17. This Doesn’t End
This Doesn’t End
Tony
The little omega is asleep. Thank god. I don’t think I can handle her being awake again, not yet.
I told her about wanting her scent, and how I would do all this for the opportunity to smell her. How fucking stupid am I? I should have lied. I just couldn’t think of anything. It was the honest truth.
I blow all the air out of my chest as I watch her sleep, curled up in my bed. I didn’t make sure she knew this care plan includes having sex. We both moved past that quickly.
My inner alpha sure knows.
I’ve already updated all my logs. I’ve answered emails. I’ve evaded giving Matty an update. She’s kind of losing it.
And I’m smoking. It’s helping with the anxiety. What a fuckup. I’ve never had a job go this badly. But then again, I’ve never had a job promise so much fucking money. Did they know she’d be this unpredictable and dangerous? I know for damned sure they didn’t know she was fucking dying.
That would have changed everything.
She’s kept that little secret to herself.
I wonder if I could have figured it out. I had a foreboding feeling about her and her habits, so how long would it have taken me to figure it out on my own? The answer doesn’t look good.
I shake the bottle of pheromone suppressants. She’s supposed to take them every day to maintain her elusive non-smell, but without a new dosage, it will take days for her scent to fully come back. There’s an anti-suppressant I can order, and if she takes that, her scent will come back quickly.
No. I can be patient.
I have her here now. She’s under my control. She’s wearing my shirt. I don’t need to force a pill down her throat.
A smile pulls at my lips. I put my shirt on her, and she left it on.
It’s in the care guide.
Damn, when her nose started bleeding and her skin went white like a sheet, I thought she was fucking dead.
I could see the blue of her veins under her skin.
My mind immediately went to an old client of mine, Dr. Oscar Soto in Salt Port.
He’d hired me to do a background check on an alpha, Kol.
I discovered his real name, Olexa Kowalski, and that he was a petty criminal and an overall drug addict.
I handed over all the info to Dr. Soto, who must have just thrown it in the trash, because the next thing I knew, they were bonded.
When I escaped my ropes and felt Keyla’s clammy skin, I called Soto. My memory was correct—he’s an omega specialist and was more than capable of answering my questions. He saved my ass.
And I can’t stop thinking about what she was muttering.
Her voice dropped an octave or two, like she was mimicking someone, as she listed off things omegas shouldn’t do.
It was honestly unsettling as all hell. I tried to wipe her down with washcloths, but she was being unreasonable.
A shower would wake her and get her to stop batting my hand away or baring her fierce little omega teeth at me.
I wanted to run the pad of my thumb over their sharp edges. Prick myself. Suck the droplet of blood she drew from me. Maybe kiss her afterwards so she can taste what she does to me…no, I’d already been way too indulgent with my alpha, so I held back.
She’s got to decide how we move forward.
I lock the scent blockers in the hotel safe next to my Glock and a pile of cash belonging to Kelya.
I wash my face and brush my teeth. I should shave again. My stubble is rough against the palm of my hand. I check on her, and she’s still out like a light, so I take the time to shave.
Looking myself in the eyes is humbling. I get to ask myself if this is really how I want things to go. I feel like it’s one of the few times my inner alpha and I can talk. He’s sober. As am I.
We don’t say much, but it feels like everything at the same time.
When finished shaving, I crouch down next to the bed, at eye level with the omega.
“Kelya?”
She stirs.
I shake her shoulder.
“You gotta wake up, Rosette. You’ve been sleeping too long.”
“Fuck you.” She groans, and then her eyes pop open. “Cypress?”
I stand as she sits up, a little quicker than she probably should.
My shirt hangs off her shoulder. Her hair is wild, and her eyes are shiny.
“How long…”
“About twelve hours. You’ve been asleep all day. Are you hungry?”
She blinks and looks around the room in a daze. “Water?”
“In the fridge. I’ve also just ordered dinner. It should be here soon. Why don’t you get up, clean yourself up, drink some water, and then join me for dinner?”
She rubs her eyes and tousles her curls.
Too groggy to protest, she goes into the bathroom and stays there until the food arrives.
She comes out in her red thong and my shirt still on, the bottom hem barely covering her ass. Her face is washed, and her hair is tamed. She gets a beer from the fridge and joins me.
I roll my eyes and fetch two water bottles and set them on the table in front of her, then I divide the meal. Rice, vegetables, fried meat, and sauces.
She picks at it with her legs crossed and eyes averted. We stay for a long time until I feel like she’s eaten a decent amount. She drinks half her beer and one of the waters. When we are done, I take my notebook and log everything.
“Have you decided then?” I finally ask.
She takes a deep breath, placing her hands in her lap. Her eyes grow serious; her mouth curls downwards.
“What happens next Monday?”
“I will take you to my clients.”
“Hm.”
“This doesn’t end any other way.” She turns away with a pout. “Listen, it isn’t a great deal for you. Either I take you to the hospital, or I give you an extra week to detox from the scent blockers before facing the inevitable. If you take the week, then you follow the care plan.”
She sighs again.
I watch her intently as she chews on the inside of her cheek, and her face grows red as her panties. Finally, she stands and begins searching for something.
“What’re you looking for?”
“My pants.”
“Rosette, you came into my room in a skirt and a bra for a shirt.”
“Then my room key! So I can go get pants! And then take my own damned self to the hospital.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. She isn’t going to accept my offer.
I pull out her bag and set it on the table. All her clothes are inside. I logged them all. There are no pants.
She stops and stares at her bag of clothes, maybe seeing those non-existent pants, or maybe wondering why things are folded so neatly when she usually leaves them in a big messy pile.
Then she looks at me. We are standing about five feet apart and facing each other. I’m not even able to take my next breath before she’s launched herself at me.
Attack! I’m being attacked!
I grab her waist to throw her off of me, but she pulls my face closer to hers. This is when I realize she’s not attacking me, she’s kissing me.