Chapter 14 #2
The words aren't sharp on the surface.
The edge is under them, hidden, where only I feel it.
Next aisle: cereal and dry goods.
I reach automatically for the brand Drake always ate like it was a religion—big obnoxious box, too much sugar.
He used to call them "night shift fuel" and steal handfuls from the box, grinning when I smacked his hand.
Marie's fingers wrap around the box before mine can.
"Oh, no. Those make him crash. He told me last week."
She puts them back and picks up granola instead. "These are better. More protein. He likes the honey kind."
Drake laughs. "I like both. I'm a complex man."
Something small and sick curls in my stomach anyway.
I move on.
Coffee aisle. Dangerous territory.
I grab the bag we always bought—dark roast, local roastery, Drake once drove twenty minutes out of his way after a double shift to replace it when I spilled.
Marie's hand lands on my wrist, gentle but firm.
"Not that one. Malcolm mentioned a blend we should try. He says it's smoother, less acidic."
"We're not buying coffee for the neighbors."
"No… we're buying for us. Ragon likes smoother. He just never complained because you were the one making it."
I freeze.
Heat crawls up my neck.
She takes the bag from my hand, puts it back on the shelf, and picks another. "You should know this by now. You've been with them long enough to know what they like."
The words are factual.
They still hurt.
"I do know. I've been feeding them for years."
"Then act like it. Grab the good stuff."
I want to scream that I have been. That I've spent years fine-tuning meals around their preferences; that I know who hates raw onion and who will eat anything if it's covered in cheese; that I built a rotation of dinners around their shifts and moods and bad days.
But I can feel a familiar presence at the end of the aisle.
Ragon, comparing prices on rice, his ears clearly tuned to us.
The memory of hardwood under my knees flares hot and insistent.
I bite back whatever was about to come out of my mouth.
Marie moves on, satisfied.
We get to cleaning supplies.
I reach for the laundry detergent we always used—unscented, gentle, doesn't fight with anyone's natural smell.
Marie makes a soft noise.
"Not that one. It doesn't hold scent well. They all smell better in this."
She picks up a heavily scented brand, something floral-fruity that makes my nose wrinkle.
"It's too strong."
"No, it's perfect. I can smell it on Ragon's shirts all day. It blends with his scent." She smiles, dreamy for a second. "You should have noticed."
I feel suddenly, violently ill.
"I did notice."
She shrugs. "I guess it's harder for you. Not being their scent match. You can't understand what they need on the same level I can. It's not your fault."
There it is.
The knife under the smile.
Not your fault.
You're just lesser.
My mouth opens.
Something hot and sharp floods my chest, all the snark and spite and pain looking for a way out.
I could say, I've been their omega for years and you've been here for months. I could say, No registry pamphlet is going to tell me what Eli needs when he's two seconds from burning out. I could say, You didn't even know Ragon liked lemon in his tea until I told you.
I could say all of that.
My eyes flick down the aisle.
Ragon has paused at the end.
He's not pretending to read labels anymore.
He's just watching.
Waiting.
My tongue remembers the taste of the word kneel.
I swallow everything else instead.
"Whatever you want. You're the scent match."
Her expression softens, like I've finally said something reasonable. "We're all on the same team, Vee. I'm just trying to make things smoother."
Drake, who's been hovering awkwardly between us like a human tennis ball, tries to lob a joke into the tension.
"Hey now," he says, picking up a random bottle. "As long as it gets my scrubs clean, I'll wear anything. Flowers, fruit, industrial-strength 'ocean breeze.'" He wiggles his brows. "I am equal-opportunity soapy."
I try to smile.
Nothing happens.
My throat feels too tight.
My chest feels hollow.
He looks between us, one, then the other, a little crease forming between his brows.
I turn away before he can voice whatever apology he's probably brewing.
We finish the shopping like a normal family in a normal store.
Frozen vegetables. Yogurt. Toilet paper.
I walk a half-step behind, pushing the cart when Ragon lets me, marking items off the list as they go in—even when they're not the brand or flavor I'd written down.
In the checkout line, Ragon stands at the front, card in hand, jaw set in its usual calm line.
He didn't intervene.
He heard Marie talk about my supposed ignorance, my lesser understanding, my lack of scent-match authority.
He didn't correct her.
He didn't say, being here longer counts too. He didn't say, Vee's knowledge of us matters. He didn't say my name at all.
He just watched and let her put the coffee she likes and the detergent that holds scent better in the cart.
I watch him swipe the card.
There's a small part of me that still hopes, stupidly, for some sign. A look in my direction. A hand on my shoulder. Anything that says I know you're hurting.
He takes the receipt, folds it, and tucks it into his wallet.
"Let's go."
We load the bags into the truck.
On the drive home, Drake and Marie talk about some show they're watching, their voices low and comfortable. She leans into his shoulder; he drives one-handed for a stretch so he can play with her fingers on the center console.
I sit quietly in the backseat, plastic handles digging into my palms, eyes on the blur of traffic outside.
I wish I could stop loving them.
All of them.
It would be so much easier if my heart would just let go. If the bond threads inside me could loosen and fade and leave me empty instead of tearing every time someone says scent match like a crown and second-hand like a sentence.
But I can't.
I'm theirs.
In all the ways that hurt the most.
And no amount of switching coffee brands or detergent or who sleeps where is going to change the fact that my omega body still lights up when they walk into a room—even when my mind is begging it to stop.