Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Leif
The moment my hand touches Carson’s office door, my gut twists with the primal warning to run. But I can’t avoid him when he’s summoned me to his office.
I will refuse to stay past when I promised Emily I’d be at the cottage tonight, though. I refuse to break my word to her again.
Three knocks, then I enter without waiting for permission.
“Leif.” Carson’s head lifts from his computer screen, his welcome neither warm nor surprised. “Right on time.”
“You wanted to see me?”
“Please, sit.” He gestures toward the chair, his sandy hair catching light from the window behind him, creating a halo effect I know isn’t accidental. When I comply, he leans forward, elbows on his polished desk. “How are the preparations for the end-of-year celebration going?”
“Everything’s on track,” I say, keeping it professional. “All of the vendors are confirmed.”
“Excellent.” Carson’s fingers form a steeple beneath his chin. “Excellent. Your attention to detail continues to impress.”
My muscles tighten at the compliment. With Carson, praise always precedes demands. And, he’s used this one so much that it’s lost its shine, if it ever had any.
“Actually, I wanted to discuss the winter faculty function next Friday,” he continues, confirming my suspicion. “The board considers it an essential community-building event. All senior staff are expected to attend.”
I school my features as my heart rate picks up. “I’m aware of the function. But I’m not staff.”
“Semantics at this point.” He waves a dismissive hand. “But one to be corrected.”
The room temperature seems to drop several degrees despite the heating system humming in the background.
“The function serves multiple purposes beyond mere celebration,” Carson continues, slipping into the cadence he uses when addressing faculty meetings. “It’s an opportunity to demonstrate the academy’s values of tradition and proper hierarchies.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” I say, though ice forms in my stomach because I understand where this is heading.
Carson picks up an expensive pen, rolling it between his fingers as he speaks.
“The Roberts family continues to express concerns about Sprinkles’s presence in their daughter’s classroom.
And the whispers about Quinn receiving preferential treatment due to her uncle’s donation to the school have escalated with end-of-year reports revealing how much they’ve given to the Academy. ”
The threats come couched in neutral reporting, facts presented without an obvious connection to the faculty function. I wait, letting him reach his point without my assistance.
“Community reassurance requires visible commitment to institutional values,” he continues, setting the pen down so that it aligns with his notepad. “Which is why you’ll be attending the function with me. Not as staff, but as my Omega.”
My fingers curl on my thighs, hidden beneath the desk where he can’t see my physical reaction.
“Your Omega,” I repeat flatly.
“Precisely. It’s time we both settle down.” He leans back with a satisfied smirk at having reached his point. “The school board believes that stability in personal arrangements reflects on stability within the workforce.”
My throat tightens as he continues, each sentence another brick in the wall he’s building around me.
“Your size and demeanor already challenge certain expectations about Omega presentation.” Carson’s gaze sweeps down my body, and his nostrils flare, taking in my pheromones. “A formal appearance with an established Alpha provides reassurance about your understanding of appropriate boundaries.”
His cherries-and-iron pheromones flood the office, growing stronger as he speaks, crawling up my nostrils to cling to the back of my throat, choking me.
“The board has expressed particular interest in stable relationship structures among staff who work with children,” he continues. “Leadership optics matter, Leif. We set examples whether we intend to or not.”
My skin crawls with understanding. This isn’t a request. It’s not even a demand disguised as a request. In Carson’s mind, my consent is a mere formality, a box to check before proceeding with what he’s already decided will happen.
“The Morgans will be there,” he adds, naming board members with significant influence. “They asked if I’d be bringing a companion this year. I assured them I would.”
The walls of the office press closer, the air growing thick with his pheromones. Outside the window, winter darkness has fallen early, turning the glass into a mirror that reflects Carson enthroned behind his desk and me perched on my seat like a supplicant.
“I’ve already registered my intentions for courtship.
Really, I should have done this back in October, but I was enjoying our little game of cat and mouse.
You will need to confirm it on your end before the party.
We can discuss the details later,” Carson says, as if the matter is already decided.
“What color will you be wearing? I’d prefer we complement each other. ”
Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out the subtle hum of the heating system. He speaks of my attendance, my appearance as his courted Omega, as a foregone conclusion, as if I haven’t already rejected that position once in the past.
“The event begins at seven,” Carson continues, typing a note into his calendar. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. We’ll want to arrive ahead of time to greet the board president.”
Carson looks up from his screen, waiting for my response, his expectation of agreement hanging in the air along with his suffocating pheromones.
“No.” The word hangs between us, simple and unadorned.
Not I’m sorry, or I can’t, or even I’d rather not, and the absence of a qualification renders the refusal absolute.
Carson’s fingers freeze mid-tap on his keyboard, and his focus drops to my unmarked throat, a growl building in his throat before he smothers it. “Excuse me? I don’t think I heard you right.”
My cedar scent sharpens with adrenaline, like a forest after lightning strikes. My heartbeat accelerates, but I keep my breathing measured, my composure intact.
“No,” I repeat, clearer this time despite my racing pulse. “I won’t attend as your Omega. My personal relationships aren’t yours to manage.”
Carson’s mouth opens, then closes, and his eyes narrow a fraction, not enough to read as anger, but enough that I recognize the calculation happening behind them. I’ve gone off script, and his mind races to adjust, to find the path back to his expected outcome.
“I think perhaps you misunderstood.” He folds his hands on the desk. “This isn’t about personal feelings. It’s professional. The board expects—”
“The board expects me to perform my duties as Quinn’s support coordinator,” I interrupt, another deviation from our usual pattern.
“They expect me to maintain professional standards during school functions. Nothing in my contract or the faculty handbook requires me to present myself as romantically attached to anyone.”
His smile slips a fraction. “The parent community has certain expectations about stability in those who work with their children. As an Omega, your position carries additional scrutiny.”
“Which you’ve pointed out numerous times, and I have not called you on the secondary gender harassment because I respect you as the head of this school.
But my designation is irrelevant to my qualifications,” I reply, cold sweat forming along my spine.
“I attend faculty functions as support staff, not as a prop on someone’s arm. ”
Carson’s breathing changes, and his cherries-and-iron scent intensifies in response to my challenge. The pheromones fill the small space, a physical weight demanding I obey.
“Let me be clearer.” His fingers spread flat on the desk’s surface, pale on the dark wood. “This isn’t about romance. It’s about optics.”
Every slip of his mask says otherwise, though, and I won’t forget what he pushed in the past.
I meet his stare, neither submitting nor challenging. “And I’m being clear as well. I won’t attend as your Omega, or as anyone else’s. My personal life remains personal.”
The skin around his eyes hardens, the corners of his mouth tightening as he leans forward. Little by little, the pretense of mentorship falls away, revealing the predator beneath that had sent me fleeing from Westbrook.
“You’ve worked hard to build Quinn’s support structure.” Carson drops into a threatening purr. “The documentation, the presentations to the board, the parent committee approvals. Quite impressive.”
My stomach twists at the mention of Quinn. “The accommodations committee approved all protocols. The documentation meets district standards.”
“Documentation can always be reviewed,” he counters, reaching for a folder on his desk. “Standards evolve. Interpretations change based on new information.”
He opens the folder, turning it so I can see Quinn’s name on the top sheet. My throat tightens as I recognize her accommodation plan, the very document that allows Sprinkles to remain with her throughout the school day.
“When you continue to align yourself with unstable influences, it raises concerns that require documentation,” Carson continues, his finger tracing down the page to rest beside the signatures at the bottom. “Questions about judgment arise when staff members engage in unregulated relationships.”
My pulse quickens, but this is nothing he hasn’t already pushed before.
“Such questions, once raised, invite scrutiny,” Carson says, turning a page in Quinn’s file. “Especially regarding sensitive accommodations like service animals on school grounds.”
My palms dampen with sweat, and I curl my fingers into fists to hide their trembling. “Sprinkles’s presence is protected under federal guidelines. The documentation is complete.”