Chapter 13 #3
“She was helping me pick out a shirt,” Luke says smoothly, letting go of my hand just long enough to rest it on my thigh. Warm. Grounding. Possessive in a way that has my heart fluttering.
Emma’s eyes narrow, gleaming with interest. “So… you got ready at her place?”
“No,” Luke says easily. “My place. She lives with me.”
Silence falls like a dropped glass.
My breath catches. My heart kicks hard against my ribs.
He said it so casually. So matter-of-fact. Like it’s not a bomb in the middle of a table full of people who didn’t even know we were serious. We had agreed to say we lived together to show that we were serious.
Mother’s expression freezes. “She… what ?”
Luke doesn’t flinch. “She moved in a while ago. I’ve got the space. And I like having her there.”
Aunt Beatrice makes a noise into her wineglass that could be a cough or a judgmental scoff. Probably both.
“She’s not a guest,” Luke adds, thumb brushing softly over my thigh again. “She’s home.”
His words land in my chest like an anchor and a match all at once.
And this time, I don’t look away. I let them all see me steady myself under his touch, let them see me choose not to shrink.
Mother sets down her wineglass with a delicate clink.
“So she moved in before I even had the chance to meet you?” Her voice isn’t raised, yet it slices through the table like a blade.
Laced with judgment. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
However, Luke and I practiced our background.
“And she’s an Omega,” Mother adds, glancing at me but speaking to the table.
“Living with an unmated male without so much as a conversation with her parents? It’s… concerning.”
My stomach twists. There it is. The thing she’s been dancing around since I walked in the door: her belief that I’ve embarrassed myself. That I’ve stepped outside the boundaries of what’s acceptable for someone like me.
“I wasn’t aware she needed permission to decide where she sleeps,” Luke says, voice low and even. “She’s an adult. She makes her own choices.”
Mother’s smile is brittle. “She’s still an Omega. And Omegas?—”
“Are not property,” Luke cuts in, sharper now.
There’s a pause, and then he adds, quieter but heavier, “She lives with me. She’s mine to protect now. Not yours to manage.”
The weight of the words drops hard between us. Not loud, but final.
Aunt Beatrice glances at her plate. Emma reaches for her wineglass like it’s a life raft. The air has changed—charged, humming with the kind of tension that makes people forget how to breathe.
But I don’t hide.
I lift my chin and meet my mother’s stare head-on. “You don’t get to decide what kind of Omega I am,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Not anymore.”
“You don’t understand what this looks like,” she says, her composure slipping. “You moved in with a man I’ve never met. An Alpha. Before there was any formal arrangement. Before a mating mark. What was I supposed to think?”
Luke shifts beside me. “There is a mark,” he says. Quiet. Certain.
Mother’s lips part. Her gaze flicks to my neck, but I know she won’t see it. Not unless I show her. Not unless I want her to.
“She didn’t tell you,” Luke continues, threading his fingers through mine. “Because she knew how you’d react. But you should know, she’s already mine. Fully. Claimed.” He pauses, his gaze steady as he adds, “Marked, too.”
Everyone stills.
Aunt Beatrice blinks. “Marked?”
Luke doesn’t flinch. “With my bite. High on her inner thigh.”
I cringe hard. Why did he have to add that part?
Aunt Beatrice gasps outright, hand flying to her chest.
Someone makes a strangled noise that might be a cough or a laugh she’s trying to swallow.
And my mother, her cheeks flush a deep, blotchy red. Whether it’s from fury or humiliation, I’m not sure.
“You—” she starts, but Luke doesn’t give her space to spiral.
“She asked me to,” he says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Because she trusts me. Because it was her choice. Not yours.”
My pulse thunders, but I don’t look away. I squeeze his hand tighter.
“I didn’t hide it because I was ashamed,” I say. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want this”—I gesture to the table, the tension, the judgment hanging heavy in the air—“to ruin something that belongs to me.”
“He doesn’t belong to you alone,” Mother snaps, regaining some of her steel. “You’re an Omega. Your choices reflect on your family, as does your choice of Alpha.”
“No,” I say, breath catching. “My choices reflect me . And I don’t need to be managed. I need to be respected.”
Luke’s hand slides up to rest on the small of my back, steadying, claiming. His voice drops low, intimate but firm.
“She’s not under your roof anymore. She’s under mine. And I won’t apologize for taking care of what’s mine.”
Silence stretches, coiling tighter.
Mother stares at me like she’s seeing a stranger.
“I’m not ashamed of what we are,” I go on. “And I’m not looking for your approval unless you mean it.”
Luke doesn’t let go of my hand. Not once.
“She’s safe,” he says. “Happy. And not alone anymore.”
For a moment, my mother says nothing. Just lifts her glass again, like it’s all suddenly too heavy to face head-on.
But I see the fracture in her composure, the tiny line where the mask slips. Her Omega daughter, marked without her blessing. Not waiting for a white dress or a contract. Just… loved. Fully. Fiercely.
And I realize something else too.
I didn’t come here to win her over.
I came to show her I’m already whole.
The drinks arrive, saving us from more commentary. I grab my wine and take a probably unladylike gulp.
“Pace yourself, sweetheart,” Mother says. “You know how you get. All emotional. Weepy. Remember at Cousin May’s wedding?”
“I was seventeen!”
“Still.”
I take another gulp out of spite.
The first course arrives, and for a blessed few minutes, everyone is occupied with soup with dumplings. But the reprieve doesn’t last.
“So where do you see this relationship going?” Aunt Beatrice asks Luke between spoonfuls.
“Wherever Cynthia wants it to go,” Luke says easily.
“That’s not very decisive,” Mother replies.
“It’s realistic. Relationships are partnerships,” he adds.
“But surely the man should lead?” That’s from Laura. Or Lisa. One of the interchangeable cousins.
Luke glances her way, unfazed. “Why?”
“Because that’s how it’s done,” Mother replies, as if it’s law. “The man pursues, the woman accepts or declines.”
“Sounds boring,” Luke says with a low chuckle. “I like that Cynthia goes after what she wants.”
Mother’s gaze slides to me. “And what does she want?”
My fingers tighten around my wineglass. “To build something real.”
“And hiding from your family is part of that?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You disappear for almost two years,” she says softly. “No call. No visits. And now you show up with this…” She waves vaguely toward Luke. “This person we’ve never heard of.”
“This person has a name,” I say carefully. Calmly. “Luke.”
“Of course. Luke.” Her lips twist like she’s tasting vinegar. “Such an informal name. Is it short for Lucas?”
“It is,” Luke says smoothly. “But only people I don’t like call me Lucas.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. Mother’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t reply.
The area is warm. Too warm. My dress sticks to the back of my knees.
“I think I need some air,” I say, rising from my seat.
“Cynthia.” Mother’s voice is clipped. “Sit down.”
“I just need a minute.” I keep my tone even, calm.
“You just got here.”
“I know,” I say, smoothing the fabric of my dress. “But I’d rather step away than say something I’ll regret.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Maybe,” I admit quietly, offering a thin smile. “But that’s better than being rude.”
The silence that follows isn’t approval. It’s control being tested.
Luke doesn’t move. He stays seated, calm and unreadable, but I feel the weight of his attention tracking every step as I ease my chair back.
His hand rests on his thigh. “She’ll come back when she’s ready,” he says, voice even, gaze steady.
Mother doesn’t respond, but her mouth tightens.
I don’t wait for permission. I walk out from under the marquee and cross part of the courtyard to head into the restaurant building, hands loose at my sides. But the moment I pass the doorway into the bathroom, my breath shudders out of me.
Not because I regret leaving.
But because for the first time, I didn’t ask.
“Oh my God, I might die tonight,” I whisper to myself.
The bathroom is a sanctuary of marble and soft lighting, the only quiet place I’ve found since we arrived.
I run cold water and wet a paper towel, pressing it to the nape of my neck.
My reflection stares back, eyes too bright, cheeks flushed, lipstick too perfect like a lie I’m trying to keep together.
“You’re fine,” I murmur. “You’ve got this. Smile. Nod. Pretend.” I suck in a breath. “Show off Luke. Make them see that you’re happy.”
It’s such a lie that my stomach churns. But it gets me moving.
After using the toilet and washing up, I smooth my dress, square my shoulders, and open the bathroom door?—
Right into a solid wall of muscle.
“Shit!”
Hands catch my arms, strong and grounding. I look up, startled, and meet Holt’s gaze. His scent smothers me instantly.
Spiced caramel, toasted marshmallow, and vanilla.
It rolls over me like heat, and my body reacts before my mind does. Knees wobbling. Skin flushing. Heat pooling low.
And then I see the bruising beneath the edge of his eye patch, and the adrenaline spikes for another reason.
“Oh my God. Luke told me you got hurt!” The words tumble out, breathless. “Are you okay? He said concussion, but, your eye, what are you doing here?”
Holt steps in close, fingers curling around my wrist, and walks me backward a few paces, guiding me into a shadowed corner of the hallway. It’s quiet here. Dim. The buzz of voices from the dining room fades to static.
His scent follows, thick and dominant. I breathe it in too fast, too deep, and it clouds everything.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be the one,” he adds, voice low and rough like gravel dragged across velvet. “I saw you at the table with Luke and knew I could have done better.”
“Holt…” My fingers twitch toward the bandage under his patch. “You should be resting. Not here?—”
“I couldn’t stay away,” he insists, and there’s a tremble under the steel of his tone. His good eye burns into me, sharp and raw. “I need to know you’re okay. I need to smell you for myself.”
Before I can answer, he steps closer.
Too close.
His chest brushes mine, and the air thickens, heavy with unspoken need. I sway forward just an inch, maybe two, but it’s enough.
His nose dips to the curve of my neck, breath brushing skin. He doesn’t touch, not really. Just inhales.
And I break.
My legs weaken, thighs pressing together involuntarily. A whimper slips out, barely a sound, but it’s real, and I hate how much I want to lean into him. Let him scent me deeper. Let him claim .
“Holt,” I whisper. “Please don’t…”
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice tight with restraint, even as his fingers skim my wrist, tracing the skin like he’s branding it. “Tell me right now, and I’ll walk away. I swear it.”
But I don’t.
Because the truth is, I don’t want him to stop. Not really. Not when my insides are screaming, scent rising in soft betrayal, betraying everything I’m trying to hold back.
“You smell like you’re mine, even if I can scent Luke on you,” he breathes, voice cracking on the last word. “I hope you know we are all prepared to share you.”
It aches how much I want it to be true, but part of me refuses to believe such men would be interested in me beyond helping me out.
“Luke is doing an amazing job,” I whisper, but the words don’t carry conviction. Not when my body is betraying every syllable, trembling under Holt’s scent when I should focus on the dinner.
“He’s doing okay,” he breathes, then smirks. His hand presses to the wall beside my head, caging me with heat and shadow. “Doesn’t change how much I wish it were me out there with you.”
I should step away. Say something to shut this down. But I can’t move. Can’t breathe.
His forehead touches mine, and it’s too much and not enough all at once. His breath ghosts over my lips, thick with restraint.
“I should stay away right now,” he mutters. “You’ve got the dinner to deal with.”
Yet he doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
Not when my skin is buzzing and my body is already leaning into him, scent curling in a traitorous wave that recognizes him.
Wants him. Just as it did with Luke earlier.
I keep trying to shove these cravings down, lock them up tight, but they’re rising now, molten and insistent, like a volcano threatening to blow.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper, throat tight. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”
His good eye darkens. “Then don’t say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you don’t want me.”
Because I do.
And we both know it.
His mouth crashes into mine with a desperation that steals my breath.
His hands frame my face, holding me like I might disappear if he lets go, and I melt into him instantly.
This kiss is consuming, demanding, like he’s trying to prove something or maybe claim something.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he unleashes a low growl that sends heat straight through me.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for him, tasting whiskey.
One hand slides into my hair, tilting my head for a better angle, while the other grips my waist hard enough that I’ll probably have bruises.
I don’t care. I want bruises. I want evidence that this happened, that this gorgeous, dangerous man wanted me this badly.
He kisses me like the world is ending and we’ll never get another chance, and I’m the only thing that can satisfy him.
When he nips at my bottom lip, I gasp, and he swallows the sound, pressing closer until there’s no space between us.
I can feel every hard line of his body, the heat of him through our clothes, and it’s still not enough.
My hands slide up his chest, feeling the muscles tense under my touch, and he makes a sound that’s almost pained before kissing me even deeper.
“Oh. My. God.” Sarah’s voice cuts through the haze.
We freeze, still pressed together, and whip our heads around to see my cousin standing at the end of the hallway, mouth hanging open, eyes bright with the glee of someone who just won the gossip lottery.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe against Holt’s mouth.
Sarah turns and practically runs back toward the door that leads out to the marquee.
Great job, Cindy…