Chapter 11 Alex
Jonah is gone when I wake up. I roll over onto the cool sheets where he had been lying and bury my nose in the pillow, breathing in the remnants of his scent.
That was the hottest fuck I’ve ever had in my life. The hottest heat I’ve ever spent within an omega. Who would have known that little mister prissy was so bossy?
And pushing his buttons made him even more so. One thing I’ll say for him, that’s an omega who knows what he likes. If you’d asked me a week ago what Jonah would be like in bed, I’d have bet that he’d just lie there with his legs up waiting for it to be over.
It turns out I’m an idiot, but then I already knew that.
I also know that Jonah and I need to talk.
This entire marriage thing has been a whirlwind.
I’ve had newspaper interviews where I’ve spoken to the journalist for longer in a half an hour than I have my own husband in the whole time we’ve known each other.
We got off on the wrong foot and that’s my fault. I can be an asshole as well as being an idiot.
Whether we like it or not, we’re stuck with each other. I also don’t mind admitting that, after that incredible sex, right now I quite like that I’m stuck with him. It might not be as bad as either of us think as long as I don’t fuck it up.
But first I need to clear my head. I roll out of bed and towards my dressing room. I need a run.
Five minutes later, the morning air hits my exposed skin as I push through the estate's back gates, my breath forming small clouds.
My muscles protest the first few strides—a pleasant ache that reminds me of the last three days. Every twinge brings back flashes of Jonah above me, beneath me, demanding and desperate by turns.
I pick up my pace, feet pounding against the gravel path that winds through the estate.
I need to run until my lungs burn, until I can't think about the way he looked at me when he came, the way he said my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
My omega—my husband—is in the house right now, maybe showering, maybe—
Stop.
I’ve just spent three days straight having sex and I still want more. I veer toward the longer route, the one that loops around to the front gates. I need the distance. I need to clear my head before I face him again so that I don’t say or do something fundamentally stupid again.
As I round the final bend toward the main road, I spot a cluster of photographers huddled around their cars at the front gate, cameras with telephoto lenses at the ready.
One spots me and there's sudden movement, lenses swinging in my direction. I slow to a jog, then stop entirely about fifty meters from the gate, hands on my hips as I catch my breath.
"Morning, Alex!" one calls out cheerfully. "How's married life treating you?"
"Any comment on your wedding night?" another shouts.
"Is Jonah adjusting to the estate?"
I roll my eyes so hard it actually hurts. Clearly, they have nothing better to do than camp outside private property at—I glance at my watch—eight in the morning.
Part of me is tempted to give them something to really write about. Drop my running shorts right here and moon the bastards. Let them print that in their gossip rags.
Colborne Heir Bares All—Again!
The thought of Diana's reaction stops me. She'd skin me alive, maybe even literally.
I turn my back on them deliberately, ignoring their continued shouts, and begin the run back to the house. The endorphins have done their job, somewhat. My head feels clearer, even if my thoughts are no less complicated.
The kitchen door is unlocked when I return, and the moment I step inside, I'm hit by a wall of scent.
Eggs, bacon, fresh bread, coffee. It smells like someone robbed a five-star hotel's breakfast buffet.
But underneath all that is Jonah's scent, thick with.
I find him pulling something from one of the ovens. He’s wearing an apron over jeans and a t-shirt that clings in all the right places.
"Morning," I say carefully, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water.
He spins around, an overly bright smile on his face. "Good morning! I made breakfast. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I made a bit of everything."
He gestures to the spread on the kitchen island—and hell, it really is everything. Pancakes, French toast, eggs three different ways, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, pastries that look homemade...
"You made all this? Mrs. Atkins usually cooks." I say, downing my water in long gulps.
"I thought..." His hands flutter nervously, a gesture I've never seen from him before. Not even when we first met. "I wanted to cook for you”
The words sit wrong. This isn't the Jonah from the last three days, the one who pushed me against the wall and told me exactly what he was going to do to me. This is some stepford omega version, all sweetness and subservience. I like the other version better.
"After what happened," he continues, voice dropping, "I thought you might want... I mean, I know I wasn't exactly proper during my heat. I was demanding and difficult and—"
"Jonah." I set down my water glass. "You were perfect."
His cheeks flush, but he turns away, busying himself with plating food. "Here, sit. You must be hungry after your run."
The truth is, I never eat first thing in the morning. My stomach doesn't wake up until at least eleven, sometimes later. All I want is water to rehydrate and coffee to feel human again. But he's pushing a loaded plate in front of me, hovering anxiously, and I find myself picking up a fork.
The eggs are perfect—fluffy, seasoned just right. I manage three bites before my stomach rebels. Not because of the food, but because my body simply doesn't want food right now. I set down my fork carefully.
His scent sours immediately. "You don't like it."
"It's not that—"
"I can make something else. What do you usually have? I should have asked, I'm sorry, I just assumed—"
"Jonah." I push the plate away slightly. "The food is perfect. I'm just not a breakfast person. I usually just have coffee until lunch."
But he's not listening, not really. He's already pulling the plate away, movements sharp and jerky. "Of course. I'll remember for next time."
"There's nothing to remember. The food is incredible, I'm just—"
"I was being too presumptuous," he says, and there's something anxious in his tone now. "After how I behaved during the heat, I'm trying too hard to compensate—"
"That's not—" I start, but his words make me pause.
He is trying to compensate. He’s trying to be the "proper" omega after being so bossy during his heat. He thinks he needs to make up wanting what he wanted. He doesn’t realize how normal that is.
"Jonah, we need to talk."
"Yes." He sets the plate in the sink with a clatter, then turns back to face me. His entire demeanor changes. The anxiety melts away, replaced by something bright and hopeful. "Yes, we do. About the possibility that I might be pregnant. I know that I belong with my alpha but I’d like our children to spend at least a little time with my family too. We haven’t really discussed child-rearing. "
My coffee mug freezes halfway to my lips. "What?"
" =The timing is perfect, actually." A real smile spreads across his face, the first genuine one I've seen. "Peak fertility during a heat, and we certainly..." He blushes. "You didn't hold back. We might have made a baby, Alex."
My mind goes completely blank except for one thought racing in circles: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"You're not on contraception," I say, and it comes out as a statement rather than a question. Of course, he isn’t. I really am an idiot.
Someone like Jonah probably doesn’t even know what it is. And if he does, I’m guessing he thinks it’s a sin to take it.
I should have thought of it, but I was too distracted by the feeling of Jonah under me, on top of me. Nothing but the insanely wonderful feeling of being inside him hour after glorious hour.
His smile falters slightly. "No. Why would I be?"
"Jesus Christ." I push back from the counter, running both hands through my hair. "I didn't even think... God, I'm an idiot."
“Don’t blaspheme.”
I stare at him, then take a deep breath.
“Sorry, I’ll try not to.” I force myself to stop pacing and look at him.
Really look at him. His face has gone pale, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
"I guess I assumed you were on something.
Most omegas are these days, for heat management if nothing else. "
"I've always managed my heats naturally." He lifts his chin slightly, and there's a flash of the Jonah from the heat—defiant, sure of himself. "My mother says artificial hormones interfere with finding a proper match. That when I met the right alpha, everything would happen naturally."
"Naturally," I repeat, feeling slightly hysterical. "Right. Of course."
"You really didn't think about it." It's not a question this time. There's hurt in his voice now, maybe disappointment. "During all of that, you never once thought about the possibility of children?"
I know this is a minefield. Every wrong word will be an explosion. But I've never been good at lying, especially not about important things.
"No," I admit. "I didn't."
"But surely you want children? You're an alpha. Every alpha wants—"
"I don't." The words come out harsher than intended, and I see him flinch. I try to soften my tone. "I never have. It's not... I'm not built for it. The whole family thing, white picket fence, little ones running around."
"Never?" His voice is very small now.
"Never."
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I can see him processing this information, watch as his dreams—dreams I hadn't even known existed until five minutes ago—crumble behind those whiskey eyes.
"But we're married," he says finally. "This whole arrangement…what did you think would happen?"
"I thought we'd figure it out as we went. That maybe you felt the same way, or that we'd cross that bridge when we came to it."
"Cross that bridge?" His voice rises slightly. "Alex, I'm an omega. My whole body is designed around bearing children. Did you think I'd just ignore that forever?"
"Some omegas want children. Not all do. It's not the Middle Ages anymore, Jonah. You have choices—"
"How do you think babies are made, Alex? Because that’s what we’ve been doing for three days."
He’s not wrong. I can’t argue there. Not without making myself look like even more of an idiot and I’m reaching champion levels of idiocy right now. I reach for the only real argument I have. “I’d make a terrible father. You have to agree with that.”
We stare at each other. I don’t know that to say. I don’t want kids. I’ve never wanted kids. Someone as spoilt and fucked up as me shouldn’t procreate. That’s just basic common sense.
"If I am pregnant," Jonah says quietly, "what then?"
The question hangs in the air. I can feel my alpha instincts stirring, possessive and protective at the thought of him carrying my child.
It does something to me, something primal and overwhelming.
But it's tangled up with fear and resistance and the bone-deep knowledge that I would be terrible at this.
My parents are dead. I barely remember what a functional family looks like. How am I supposed to be a father when I can’t even manage being a husband?
"I don't know," I admit.
He laughs. "Of course you don't. You haven't thought about any of this, have you? The marriage, the future—it's all just another mess for Ricky to clean up."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" He pulls off the apron, tossing it onto the counter with more force than necessary. "Tell me, Alex, what exactly did you think would happen? We'd stay married but live separate lives? What was your plan?"
Each option sounds worse when he says it out loud. The truth is, I didn't have a plan beyond surviving Diana's ultimatum and keeping my inheritance.
"I thought we'd have time," I say finally. "And if I’m honest, yes. I thought the most likely outcome was divorce once we’d fulfilled our obligations to the Bureau. We’re not exactly compatible."
An expression of shock crosses his face, as devastating as if I’d suddenly punched him. He swallows.
"I don’t... I don’t believe in divorce. Marriage is sacred." He wraps his arms around himself, and for the first time since I met him, he looks small. Young. Vulnerable.
"Jonah—"
"Don't." He holds up a hand. "Just... don't. I need to think."
He turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway. "I’m not completely naive. I know that there are ways you can divorce me if you want to but this isn’t right. Marriage should mean something.”
He looks so absolutely miserable that I can’t stand it. I’m across the room in a second. I try to pull him in for a hug but he shoves me away. “Don’t. Don’t touch me.”
I step back and that’s when we both scent the burning. Whatever he has in the oven is starting to smoke. He shoves past me and grabs the oven mitts, opening the door to pull out something that might be cinnamon rolls. He looks like he’s about to cry.
“Jonah--”
“Leave me alone.”
I stand there, not sure what to do.
“Leave me alone!”
I do. I turn my back and leave him to his food mountain. As I climb the stairs to my study, I can smell his distress seeping through the walls. I want to go to him, comfort and soothe and fix this. I can’t.
I close my study door and pour myself three fingers of whiskey, breakfast of champions. The burn helps, a little. Makes it easier to ignore the voice in my head asking what the hell I think I'm doing.
Making a mess, as usual. It's what I do best.