THIRTY-SEVEN #2
Davis watches the exchange with a prickling interest. “That’s cute.”
I look over at him. “You wanna try saying that a little bit closer?”
His eyes brighten, which tells me I just made a mistake, because some men seem to hear a warning and think it’s a fucking invitation.
“I just want to make sure you understand how things work around here,” he says nonchalantly.
“What I understand is,” I tell him, eyeing him like he’s not impressing me, I mean, he isn’t. “You walked into a closed room with two emotional support buddies and started sniffing at the air like some unneutered bloodhound.”
One of the men in the hall snorts before he catches himself, but Davis doesn’t look amused now. That’s better. Sit down, pooch.
“Outside, you might have grown used to running feral,” he says, voice losing the nonchalance now. “Inside, everyone contributes to the stability of the compound.”
I tilt my head. “Oh. That’s cute. Is this the part of your little speech where you tell me I owe civilization some kind of womb tax?”
Mercer chokes on his sip of coffee, and Fletcher’s jaw flexes. Valeria mutters something in Spanish that sounds incredibly educational, and Davis’s mask slips. It’s only for a second, but it’s long enough.
“There are Alphas here who have spent years protecting these walls,” he tells me. “Men with rank. Men who’ve proven their value. The council won’t ignore an unclaimed Omega with rare marker response just because she happened to show up with strays.”
Fletcher moves. It’s not much, but it’s enough that the air around him changes. Cedar and leather roll through the room, controlled and lethal, as he warns the newcomer, “Choose your next words carefully.”
Davis merely glances at him. “Struck a nerve?”
“No,” Fletcher replies. “Just found one of yours.”
Hale steps between the table and Davis then, barking a single command. “Out.”
Davis’s eyes fall on me and stay there as he says, “You should be more careful about who stands near you.”
I smile under the bandana even though he can’t see my mouth. He sees my eyes, though, and that’s good enough. Especially when I say, “I’m very careful.”
His gaze narrows on me and, for the first time since he waltzed into the room like he owned it, his confidence finally notices something with razor-sharp edges. Then he leans slightly closer, enough that Fletcher’s fingers flex at his sides.
“Compound logic is simple,” Davis says, his words lined with a warning I catch instantly. “Resources get protected. Risks get contained. Omegas get settled before they destabilize the people around them.”
That word settles between us all kinds of wrong.
Not married.
Not bonded.
Settled.
Like a fucked-up kind of debt. Like cattle. Like a problem that needs to be stuffed into the right drawer.
My skin tries to vacate my body but I don’t let it. Instead, I stand slowly. Hale says my name, and Fletcher says nothing. Good man, right there.
Davis’s attention falls to my height and I know exactly what he sees.
Small.
Bruised.
Hidden.
Not weak, exactly, because even his stupid survival instincts are better than that. But he sees something manageable. Something breakable with enough pressure. Valuable if guided by the right set of hands.
I step around the table, and Fletcher shifts with me. Not blocking, simply matching my steps. Davis’s two men straighten outside the door, and Valeria’s hand tightens close to her weapon.
Mercer whispers, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” with so much weary London despair that I almost laugh.
I stop roughly three feet away from Davis, close enough to smell him now. Bitter smoke, soap, and Alpha musk turned sour by entitlement.
No.
Absolutely not.
My Omega doesn’t cower, she recoils from him, utterly offended right down to her bones. That’s just beautiful. Even my biology has standards, and this fucker doesn’t meet the criteria.
“You think I can be settled?” I ask, so emotionlessly that it comes across as dark and weighted.
Davis’s gaze drags over me again, slower this time because he’s making a show of it. He wants me to notice. Fletcher makes a sound too quiet to be a growl, but it’s definitely too close to ignore, and Davis smiles. “Everyone settles eventually.”
I reach up and tug down my bandana. Not all the way, but enough for him to see my mouth when I give him a chilling smile. His eyes flicker, a tiny hitch that I catch. It’s not fear yet, but more like interest, and that’s worse.
“I cut the last man who thought that,” I tell him.
Davis’s smile returns. “Did he deserve it?”
I shrug, my smile growing colder. “He screamed like he did.”
The hallway outside grows quiet then, and Fletcher’s scent deepens. He’s not touching me or ordering me back, and he’s not claiming the moment from me. But he’s there. I feel him like the weather, a rolling storm at my side.
Davis looks past me to Fletcher. “You going to let her speak for herself?”
Fletcher’s expression doesn’t change an inch. “She already is.”
Something inside me gives a weird little flip. Nothing soft or sweet, but more like recognition maybe. The dangerous kind of recognition.
Davis’s jaw tightens, but Hale cuts in before he can say anything, snapping, “This conversation is over.”
“For now,” Davis partially agrees, and then he steps back, keeping his eyes on me.
“You’ll learn. Haven Ridge has survived this long because we stopped pretending like instincts are optional.
Unclaimed Omegas cause unrest. Alpha groups fracture.
People get hurt. The old world collapsed because everyone thought desire and duty were two separate things. ”
“Wow,” I mutter blandly. “That was almost a whole-ass speech. Don’t suppose you practiced that in the mirror, did you? Or maybe to your reflection in puddles?”
His mouth hardens. “Joke while you can.”
Fletcher moves then, just one step. Only one step.
It’s enough to bring his shoulder next to mine, not ahead or behind, and Davis’s gaze falls to the space between us.
Calculation spreads behind his eyes. I see it move.
Possessive men always understand possession before they even consider choice.
He sees Fletcher close to me and he writes the completely wrong story.
Or maybe he writes the right one just in the wrong font.
He thinks Fletcher is in the way.
What he doesn’t understand is that I put him there.
“I’ll be seeing you around, little Omega,” the asshole says.
The room’s temperature dips drastically, turning cold enough to freeze my feet to the floor.
Little.
Omega.
Two words, a collar made of five syllables, a noose around my throat made of sound.
For one weighted second, no one moves. Then Fletcher speaks, voice as soft as a feather floating through the air. “You won’t be calling her that again.”
Davis smiles, refusing to back down. Not yet, anyway. “You planning to claim that privilege?”
My blood grows loud in my veins, and Hale curses under his breath. Valeria steps forward, and Mercer looks like he’s regretting every professional choice that has led him to this room.
Fletcher’s hands open at his sides, empty and dangerous. “I don’t need to claim a damned thing to know when a man’s breathing wrong near her.”
Davis’s attention swings back to me and I see triumph there. Not because Fletcher threatened him, but because he reacted. Because now Davis knows which pressure points to hit, and that makes my stomach sink. Not with fear, but with understanding.
Predators don’t always attack the locked door. Sometimes they’ll rattle a window loose to see which guard dog will bark first.
And Davis just heard Fletcher. He’s heard me, too. And worse? The fucker likes the sound of it.
“We’ll talk again,” he says.
“No. We won’t,” I refute sharply.
His smile is all teeth when he insists, “Oh, we will.”
Then he turns and leaves with his two shadows falling into step behind him. The door remains open and no one speaks again until his footsteps eventually fade.
Then Hale rounds on Valeria. “Why was he allowed in this wing?”
“He wasn’t,” she says, and that’s worse. Much worse.
Mercer sets his coffee down with slow precision. “Davis has been pushing to make assigned Omega pairings a compound policy since before winter.”
“What kind of policy?” I ask.
Mercer looks over to Hale, but Hale doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. Trying to get any level of information out of that man is like trying to siphon blood from an incredibly stubborn stone.
Valeria answers, though. “Stabilization pairings.”
Something crawls under my skin, and Fletcher’s eyes sharpen as he asks, “The hell does that mean?”
Valeria’s mouth flattens into a line. “The idea that unbonded Omegas inside the compound should be assigned protected Alpha groups before heat instability or outside interest creates conflict.”
I stare at her.
Then I stare at Hale.
Then at Mercer.
The walls tilt sideways, because there it is. Not a shelter, and no safety, but a cage with better lighting.
“You assign Omegas?” I ask bluntly.
Hale’s face hardens. “No official policy has been adopted.”
“That answer fucking reeks of rot,” I snap.
Calmly, Mercer says, “Some on the council believe the collapse proved old social freedoms were luxuries.”
“Luxuries,” I repeat, tasting the word and finding ash on my tongue.
My voice is too quiet now, and Fletcher turns his head toward me. Not with alarm, but ready. He knows the difference, too.
Valeria’s expression is grim as she further explains, “There are people here who think survival justifies structure.”
“No,” I damn near snarl. “They think survival gives them cover.”
The word hits with a punch hard enough that no one argues it, and that is a whole other answer in and of itself.