Chapter 7
7
RONAN
The minute I step out of the car, I’m locking the doors.
Twice.
The neighbourhood my mother continues to live in has never been safe.
It’s a cesspool of crime and danger that, if I had it my way, wouldn’t exist at all anymore.
Having a stubborn-as-a-mule beta for a mother makes things far too complicated than they need to be.
Too similar to an alpha, she’s hard-headed and protective.
There are few things that scare her because she considers herself a force to be reckoned with.
I’ve spent hours trying to convince her that playing hero isn’t all it’s shaped up to be.
The world can be a cutthroat place, and we have to be hard enough around the edges to withstand each of the blows it swings at us.
We can’t allow pride to put us in dangerous positions like the ones she inserts herself into every day that she continues to live in this rundown building.
It’s where she raised me and now my younger sister and can’t seem to leave behind.
After searching the area for anything out of the ordinary, I walk into the entrance of the building and use the panel on the wall to buzz up to Mom’s apartment.
It’s impossible not to notice every single crack in the windows and lifted corner of cheap linoleum on the floor as I wait for her to answer.
Everywhere I look, I find something else that makes my skin crawl with unease.
The place is beyond saving.
If I thought it would work and that I wouldn’t risk ruining my relationship with my mother, I’d petition for it to be bulldozed.
“Ronan?” my little sister says into the intercom.
“Yeah. Let me up.”
“A please would be nice one in a while,” she sasses before the door unlocks with a loud buzz.
I slip into the building and pull the door shut behind me, making sure the lock reengages before heading past the lone basement apartment and up to the second floor.
The stairs creak beneath my weight, and I consider for a minute that they’ll cave in, leaving me buried in the rubble of this rodent-infested junkyard.
It’s enough to have me taking them two at a time.
At least the owner of the place has the common sense to continue fixing the failing ventilation system.
Like the new law states, all living locations with occupants of both beta and omega designation, including ones like this that wouldn’t pass any form of code inspection, are required to blow de-scenter through the vents.
It’s a safety measure that I appreciate as an alpha with an omega sister.
The giant array of fake flowers looped around a Styrofoam wreath and hung on the apartment door makes it hard to mistake which one is theirs.
It’s a new addition that must have been added between last Sunday and today because I’m here every single weekend and sure as fuck wouldn’t have forgotten something that ugly.
Dropping a hand to the door handle, I give it a test wiggle and scowl when it turns completely.
“Why is the door unlocked?” I snap as I throw open the door and stomp inside the cramped apartment.
The door snags on the entry mat, causing the flimsy material to curl beneath it.
A collection of sneakers and high heels go tumbling when the corner of the door hits the shoe rack.
I stumble over a lip in the floor and into the apartment, my shoulder colliding with the wall.
“That’s karma for coming into my house and barking at me, Ronan,” Mom chastises, appearing around the corner.
She’s still in her fluffy pink robe and flannel pyjamas, but that doesn’t change how intimidating she appears.
I’ve wondered a few times if maybe she was born to be an alpha instead of a beta with her intimidating energy.
“I didn’t bark.”
She huffs, scurrying past me to kick the door shut.
“You may as well have. And in a house with an omega? Shame on you.”
“Are you done?”
Standing a handful of inches below my chin, she pulls me forward with the strength of a three-hundred-pound man.
“Yes, actually, I am. Move away from the door and have some breakfast. I made that disgusting oatmeal you love so much.”
Only once I’ve locked the door myself do I follow her through the cramped hallway.
The scent of fresh bread and blueberry jam is intense today, but I keep my complaints to myself.
I only mentioned enjoying oatmeal once in the last few years.
Mom has a habit of remembering all that shit, though.
Thinks it makes her a better mom.
Ciara is already slouched over the square, four-person table in the small nook in the kitchen with an array of schoolbooks splayed in front of her.
Her glasses slip down her face, and her mouth twists in concentration as her hand moves lightning quick over her notebook.
“Breakfast, Ciara,” Mom says, slipping into the L-shaped kitchen.
She uses a long-handled metal spoon to mix the contents of the pot on the stove.
“And I don’t want to hear any complaints today. I added lemon zest exactly like Ronan suggested.”
“It’s literal slop, Mom,” Ciara says with a sigh.
I step up behind her chair and read the words she’s writing in her notebook.
The letters are big and bubbly, far from what my chicken scratch looks like.
“History of music therapy?” I ask.
Ciara continues to write.
“It’s good to know you can still read. I worry with how often you get your ass cooked on the ice.”
“You’re funny.”
“I know.”
“Breakfast,” Mom chides, banging the spoon against the edge of the pot.
“Now.”
Leaving Ciara, I move to help Mom.
I make note of the loose hinge on the cupboard door as I grab three bowls and set them on the counter.
Mom steals the first one and fills it to the brim before handing it to me.
“Go sit,” she orders, shoving the bowl into my chest.
Taking it, I hiss at the heat against my palms and sit beside Ciara.
She glares up at me from over the rim of her glasses when my knee bumps the table leg.
“Stop that,” she says.
“Stop what?”
“Moving the table.”
“Was an accident.”
With a pointed huff, she returns to her work.
I watch closely as I scrape my spoon along the edge of the bowl, making that toe-curling noise we all hate.
Her teal-blue eyes are as sharp as knives when they lift from her papers and pin me.
“Do that again and I’ll shove that spoon up your?—”
“Ciara,” Mom warns, clucking her tongue.
A steaming bowl of oatmeal clunks on the table in front of my sister, making her shut up quicker than the order from our mom.
Her face pales slightly as she stares at it.
Mom takes the seat across from me and scoops some oatmeal onto her spoon.
“Your brother is too old for you to be bullying him.”
“I’m not bullying him,” Ciara argues.
I take a bite of the oatmeal and swallow instantly.
“You are.”
“Don’t try and put the blame on me. I’m only eighteen. My brain hasn’t finished growing yet.”
“Pretty sure that’s only true for guys.”
She flashes me her middle finger.
“That would explain why you’re still stupid.”
“Ciara,” Mom scolds, sounding far more tired than the first few times.
My sister drops her finger and waves at me.
“Fine. You’re not stupid.”
“That’s better. We have more important things to talk about than this,” Mom says, meeting my gaze.
Her brown eyes are the same shade as mine, but instead of swirling gold flecks, she has green ones.
And right now, there’s no mistaking the anger in them.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting forward in my seat.
“Do you want to tell me why when I went to pay the bill for Ciara’s first semester’s tuition, I was told it had already been taken care of?”
“Because I paid it last week.”
The muscles in her face tighten.
“Why?”
“You’re not paying for her education. If you’re going to keep living here, then I’m going to pay the tuition.”
“No. You’ll be coming with me to the bank after breakfast so I can transfer you the money you paid.”
I take a bite of my oatmeal, not slouching beneath her anger.
“That’s not happening.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, Mom, it isn’t. I don’t need the money. I have too fucking much of it as it is.”
“Does it matter who pays as long as it isn’t me?” Ciara asks, cutting in.
Mom pushes my sister’s bowl closer to her.
“I’m the parent. Yes, it matters.”
“But why?”
“It’s my responsibility to take care of you. Your brother doesn’t need to do that,” Mom snips.
“Considering you won’t let me buy you a house and continue to live in this hellhole, I think you’re already sticking it to me, Mom. If you change your mind and let me buy you a place of your own in a safer neighbourhood, I’ll accept the money back for the tuition.”
Her cheeks flame as she sucks in a sharp breath.
“Have you brought this up to your packmates, Ronan? You have a family of your own now to look out for. Stop babying your sister and I.”
“There is no family other than you two. Landon is making sure of that,” I bite out, the words acid.
Some of Mom’s ire dulls.
“Don’t say that. Things aren’t that bad.”
The silence now draping over us is too heavy.
I take the bowl of oatmeal and stand, carrying it to the sink.
Instead of dumping it, I stand in front of the window and scarf down the rest of the sticky substance, wanting out of here quickly.
Our mornings together aren’t usually so tense.
I use my visits to this place as not just an excuse to break away from the stifling emptiness of the pack house but because I worry about my family.
The guys understand who I am on a fundamental level and have never tried to change me.
The same goes for my sister and parents, whenever my dad is ever home, that is.
If I’m not up for being at the pack house, this is where I come.
Today, though? I’d rather sit beside Landon while he scowls about something than here while my mother tries to dig for information on why my pack is falling apart at the seams. She’s never understood pack life or why I chose it, so getting into this now will only bring up topics that I’m not up for explaining right now.
“I’m going to head out,” I say once I’ve finished eating.
The white bowl with hand-painted blue flowers goes in the sink before I spin and head for the front door.
A heavy, dramatic sigh sounds from the kitchen table.
“Don’t leave already. Come sit,” Mom says.
I stall, coming up with a lie too easily.
“Jasper needs my help with something.”
“You’re lying. I’m sorry I pried.”
“You don’t have to apologize. There’s just nothing to talk about.”
“Have you tried listening to music when you get upset, Ro?” Ciara asks, not looking up from her papers.
“I listen to it in the gym.”
She shifts in her seat and finally peels her gaze from the table and to me.
It’s not judgmental, just curious.
Even a bit sympathetic, which is rare with her.
“You should try it outside of the gym too. It could help.”
“What kind?—”
A clunking noise from the ceiling has me pausing.
“Oh, what now? I bet Jake from upstairs fell again. I’ll go check on him,” Mom says, already pushing away from the table.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I mutter, staring up at the vents that have gone completely silent.
“The ventilation system isn’t on a timer, right?”
Mom shakes her head.
“Not as far as I know.”
The confirmation isn’t needed when the blueberry scent in the apartment plumes.
I flash a worried look at my sister before focusing on Mom’s waiting stare.
“Stay here. I’m going to call the owner of the building. Lock the door behind me,” I demand sharply.
As much as my mom loves to argue with me, she doesn’t this time.
An omega’s home is their safe place.
That’s the reason behind the new legislation for de-scenter in buildings like this.
Without it, there’s a greater risk of visiting alphas making their interest in an omega known in a space where they’re supposed to be protected.
Of course, it isn’t foolproof.
The de-scenter they’re required to use isn’t strong enough to completely cover an omegas scent somewhere they’ve already made their own.
The main point is to help provide a sense of protection and comfort to the omega population when many fear that they’ll be unsafe in a building open to other designations.
The hallway is empty and silent as Mom locks the door behind me.
A mix of scents has grown exponentially since I arrived.
Beta and omega scents are muddled together, nearly turning my stomach.
I hover at the stairs and call the owner of the building, having his number saved from the last time this happened only three months ago.
The line rings and rings until I’m sent to voicemail.
After I’ve called another three times, I leave a message.
“The ventilation system is out again in your Howard building. You have half an hour to get it fixed.”
There’s an imprint of my phone in my palm when I hang up and attempt to rein myself in.
My protective instincts are intense, especially with my family.
“Yes, Clover, I’m on my way. The vent system is down, so I was on the phone with Larry . . . Yeah, again. At least he’s on his way. I was surprised at how accommodating he was, but I think that’s only because I’m still a new tenant . . . Okay, that’s rude. Two months is still new . . . Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
I lean over the first few stairs as I listen.
The soft, delicate voice drifts toward me on a breeze.
A breeze that smells like freshly squeezed lemons drizzled over cookies hot from the oven.
It’s almost . . . familiar.
The sound of a door closing and locking drives a stake of panic between my ribs.
I jump toward the windows at the end of the hall and grip the frame in a tight fist as I search for the owner of that delicious scent and twinkling voice that I want purring my name.
Fuck .
The woman strutting down the sidewalk is almost out of view.
I lean against the window, my shaking chest bumping the glass as if maybe that would bring me closer to her.
Only a sliver of her is visible to me.
A thick thigh, rounded ass, and an ample, curved waist that leads to a dainty shoulder and?—
She turns down the street, out of view.
Disbelief rocks me. My cock is painfully hard, straining behind the zipper of my jeans.
The force of the pulse in my knot makes me groan in pain as I push off the glass and hover, staring at where the woman just was.
That tart shortbread cookie scent still lingers, even as the sweetness of my caramel threatens to drown it out.
My hand slides down the railing, slick with sweat, as I stumble down the stairs, chasing her scent.
It leads past the second floor and down to the first. There’s something other than my mind controlling me right now.
An intense pulling sensation deep in my chest that continues to guide me to the front of the building.
I gasp for breath, subtly pawing at where my heart is racing.
Every inhale pulls more of her into my lungs, painting them in her scent.
For the second time today, I hear the clunking noise that was inside my mom’s apartment.
A thick, suffocating sense of dread threatens to knock my knees out from beneath me.
I whip my head around, breathing in quicker as cool air starts blowing on my skin.
I stagger closer to the front of the building and search for my omega’s scent.
It’s too hard to accept that it’s .
. . gone.
“Hey. Would you mind spreading the word that the vents are fixed? Lucky I was already here when they kicked off.”
My lip quivers as I hold myself back from snarling at the man who’s just stepped out of the maintenance room.
Backing up, I force myself against the wall furthest from him instead of attacking him.
Red tints his appearance.
Instincts I never knew existed overwhelm me, and with every second I linger, the weaker I get to the one that demands I dispose of the man intruding on my omega’s territory.
My omega.
Yeah, she’s mine.
The faceless woman with that enthralling, exquisite scent is mine.
And I need to find her.
With a curl of my lip, I slip out of the apartment building.
The fresh air doesn’t curb my desire.
I’m on edge, a ticking time bomb.
Every second I stand alone, the worse I get.
So, I run.
I run until I can’t anymore.