Chapter Five #2
I lose track of how much time I actually sit there trying to work. The words keep swimming before my eyes, and I’ve probably read the same line about thirty times. I keep thinking about the way he smirked before he called me unprepared and the way it made me flinch.
Who the hell is he to make me react like that?
I shove the papers aside and bury my face in my hands.
I try to breathe through the spike of anger and embarrassment twisting in my chest, but it doesn’t fade. It’s gnawing at me, and I guess it’s just some weird omega thing, because it isn’t rational at all.
As if summoned by thinking of her, my omega side stirs, rising forward in my mind. We have a complicated relationship, she and I. Likely because I’ve always viewed her as separate, like a stranger living under my skin. My therapist says it’s because I’ve never been allowed to actually be an omega.
My heats are the closest thing I have to letting that side of myself free, and even those are clinical.
Scheduled in advance, twice a year, always in another state under an assumed name.
Faceless prescreened alphas, quick and impersonal, just long enough to get me through.
My mother calls it “keeping up my hormonal health.”
At least, it had been impersonal. Then one of those screened alphas ignored my omega side rejecting him.
He had smelled horribly wrong. Enough to break through the mental fog of my heat.
It hadn’t gone as far as it could have, thank god.
But it had gone far enough. I haven’t been back to a clinic since, and I’ve been putting off my heat for as long as I can while I figure out what comes next. I haven’t mentioned this to my mother.
I tell myself it’s fine. My therapist disagrees, and she’s annoyingly persistent about it.
On top of that, there’s my body. My eating disorder has prevented me from developing the soft curves that omegas are known for, and the suppressants and neutralizers dull everything else to the point where sometimes I can barely even pick up on my own scent.
My omega is insistent that Mark needs to pay for making us feel this way. Or at least, I think that’s what she’s insisting. That he needs to be in proximity to take my anger out on, like that is the only thing that might make us feel better and able to focus to get some work done.
I sit back, tapping my fingernails on the desk. I’m restless, and nervous energy buzzes through me as if I’ve had way too much caffeine.
I snatch my laptop out of my bag and open it.
It doesn’t take long. I was adept at finding out information on the internet long before I became a defense attorney. Now, I could probably run circles around the CIA.
Mark’s address stares at me from the screen.
I have no idea what I’m going to do with it or why I looked it up. But I have it now.
I screenshot it and send the information to my phone, snapping the computer shut forcefully before standing to pace around my office.
Logically, I know that calling it a night and letting it go is the mature and adult choice.
If I’m unable to focus on work, I need to take my ass home, soak in a long, hot bath, and go to bed.
I just don’t understand why I can’t let it go. It isn’t even that serious, but my omega side is clinging to it as if I was publicly rejected and humiliated by my alpha. I bite my lip, thinking. Could I be closing in on a heat?
I suppose it’s possible, even with how I’ve been doubling up on pills.
Mom said my recent bloodwork looked a little “suspect.” Something about my estrogen levels dipping in a way that she isn’t thrilled with.
I’d only been halfway listening, which was stupid and na?ve on my part.
I glance at the clock and debate calling her, but then I remember that she and Dad are in Prague for some big medical summit.
She’s a public health scientist, brilliant in ways I barely understand.
She’s been studying omega suppressants for years, and my bloodwork has been a large part of that.
Anonymously, of course. She’s perhaps the most vocal proponent for better research on omega heat cycles and suppressants in the entire world, and her life’s mission is to someday unlock a real version of omega birth control that doesn’t just shut off the rest of omega biology.
No different from what’s available to beta women.
I’ll have to call her tomorrow. It’s the middle of the night where she is.
I recognize that I’m making excuses. If I talk to her about it, then I have to admit it was real. Besides, I reassure myself that I don’t feel like I’m closing in on a heat. I don’t feel overly hot, and my clothes don’t feel restraining and itchy. I just feel… off.
Pushing off talking to her a little longer won’t hurt.
I press my hands to the sides of my head, breathing through the spike of tension twisting my chest. Rationally, I know this is crazy. Emotionally, my omega isn’t listening.
I grab my phone, hovering over Tony’s contact.
No, I’m being ridiculous.
I toss it aside again and pick up a file folder, determined to work on my briefs. But the anger and humiliation refuse to let me go. Fine, anger is an old friend of mine. I can be angry.
Mark humiliated me in court today. Publicly, not only in front of the jury but the entire city of New York. What if the alphas I face in court for my omega rights cases were watching? Or judges?
He needs a piece of my mind because he dared cross that line and took a swipe at my reputation. I have a moral obligation to confront the alpha who thinks he can push me around.
Satisfied with my line of reasoning, I open my phone and paste the screenshot of Mark’s address into my chat with Tony. He won’t ask questions; he never does. He also never shares his opinions. Well, except about me letting anyone but him drive me. He has very strong opinions about that.
“Pick me up as soon as possible. Please.”
The ping back is nearly instant.
“Ten minutes.”
I often wonder where he goes—ten minutes isn’t time to get much of anywhere in New York—but I stopped asking long ago. He won’t tell me. And considering that I met Tony after I got his cousin, a Russian bratva member, off on an attempted murder charge, it’s probably for the best.
I pace while I wait, rehearsing what I want to say. I’ll show Mark he messed with the wrong damn viper.
Somewhere beneath the anger, a quieter part of me shivers at the thought of being near him in his space, how heavy his scent will be there—I shove the thought aside. No, I’m pissed. That is all I am focusing on.
After a few minutes, I lock up my office and take the elevator back downstairs to the lobby.
I smile and nod at our night security guard and wait until I see Tony pull up outside the massive window.
I slip on my coat, bracing for the chilly night air.
Spring is just settling in around the city, and it is still cool in the evenings.
Tony opens the rear door without comment. Once I’m inside, he returns to his seat and hands me a bottle of water through the partition. He looks pointedly at my seatbelt until I click it in place. “You good?” he asks once the car is moving, accent thick.
“Fine,” I say quickly. “Just drive.”
He nods and eases into traffic. The city rushes by in strips of neon now that most of the traffic has cleared out. I keep my hands folded in my lap, fingers digging into my palms to keep me focused. I can’t let my anger fizzle out, or I’ll lose my nerve.
We pull up in front of Mark’s apartment building, and Tony looks over his shoulder. “You need a gun?”
The question makes me blink. I suppose I should have expected that he would think I was going to confront Mark with violence in mind. “Um, no. I’m just going to yell at him.”
He shrugs. “Gun’s faster.”
“I’m not shooting the District Attorney of Manhattan in his own apartment just because he insulted me, Tony.”
“You want me to?”
The question should horrify me, yet strangely, it makes me smile. It’s sweet, in its own way. “No. Just… wait for me, if you don’t mind. Or I can get a cab.”
He grunts in annoyance and scrolls on his phone, dismissing me and my idea of a different driver. I laugh and step out of the car.
I look up at the apartment building towards the tenth floor, where I know Mark’s apartment will be.
A thought occurs to me, and I grimace. I didn’t consider that he might have a doorman.
How awkward would that be? “Ms. Ava Kendrick is here to give you a piece of her mind, sir. Should I send her up?”
It’s almost enough to make me get back in the car. Except I’ve never backed down from something I’ve made my mind up to do before, and I will not start now. This bastard called me unprepared in front of the entire city.
It’s definitely not because my omega is pushing me harder than she’s ever pushed for anything in my entire life.
I clench my jaw and stalk to the front door, heels clicking on the pavement.
The lobby smells faintly of lemon floor polish.
There is thankfully not a doorman, so I’m able to walk straight to the elevator and push the round ten button.
The doors close, and I face my reflection in the polished steel.
I look pissed, which is good. I also look a little unhinged, which is less so.
My omega, traitorous bitch that she is, is practically purring at the idea of being in his space with only his scent to bask in.
Wait.
Will it?
I actually have no idea whether Mark will even be home. Or worse, what if he isn’t alone?
The thought fills me with a little panic, but also oddly makes me angrier. Both of us, actually. And I’m certainly not going to make time to examine that.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. I step out onto the thick, plush carpet and take a deep lungful of air. I close my eyes so I can really dissect what I’m smelling. Mark’s leather and bourbon scent is lingering, so he must have gotten home fairly recently, and I don’t smell anyone else.
He might be with a beta whose scent is so light, I can’t pick it up without being right beside them.
Or with someone wearing scent neutralizers.
It doesn’t feel like the case, though. No, it feels more likely that he’s home alone, and I can catch him off guard and really tell him what I think about him crossing a line.
My pulse thuds in my throat, hot and erratic, but I firmly and confidently knock on the door.
My omega, having calmed down from the idea of someone else being there beside Mark, is now back to quivering in anticipation in the back corner of my mind where I tend to keep her shoved.
It’s such an odd experience, feeling like you share your body with another person.
She’s excited, thinking I’ll cave and admit this isn’t about anger at all.
I bare my teeth, no one around to see it. No, he doesn’t get to have that kind of power over me. No one does.
I can faintly hear music playing inside, and nervousness once again takes hold. Maybe I should go back downstairs, tell myself I tried, and drown this whole reckless impulse beneath a bottle of expensive wine.
Unfortunately, that’s when the lock clicks, and before I have time to bolt back for the elevator, he’s there.
His hair is damp, and he must have just gotten out of the shower when I knocked, because the t-shirt he tossed on is clinging to him with wet spots in a couple of places, like he hadn’t had time to fully dry off.
It’s fitted tight across the chest and shoulders, and my mouth practically goes dry at the sight.
Fucking focus, Ava.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
I cross my arms firmly, letting my anger stiffen my spine and wearing it like armor. “We need to talk.”
He blinks at me, then glances down the hall like he’s hallucinating.
Or maybe he’s waiting for a camera crew to jump out and tell him he’s being pranked.
When his eyes come back to mine, they’re mostly curious.
Which… I didn’t expect. I thought there’d be a lot more anger.
“It’s after eleven. You planning on serving me a subpoena in my pajamas? ”
The smugness in his tone is like gasoline to my fire. “No, more so wondering if you’re only capable of throwing your little punches in front of an audience. If the bravado holds up when it’s just you and me.”
That gets him. The smirk slips, his expression cooling. He pushes the door open wider and makes a mocking sweeping motion with his arm to invite me in. “Well, come on then, viper. Let’s see if your bite is as vicious as your hiss.”
My omega all but purrs at the low timbre of his voice, and it doesn’t help my blood pressure one bit. I square my shoulders and walk past him, determined to prove to him and to myself that this is just about my anger.