Chapter Forty
Rhea
I hate it here.
Still. The bed is the softest thing I’ve ever laid on. Possibly illegally soft. Like it was engineered in a secret alpha lab for maximum omega seduction. The sheets are fresh - suspiciously fresh - as if someone came in and changed them before I passed out like a sex-drenched cryptid. Which, frankly, feels rude.
I can’t sleep. But I lie there anyway, cocooned in blankets, facing the wall. My limbs are heavy with confusion, betrayal, and the raw ache of being knotted like a damn pretzel.
And Lucian Vale can go straight to hell.
Fuck h im. His silence. His arrogance. His perfectly coordinated cufflinks. The bond is still there, still humming in my chest like a Bluetooth connection I can’t unpair, but apparently, I’m not worth a claim. Not worth a mark. Not worth even a full sentence of honesty.
Just enough for a rejection and a mug of damn tea.
Yes. He left tea. I’ll get there.
I roll to my back with a groan and stare at the ceiling. I should be processing. Should be thinking big-picture.
Because realistically, how long do I have until the OMB realizes I disappeared from the gala because I'm actually an unregistered omega and sends a search party in the shape of black government SUVs?
And while we're at it, does my landlord take sorry, I heat-bonded four alphas as a valid excuse for late rent?
Is Kai - god help me - the one who now has all my stuff? My phone, my camera, and the clutch bag I abandoned at the gala? If he went through it, he now knows I own three types of emergency suppressants, two crumpled IDs, a half-eaten protein bar, and exactly seven dollars in cash.
And tampons. So many tampons.
And then there's Lexi.
I need to talk to Lexi. She covered for me at the gala, and with everything that's happened, I haven’t checked in. For all I know, she’s staged a coup or murdered a Bureau agent with her heels.
My life is on fire, and I’m in here stewing about Lucian’s rejection like some unhinged regency heroine.
I need to get a grip.
The seal of the door hisses softly out of nowhere, and I tense for a beat before I force myself to relax my posture. It pushes open, and I go still, because I already know who it is.
His scent hits me a moment later - cool and commanding, with a note of cedar and disappointment.
I stay on my side, breathing steady, faking sleep like a pro. He walks in, all slow footsteps and bottled self-loathing.
He passes through the room, stopping just behind me, hovering over the bed. He stands there in silence: doesn’t speak, and doesn’t touch.
I briefly consider letting out a fake snore. Just to spice things up.
But instead I wait. Silent. Still. Furious.
Eventually, he moves. There’s the soft creak of leather, the brush of fabric, and then he’s gone. Like a ghost with a superiority complex.
When I finally roll over, I see the damage: a neatly folded stack of clothes on the chair - sweatpants, soft tees, fresh underwear, and a goddamn long-sleeve thermal. For comfort. For recovery. For whatever delusion he’s having about making this right.
And next to it?
A fresh mug of tea.
Chamomile. With omega-safe calming herbs. Warm, thoughtful, and delivered like a peace offering from someone who thinks I’m a library book that just needs to be gently reshelved.
I shuffle tot he edge of the bed so that I can pick it up. I sniff it, and whisper, “You passive-aggressive bastard.”
It smells amazing. It smells like the exact thing I need.
And I am so mad that I need it.
I chug half, burn my tongue, and slam the mug down again just to prove a point.
If Lucian Vale thinks a nice cup of sleepytime omega-blend and some backup panties are going to fix the fact that he basically labeled me used goods, he’s got another thing coming.
I’m not a problem to be handled. I’m not some delicate flower with an expiration date. I’m an unregistered, multi-bonded, heat-shattered omega with four alphas in my scent trail and a to-do list that includes evading government prosecution and texting my best friend before she starts a war.
So yeah. I hate it here.
But at least I have tea.