Chapter 9 Alex
My neck feels like someone took a baseball bat to it. That's what I get for passing out on a hotel sofa in a five-thousand-dollar tuxedo after drinking my body weight in champagne.
The suite is painfully bright, morning sun streaming through windows. My mouth tastes like death. The usual Sunday morning special, except this time I'm married.
Married.
I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. The room spins lazily, and I have to grip the sofa arm to keep from sliding off. That's when I notice him.
Jonah's out on the terrace, silhouetted against the morning light. He's wearing pajamas. Actual, honest-to-God pajamas—soft blue cotton that makes him look about sixteen. He's got a book propped on his knee and a cup of coffee at his elbow, looking fresh and clean and absolutely untouchable.
Who the fuck brings pajamas on their wedding night?
Someone who has no intention of having sex with their groom, that's who.
The memory of last night hits me like a freight train. His hands pushing against my chest. That look of pure disgust on his face. You're drunk.
Of course I was drunk. It was my wedding. A wedding to someone who can barely stand to be in the same room as me, who flinches when I touch him, who looks at me like I was something he'd scrape off his shoe when I try to—
What? Be nice? Actually show him I wanted him?
I'd been genuinely attracted to him last night. Not just the physical pull that's been driving me insane since we met, but actually liking him for a moment. The way he'd felt against me, the little sounds he'd made when I'd touched his hair...
Then he'd pushed me away with that look of revulsion.
I must have made some sound because Jonah's head turns slightly. He knows I'm awake. But he doesn't acknowledge me, just turns the page of his book.
Building a Blessed Marriage: An Omega's Guide.
Fuck me.
I force myself up, every muscle screaming in protest. I smell like a distillery. My tux is wrinkled. I look and smell like a disaster of a human being who couldn't even make it through his wedding night without fucking everything up.
The coffee is calling my name, but first I need water. Definitely a shower. Maybe death.
I stumble toward the bathroom, catching a glimpse of the bed as I pass. The covers are barely disturbed, pulled tight except for the indent where Jonah slept. Alone. On his wedding night.
The shower helps, hot water sluicing away the stench. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink, trying not to think about how this was supposed to go. Not that I wanted some fairy tale wedding night, but maybe something more than my omega reading marriage guides while I snored off a bender.
When I emerge, dressed in clean clothes and having brushed my teeth, Jonah's moved inside. He's sitting at the suite's dining table, that damn book still in hand, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
"I asked Ricky to arrange a car," he says without looking up. His voice is perfectly neutral, polite and distant as a hotel concierge. "It should be here in twenty minutes."
He's learning. He’s already figuring out how to navigate this world, how to get what he needs without me.
"Good," I manage, throat raw.
He finally looks at me then, those whiskey eyes taking in my damp hair, my bloodshot eyes. Disappointment flickers across his face or maybe it’s pity. I can't tell and I hate that I care.
"There's coffee," he says, nodding toward the cart. "And aspirin."
The thoughtfulness of it makes me feel worse. Here he is, taking care of me even after I abandoned him at our reception, got blackout drunk, and passed out fully clothed.
"Thanks," I mutter, downing three aspirin with coffee that burns my throat.
The silence stretches between us. I can smell his honey-vanilla scent, sweeter than usual, making my alpha instincts stir despite my hangover.
The car ride to the estate is excruciating. Twenty-three miles of absolute silence. Jonah sits pressed against his door, as far from me as physically possible, staring out at the countryside rolling past.
I want to say something. Apologize maybe. Explain that I wasn't trying to maul him last night, that I actually just wanted to dance with my husband at our wedding. But the words stick in my throat, choked by the memory of how he'd looked at me.
His scent fills the car, that honey sweetness almost cloying now. It makes my head spin in a different way than the hangover, makes me want to slide across the leather seat and bury my face in his neck. But I don't. I can't. Not after last night.
When we finally pull up to the estate, Jonah takes a deep breath. It's the first real reaction I've gotten from him all morning.
The house sprawls across twelve acres of manicured grounds, all stone and gleaming windows. It's been in my family for almost a century, though I barely spend any time here.
Ricky's already there, efficient as always, directing staff to move things inside. I notice Jonah's entire life appears to fit in two modest suitcases. My closet alone could swallow them whole.
"I can bring those in," I offer, reaching for the cases. Some pathetic attempt at being a good alpha, at apologizing for last night without actually saying the words.
"Never mind," Jonah says, pulling them back. "I can manage."
Of course he can. He's made that abundantly clear.
Mrs. Atkins appears in the doorway, the housekeeper who's been here since I was a kid. Her face is carefully neutral as she takes in our obvious discomfort with each other.
"Mr. Colborne, Mr... Colborne," she says, stumbling slightly over Jonah's new name. "Welcome home. I've prepared the master suite."
The master suite. One bed. The assumption that we'll be sharing it like normal newlyweds.
Jonah's cheeks flush pink, and I catch him glancing at me sideways. We both know what's supposed to happen.
"Actually," I say, "Mr. Colborne will be taking the blue room."
Jonah’s made it more than clear he doesn’t want me. I’m not going to force him to share a bed with me. I have many failings. Forcing unwilling omegas isn’t one of them.
Mrs. Atkins blinks. "The blue room, sir?"
"Yes. The one in the east wing."
As far from my room as possible while still being in the same house.
Something flashes across Jonah's face but he just nods, following Mrs. Atkins inside with his two small suitcases.
I give him the tour because it seems like what I should do. We walk through rooms after room, dead Colbornes watching us from portraits on the walls.
"This is the library," I say, gesturing to walls of leather-bound books no one's touched in years.
Jonah's eyes light up for the first time all day. "Can I...?"
"It's your house too now." The words come out colder than intended. "Do whatever you want."
We continue through the formal dining room (seats thirty), the conservatory (my mother's, once), the game room (vintage everything), the pool house (heated, rarely used). Each room seems to make Jonah smaller, more out of place.
"It's very... large," he says finally.
"You'll get used to it."
But looking at him standing in the middle of the grand foyer, dwarfed by marble columns and crystal chandeliers, I'm not sure either of us will.
"I should unpack," he says.
"Right. Yes. I'll... I have work to do."
I don't. But we both need space, need to figure out how to exist in the same house without combusting.
I retreat to my study, pouring myself a whiskey despite it being barely noon. The burn helps settle my nerves, helps me stop thinking about how Jonah looked in those pajamas, clean and untouchable as fresh snow.
An hour later, I can't stand it anymore. The house feels different with him in it. His scent is everywhere, seeping into the air, making my alpha instincts go haywire. I need to check on him. Make sure he's... what? Settling in? Not escaping through a window?
I find him in the blue room, unpacking. He's changed out of his traveling clothes into simple jeans and a t-shirt that clings in all the right places. When he reaches up to put something on a high shelf, the shirt rides up, revealing a strip of pale skin that makes my mouth go dry.
"Need help?" I ask from the doorway.
He spins around, cheeks flushed. "No, alpha. I'm fine."
But he's not fine. His pupils are dilated, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cool air. And his scent... God, his scent is intoxicating, honey mixed with something richer, muskier.
"You look warm," I observe.
"It's nothing." He turns back to his unpacking, but his hands shake slightly.
That's when it hits me. The heightened scent. The flush. The distraction. The way he'd been overwhelmed at the reception.
He's going into heat. Maybe not today, but soon. Within the next day or two at most.
I don’t think he knows. He’s young but he’s also sheltered. For the first time, I wonder if he even knows what’s supposed to happen on a wedding night. Maybe that backwards cult he grew up in hasn’t told him.
"Jonah," I start, but my phone buzzes. Diana's name flashes on the screen.
"What?" I bark into the phone.
"Dinner. Tonight. The Marshalls are in town and they want to meet your new husband." Her tone brooks no argument. "Seven sharp. Wear the navy suit."
"Diana, it’s supposed to be our honeymoon.”
“Oh please. Seven. Sharp." She hangs up.
"Problem?" Jonah asks, still focused on folding his clothes.
"We have to go to dinner tonight. Business thing."
He nods, then sways slightly, catching himself on the dresser.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine," he insists, but there's a tremor in his voice.
The rest of the afternoon is torture. I try to work, but I can hear him moving around the house, can smell his scent getting stronger by the hour.
By five, I'm rock hard and hiding in my study, trying to think about anything except my omega wandering around my house, getting ready for his first heat.
When he comes downstairs at six-thirty, dressed in his wedding suit because it's probably the only formal thing he owns, I nearly swallow my tongue. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and he smells like every fantasy I've ever had.
"You look..." I stop myself. What am I going to say? Beautiful? Edible? Like you're about to go into heat and I want to pin you against the nearest wall?
"Appropriate?" he supplies, that bitter edge creeping back in.
"Yeah. Appropriate."
The dinner is awful. The Marshalls are old money, older values, and they spend the entire meal making subtle digs about Jonah's background while he sits there taking it with grace I wouldn't have managed.
Under the table, I can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell his distress mixing with the honey-musk of approaching heat.
"You must be so overwhelmed," Mrs. Marshall says with false sympathy. "Such a different world from what you're used to."
"I'm adjusting," Jonah says quietly.
"I'm sure Alexander is being patient with you." She smiles at me. "Alpha's duty to guide their omega, after all."
I want to tell her to fuck off, but Jonah's hand suddenly grips my thigh under the table, not seductive, just holding on like I'm an anchor. He's trembling.
"We should go," I say abruptly. "Jonah's not feeling well."
"Oh dear," Mrs. Marshall coos. "The wedding stress, no doubt."
We make our excuses and leave. In the car, Jonah curls against the door, arms wrapped around himself.
"I feel really sick." he whispers.
"You're going into heat," I say bluntly.
His head snaps up. "What? No. That's not... it's not time."
"Stress can trigger it early. The wedding, the move, being around a compatible alpha..."
"I can't. Not now. Not with you."
The words sting more than they should. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"That's not what I meant—"
"Look," I cut him off, "you need to understand what's happening. Your body is preparing for... for mating. The fever, the disorientation, the heightened arousal—it's all normal."
"I know what heat is," he snaps. "I'm not a child."
"Do you? Because you seem pretty surprised by it."
His cheeks burn brighter. "I've had heats before."
"Alone," I guess. "Never with an alpha."
His silence is answer enough.
"It's different when you have an alpha," I continue, trying to be clinical about it even as his scent makes me want to pull the car over. "Especially a compatible one. The intensity is... significant. You'll need—"
"I don't need anything from you." The words come out sharp, defensive.
"No? So you're planning to lock yourself in the blue room for three days and suffer through it alone while I'm right down the hall?"
"If necessary."
"That's idiotic."
"It's my choice."
"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, you don't even know what you're choosing. You've never experienced a heat with an alpha present. You have no idea what your body's going to demand."
"Then enlighten me, alpha," he says sarcastically. "Since you're such an expert."
The condescension in his tone makes my temper flare.
"Fine. You want the truth? In about twelve hours, you're going to be so desperate you'll beg anyone to touch you.
The fever will be so bad you'll feel like you're burning alive.
Every nerve in your body will scream for an alpha's cock, and guess what? I'm the only alpha around."
He recoils like I've slapped him. "You're disgusting."
"I'm honest. Something you might try sometime instead of pretending you don't want me."
"I don't—"
"Bullshit. I can smell it on you. Have been able to since the wedding. You want me so bad it's eating you alive, but you're too proud or too scared to admit it."
"At least I'm not a drunk."
"At least I'm not a frigid prude who pushes away the only person trying to help him!"
We glare at each other across the back seat, both breathing hard. His scent is overwhelming now, honey and heat and fury all mixed together. My cock is so hard it hurts, and I can see his pupils are blown wide despite his anger.
"I hate you," he whispers.
"Good. Hold onto that when your heat hits properly. Maybe it'll keep you from doing something you'll regret."
When we get back to the estate, he practically runs to his room, slamming the door hard enough to echo through the house.
I stand in the hallway, head resting against the wall, trying to get my breathing under control. In a few hours, he's going to go into full heat. His first with an alpha. My omega, suffering alone because we're both too proud and too damaged to figure this out.
The alpha in me wants to break down his door, to take care of him whether he wants it or not. The man in me knows that would be unforgivable.
So I do the only thing I can. I go to my room, pour myself another whiskey, and wait for the storm to break.
Through the walls, I can hear him pacing, distressed little sounds escaping. Each one is like a knife to the gut.