Chapter 15
Imogen
What sweet hell is this?
I stretch my arms out overhead, feeling every bit of the last few days in every cell of my body, my muscles weak and aching like I've run a marathon. Slapping the bed next to me, my palm finds nothing but cold, empty sheets.
My heat is over, and I feel a wave of disappointment course through me. I have only vague memories, but it was the best heat of my life. Not only did they give my body exactly what I wanted, but I got to share it with my mates. I feel euphoric.
Where are my mates? Don’t they know you should never abandon an omega after their heat? It’s like coming down from the greatest high; you need a soft cushion to land on. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
That’s alright; they have a lot to learn about being with an omega. I can tell just by looking around the room. The bed is too small, and there is a distinct lack of pillows, soft blankets, and cushions. The room has a bachelor's vibe. But it smells like clean laundry, the scent strongest on the pillows, with an amalgam of all my mate's scents swirling around me; it's pure bliss.
They need a nest. I need a nest.
Deciding to go in search of them so we can talk, I roll off the bed, but the moment I move, my bladder screams. Climbing up, I stumble my naked body into a tiny bathroom attached to Cass’s bedroom, pausing briefly, wondering why there's a giant hole in the wall like someone punched a fist through it.
It’s definitely a man’s bathroom. Shaving clippers, a toothbrush resting upside down in a cup, a mess of toothpaste smeared on the counter.
I giggle, delighted. It's so unlike what I'd find at home, where everything has a place; even the toothbrush hides in a decorative container as if to say all bodily functions should never be observed or discussed by another, even your lover. I love this. It’s just so normal. And real. Standing in front of the mirror, I look up and nearly stumble back.
I recall being carried into the shower more than once, so I’m not surprised I’ve been stripped of all my makeup, red lipstick included.
But I look fresh. Clean. Happy. Actually, genuinely, truly happy. My lips curl up tentatively, and I reach my fingertips out, feeling the foreign sensation, my lips stretching my cheeks wide. It’s not puppet Imogen. She's real.
I laugh again, but I’m alone in the bathroom, and I want to see my mates, so I hurry through a morning routine. While finger brushing my teeth, since I couldn’t find a spare toothbrush, I keep marveling over my thoroughly disheveled appearance.
Fading bruises on my shoulders and hips, skin red and raw from rubbing, tender beard burn on my thighs. I look ruined. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive.
After brushing my teeth, I slip back into Cass’s bedroom, again surprised to find it empty. Where are they? I dig through his clothes, vaguely recalling arriving in only my bra and underwear and Cass’s hoodie, so I steal a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, slipping both on.
I run my fingers through my hair, but there’s nothing to be done about the rat's nest, so I let it hang long down my back.
Creeping out of Cass’s messy bedroom, curious about this house where my mates live, the scent of coffee and crackling bacon draws me through their living space. It’s all open concept, and as I navigate around the couches and chairs, I find Cass with his back turned, cooking at the stove in the kitchen. No Iggy or Red.
I try not to be too disappointed or hurt that they’re not here. At least Cass was thoughtful enough to cook, though perhaps it's presumptuous to assume it was for me.
With a sigh, I pat down my hair, trying not to feel self-conscious about its messy state, wishing I had the time and tools to style myself properly. Still, these past few days… I feel like I've shed some of that veneer that I often cling to with an iron-clad grip. They didn't treat me like a porcelain doll. They saw the uninhibited, less perfect version of me, and from the few cooing praises I remember, they liked me for me, not the omega or the OFA version.
This isn’t transactional like at a heat clinic. Or like those few times I shared a heat with other courting packs. This is different. They're my scent-matches!
"Morning, Cass," I say shyly.
Startled, Cass turns, nearly dropping the spatula, but his fist tightens around the handle. His shoulders stiffen, and all I can think is, drop the spatula, I’m more important than the bacon.
But he turns away, pushing it around in the pan, then calls over his shoulder, "Morning, Imogen."
Okay. I wasn’t expecting the red carpet or anything. Am I really that spoiled that I thought he and the others would be more excited after what we just went through? Did it mean nothing to them?
Oh dear, what if it meant nothing to them? They still can’t scent me. And I threw myself at Cass in his office, didn’t I? What if they think I'm like Emily? That I’m obsessed with them, trying to insert myself into their lives.
No, they’re my mates. They can feel it, or their alphas can. This is bigger than that.
Standing a little taller, determined to make this work, somehow, I clear my throat, ready to make a few demands, when the side door to the kitchen rattles, and Red walks in, followed by Iggy.
Their steps falter, faces not happy to see me, and the dismissal is a vice grip around my throat. Tears well in my eyes; they don’t even have to say anything. I can feel the rejection. It stings. My stomach burns.
"Hey," I swallow. "I was just about to—"
"You doin' okay?" Red asks tightly.
Heart racing, pain lancing my chest, I stutter, "Uhm, yes. Thank you, yes. I'm fine."
Iggy steps around Red, coming to stand directly in front of me. He smells freshly showered, his cinnamon wine scent even stronger, and I don't resist the urge to lean closer, to breathe him in. It's spicy and comforting. "I’m glad you’re okay," he says sincerely, but I have no clue why he says it like that, like I wouldn't be. "Thank you for showing me I’m safe. You helped me trust myself. I’m grateful."
He steps around me, into the living room, then up the stairs, but I call after him, my voice cracking. "Iggy?"
He pauses on the steps, waiting for me to continue.
"What… How did I show you you're safe to be with? What do you mean?"
"For omegas," he says sadly. It feels like a boot in the gut. Why did I make him safe for other omegas? What is he talking about?
The question must shine on my face because when I turn back to Red, wearing the same look of disappointment, he adds, "We’d never been with an omega before. He wasn’t sure he could. You helped him through that. Thank you."
What fresh hell is this?
"I don’t understand," I whisper.
Cass takes the pan off the stove and pours a cup of coffee. And I think maybe there’s some small possibility he’ll hand it over, but he white knuckles the mug like it’s his lifeline.
"Look, Imogen, we—"
"We didn’t realize you were engaged," Red cuts him off.
"Engaged?" I rear back. "I’m not—" Wait. Yes, I am engaged. I shake my head. "But that’s not real. Not really. I mean, I am, technically, but I’m not—"
"To the mayor's pack?" Red winces. "Why them? Aren't they like, twenty years older than you?" I try to answer, but he keeps going. "Is it because they have money? Prestige? Were you just slumming it with us?"
"What! No, of course not. Look, there’s been a misunderstanding. I mean, yes I am engaged to them, but I’m not with them," I plead.
"Then there’s no misunderstanding. We thought…" Red runs his hands through his obsidian black hair. So dark in the daylight it shines, straight and inky, falling into his eyes, which works for him since he won't look directly at me. How did things go so wrong so quickly? Looking down at the table, he says tiredly, "It doesn’t matter what we thought. Your heat's over. We’re glad we could help you through it. Do you need a ride home? Come on, I’ll give you a lift."
He snags his keys off the table. Reaching out to grab my arm, I pull away with such force, he startles, palms up in defense.
"I can’t believe you’re kicking me out after that."
"We’re not kicking you out, you can stay a little longer. I'm sorry. Eat some breakfast, first. You need the calories after the last…"
After the last few days of intense, mind-blowing, life-altering sex. Omegas need calories. They also need mates—hell, decent partners—to help them through the last phase of heat. The coming down.
They aren’t being soft cushions for me to land on. And I get it. They’re hurt. But it’s not like I could have told them during my heat; the last thing on my mind was the mayor's pack and my family's financial problems.
I try to explain once more, "I’m not with them. The Stevens Pack. My family just…"
Red sighs and sits down at the table, leaving Cass to loom over me. It feels silly now, standing here after my heat, covered in bruises, sore muscles, and messy hair, wearing his clothes. I was so happy ten minutes ago.
"Is it money?"
My head snaps to Cass. "Is what money?"
"The reason you’re marrying them. It's just… You just shared your heat with us and not them… We thought… Well, why are you marrying them? Why did you tell me you had no one to share your heat with when I found you?" He squeezes the back of his neck with one hand, biceps bulging by his head as he looks down uncomfortably. Like Red, he can't meet my eyes. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business. And was rude. Come, Imogen, you should eat something. You barely ate the last few days."
The mention of our time spent together hurts. And it's not even their fault. It's not mine either, but I don't know how to fix it. Cass tries to hand me the coffee cup. I guess he made it for me, after all. But it doesn't feel like something he made to take care of me. It's something to put distance between us.
"It’s not money. Well, I mean, it is, but it’s not for me. It’s for my family." It sounds so much worse when I say it like that. Judging by Cass's grimace, he agrees.
"Right. Okay."
How did we get here? I’m usually so good at this, diffusing uncomfortable situations. I’m fumbling, and I never fumble. I tug the hem of my shirt self-consciously. I want my clothes. And my heels and my red lipstick. I want my armor.
Why would they want me if, as far as they're aware, I just cheated on my betrothed? When I'm engaged to a pack I don't want, and for money, no less? No, it’s not so black and white, but I can already tell they’d never understand my reasoning.
Not if they saw all the cars, the art, and the imported water features. The decorative boxes that hide the toothbrushes, so we don't appear human. They wouldn't respect me because I don't have a backbone and can't just abandon my family, even if they sold me out.
I think of my dad's broken wrist. And the debt collectors. Straightening my shoulders, I walk gracefully to the counter where my purse sits. The tears that threatened to spill when Iggy confronted me have disappeared, and I slip my mask back on. My mother has said terrible things to me while I smiled and said thank you. If I can handle that, I can handle this. "Thank you for caring for me and ensuring I was safe."
My hand clutches the doorknob when I hear a growl from behind. I turn, finding Iggy watching me with the most intense expression, black eyes searing into mine. He's back, halfway down the stairs, like he's going to stop me from leaving. But that makes no sense, considering they're essentially kicking me out.
"Good luck with your future omegas," I spit out, already on this train to self-sabotage. I might as well blow up the bridge while I’m at it.
It takes every ounce of effort in my body, heart, and mind to walk away. Tears burn in my eyes, my throat feels like it's going to close, like there's something stuck in my esophagus, and I can't swallow through the pain, but I keep it buried. Perfection feels like a million miles away, but I'm so trained in the cloak of perfection it takes no effort to smile and fold my hands in front of me, downcast my eyes as I slip away.
Even if I made them listen, made them understand my family was in danger and I had to help, it changes nothing. I've already decided I'm not marrying the Stevens Pack, but I can't break off the engagement just yet, not until I've found a solution.
I knew I could never be intimate with anyone else, especially after the last few days, and I’m not even close to ready to unpack what that could mean for my future, but until I figure out how to help my family out of this mess, I can’t string along Dante.
Only when I step out into the street, somehow shocked by the sunlight after spending the last three days hidden in the depths of sheets, do I realize I have no shoes and I’m bra- and panty-less beneath Cass’s T-shirt and boxers.