
And, to be fair... he probably would be okay. Even if Zalen was angry with him, I was sure the soft-hearted alpha would’ve dragged Emiel to a hospital if his injuries seemed truly dangerous.
“Hi,” Luca greeted cautiously. “I’m guessing you heard all of that?”
“Some.” Emiel rested a hand on the doorframe, his upper body hunched inward like his ribs were hurting him.
I imagined they were —Zalen had mentioned one or more possible cracked ribs.
Luca’s eyes flicked to mine and then back, as though seeking permission to share what was going on. I swallowed and nodded.
“Okay, so... long story short,” he said, “Mia’s married to a dickwad, and she’s finally leaving him.”
“It’s only a trial separation,” I protested weakly.
“A trial separation during which you’ll be leaving him,” Luca retorted. He hesitated, clearing his throat, and turned his attention back to Emiel. “I was about to tell her that we’ve got loads of room in this place, and maybe she could crash here until she gets things figured out... if you and the others are okay with it.”
Even after my various brief interactions with Emiel, I didn’t feel like I had a read on the big alpha at all. It didn’t help that—except for the brief hint of bergamot and spice in Luca’s car last night—I couldn’t scent his pheromones to gauge his mood.
Now, the silence as he contemplated Luca’s words stretched uncomfortably. I had to fight the urge to fill it with more babbling... to repeat that I could stay with my parents if necessary, or to try and reassure him that I wouldn’t intrude on his space if they decided to let me stay here.
Was he silently judging me for my failing marriage? Was he wishing he could escape this conversation and go grab a bottle of ibuprofen from the bathroom? I had no idea. His battered features might not have held quite the same scary blankness that they had in the fighting ring, but there was still no obvious expression to interpret.
“If you’re staying here, will you show Zalen how to cook pasta so it doesn’t come out mushy?” he asked, a second before I would have broken and started dumping random word-vomit into the silence.
“... Yes?” I replied carefully.
“Okay,” he said, and limped away without another word.
Luca blinked after him. “I might’ve mentioned before that Emiel doesn’t really do social interaction.”
“You did,” I agreed. “Thanks, by the way. I wanted to ask you about staying here. But then I got here, and it felt like asking would make things weird.”
Luca retrieved the spoons and the ice cream. “I can’t promise that it won’t make things weird, after everything that’s happened. Also, I really do have to talk to the others first.” His smile looked strained. “It’s not my house. I just crash here.”
I nodded rapidly. “No, I understand. Like I said, I’m visiting my parents Monday evening. If you have an answer by then, that would be great. But if you don’t, or if the answer is no, that is absolutely, one-hundred percent fine.”
“I’ll get you an answer,” Luca said. “Promise. Now, let’s go eat strawberry chocolate-chip ripple and watch a stupid sitcom or something.”
“Yes, please,” I said meekly, and followed him out of the kitchen.
Sunday at the restaurant wasn’t much more pleasant than Saturday had been. Everything still hurt. I was still sleep-deprived. My eye looked, if it was possible, even worse than before.
The only high point in the day was my brief call to Shaniqua Jones, letting her know that Nat and I felt she would be a good fit for the restaurant and asking when she could start work. I could practically feel her elation over the phone. Even better, she said she could start on Tuesday, meaning Isaiah would still be around to help train her for the first few days.
I muddled through the brunch, lunch, and dinner services without fucking anything up too badly, and fell into bed that night without having heard anything from Luca. I was alone in the house when I woke up around nine a.m. on Monday, feeling slightly more human than I had the day before.
Omegas didn’t heal as fast as alphas, but we still healed quicker than most betas. The ugly green and yellow bruising on my face and hip was going to take awhile to fade, but a lot of the puffiness around my eye was gone, thank heavens.
I wondered idly where Nat was, and if he’d been home at all last night. Then I realized with a startled jolt that if we were formally separating, his whereabouts weren’t really my concern anymore. Pausing in my liberal application of foundation and concealer, I stared in the bathroom mirror and let that sink in for a minute.
Why did I feel like crying again?
I blinked rapidly and stared up toward the ceiling, unwilling to sacrifice the work I’d already put in on my makeup. Christ, I needed to keep it together if I was seeing my parents today. Trying to sneak the facial bruising past my mom was going to be bad enough. If I showed up with eyes red from crying, it would be lights out for any kind of calm discussion regarding what was happening with Nat.
Bottling everything up, I went and made myself a very non-gourmet late breakfast consisting of grapefruit, toast, and stale Froot Loops with almond milk. Such was the glamorous life of a Michelin-star chef.
It was early afternoon, and I was catching up on some paperwork for the new hires when Luca texted.
Hi. The others are okay with you staying here for a few weeks. But Zalen says anything longer than that will require a more in-depth discussion with all of us present.
A strange combination of relief and trepidation squirmed inside my stomach. It was true that I wasn’t at all enthusiastic about the idea of moving in with my parents again at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. But the prospect of shacking up with not one, but two guys I’d recently had sex with was also pretty daunting. Not least because I didn’t know for sure if those encounters had been one-offs.
Would they assume sex was on the table? Would they assume it wasn’t ?
Thank everyone for me , I texted back. And tell Zalen to schedule a thirty-minute block of time for Pasta 101 at his earliest convenience. Mushy pasta is an affront against the natural order.
LOL , Luca replied.
My parents lived in a modest mid-century split level in Florissant. Dad’s family had moved here from Greece when he was five, and he met my mom when they were in high school.
They were both betas, and neither of them had ever expected to have an omega daughter. They’d been the most loving and supportive family anyone could ask for. But as the years passed, I was coming to understand that they had raised me more or less as a beta child—simply because they didn’t know how else to do it.
“Hello, sweetheart!” Mom greeted, wrapping me in a hug as I smiled and entered the house.
“It’s good to see you, koukla mou ,” my father boomed, taking his turn to embrace me. “You are too busy and successful these days. You need to visit us more often.”
“Sorry, Dad,” I told him, accepting a kiss on the cheek and trying not to wince as the half-healed bruise there throbbed.
“You’re here now, darling,” Mom said. “Come in, come in. It may not be haute cuisine, but I’ll have dinner on the table in a few minutes.”
“Don’t say that,” I teased. “You taught me everything I know about food.”
She scoffed and bustled off to get our meal ready. When we were alone, Dad gave me a critical once-over, tilting his head as though to get a better look at me.
“You look very glamorous tonight,” he observed. “Do you have a hot date with that husband of yours after you escape our clutches?”
I winced internally. “No, nothing like that. I’m, uh... just trying out a new look. Got tired of staring at the fine lines and dark circles under my eyes.”
“What nonsense,” my father said, waving me toward the comfortable old couch in the living room. “You are beautiful, and you will always be beautiful—even when you are old and gray. You shouldn’t fall for all that Instagram nonsense about makeup and Botox!”
I laughed, although it felt strained. “All right. No Botox, I promise.”
“Come on in and load up your plates,” my mother called from the dining room.
Relieved for the escape from my father’s focused attention, I led the way to the familiar, kitschy dining room, with its antique hutch full of fine china and ceramic roosters. The table was set for three, and laden with a hodge-podge of American and Greek comfort food.
My stomach rumbled, Froot Loops long forgotten.
“Dig in!” my mother said cheerfully, and the three of us applied ourselves to the food for a pleasant few minutes.
Once my initial hunger was sated, my nerves had me pushing the remaining food around my plate as I picked at it, stomach churning. It didn’t take long for my mother to pick up on it.
“What’s the matter, dear?” she asked, frowning. “You look like someone contemplating a walk to the gallows. Has something happened?”
I set my fork down, steeling myself.
“Sorry,” I said. “Yes, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, and there’s no good way to sugar-coat it. Nat and I... we’re, um... we’re separating.”