Chapter Seven
Ava
I stare at myself in the mirror. I just finished my shower and need to get dressed to head to the courthouse, but for the first time, I’m dreading it.
My body is littered with fingertip-sized bruises and hickeys.
Luckily, none of them will show when I’m dressed. Right now, though, I can see every one.
Mark and I fucked twice more before I left last night—or, I suppose, this morning.
Knowing I was going to see him in court in just a few short hours had filled me with more anxiety than I knew what to do with.
So the moment he’d fallen asleep, I’d made my escape.
Poor Tony had been asleep in the front seat when I took my walk of shame back to the car.
He hadn’t said a word, God love him, just looked me over and grunted before driving me home.
I flex my shoulders experimentally and wince. Every movement reminds me of him. I’m sore in ways I have only ever felt when leaving a heat clinic.
I have never had sex like that. I don’t let men take control during the rare times I actually sleep with someone for fun and not just because I’m in heat.
Given what happened at the clinic, I thought I would be completely sex-repulsed.
I haven’t been with anyone since. But with Mark, when he threw me on the bed and told me to take off my clothes, the urge to roll over and present to him was so intense that I was helpless not to submit.
What now?
We obviously can’t do it again. I still can’t stand him, and at the very least, he associates himself with people that would prefer to lock omegas away unless we are needed for cleaning, child-rearing, or breeding.
What if he wants to have a serious talk? Or worse, want to become an “item”?
I had wanted so desperately this morning to curl into his side and go to sleep. I don’t sleep anywhere outside of the safety of my apartment or my office—the two places I have nests.
That terrified me.
I towel off the last damp strands of hair and pull on a blouse and skirt that hide everything, but make me feel like a competent adult again. Competent and sore. Mostly sore.
My omega whines that his scent is barely lingering on me after the shower, and when I spray my scent neutralizer on myself, she really complains.
God, she’s pathetic. We’re pathetic. I’m pathetic. I don’t know. Being an omega is weird.
I sling my briefcase over my shoulder and step out of the elevator into the lobby downstairs.
My penthouse sits on the upper levels of one of the few remaining Gilded Age buildings that survived demolitions and renovations in the ‘60s and became a co-op of luxury apartments. The lobby feels like the heart of it all. It’s grand and imposing, with soaring ceilings and original features that have been painstakingly preserved.
A few big-brand stores occupy the ground floor, their modern displays almost jarring against the building’s old-world elegance, though they have made attempts to adapt their branding to match the overall aesthetic.
Sunlight streams through tall, arched windows, catching the dust motes in the air, and for a moment, I pause to take it in.
The brass fixtures gleam, the carved wood radiates warmth, and every detail—from the intricate crown molding to the sweeping staircase in the corner—reminds me why I bought my penthouse.
How could I not want to live in this kind of history and beauty?
It had really hit my trust fund hard, but real estate anywhere, especially New York City, is never a bad investment. They aren’t making more land.
Besides, I have no intention of ever leaving. This is my forever home.
The crisp morning air hits me as I step outside and find Tony dutifully waiting.
I shake my head. I had told him to take the morning off after working so late.
This man never listens. He acts like driving me around is his sole life’s mission.
I pay him a ridiculous amount for it in return. I hope it’s enough.
Many New Yorkers don’t drive, but I never even got my license.
I tried to learn, but getting behind the wheel gave me panic attacks so severe that my parents finally gave up.
My therapist calls it a control thing—I’m at the mercy of other drivers.
Technically, I still am as a passenger, but at least I’m not responsible for navigating while dealing with that.
Traffic hums around us as we make our way through the crowded city blocks between my penthouse and the Central Manhattan Courthouse.
Snagging a protein bar and a manila folder from my bag, I try to focus on preparing for today’s proceedings as I eat.
Recovering from yesterday’s surprise witness is going to be difficult.
I probably won’t be able to. I’m making peace with the fact that Mark will likely win this one, despite my best efforts.
Still, my mind drifts to last night. The way my body trembled beneath him, the hard, chiseled heat of his body, how I’d come apart again and again.
I shove those thoughts down. I can’t let this consume me. I can’t go there again. My omega will just have to get over it.
I exit the car and head up the steps, the courthouse looming in front of me.
100 Centre Street is an imposing monolith of a building, with fluted granite columns and subtle metalwork that catches the morning light.
I walk inside, waving to the guards by the metal detectors as I put my briefcase on the conveyor belt.
They nod back with easy, friendly smiles.
As they wave the wand over my body, I glance up at the massive clock that hangs above the entrance, ticking away the hours.
I’m such a nerd for old architecture.
Clearing security, I head toward the courtroom, my pulse skipping despite my best efforts.
Will he already be here? I bite my lip, anticipation curling low in my belly.
Somehow, my traitorous, greedy body still aches for him.
And that’s not even touching on my omega’s whining to be near him again.
Jesus. Were the eleventy-billion orgasms not enough?
I push open the door and pause, scanning the room. Most of the seats are filling up, the voices fading to a low hum under the high ceilings. I’m arriving a little later than I normally do, thanks to my contemplations in front of the mirror.
Then I see him, leaning casually against his table, chatting with his second chair.
Mark’s jacket is perfectly creased, and other than just the faintest puffiness at the corner of his eyes and a darker five o’clock shadow than normal, you’d never know he was running on only a couple hours of sleep.
Meanwhile, I’d spent nearly fifteen minutes having to color-correct to be satisfied I didn’t look like a zombie.
Men.
I bite back a sigh and force a smile to my face, straightening my posture. I refuse to look flustered. My professional court mask is firmly in place.
I am the viper. Not the needy omega whining in the back of my mind.
As if sensing me, Mark turns and catches my gaze. For a fraction of a second, his smile falters, and hungry recognition darkens his eyes just long enough to make my heart skip. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, and his game face takes over.
“Counselor,” I say with a terse nod as I walk past him to my table.
“Ms. Kendrick,” he drawls. “Almost fashionably late. Drawing out the moment before you lose this case?”
I roll my eyes, though internally, I feel a small bit of comfort in the familiar exchange of barbs.
I turn and smile reassuringly at my client, who is looking sullen and angry ever since the witness yesterday.
I lean closer and whisper in his ear, “If you want the jury to believe that man is lying, you need to look a little less like you’re planning bodily harm against the DA, as tempting as it is. ”
He gives me a dirty look, and I remind myself that this man is definitely a murderer, so not exactly someone I want to be antagonizing for the fun of it.
The gavel slams, echoing through the courtroom, and with it, my case is over.
I pack up my briefcase and sigh as Mr. Simmons is led out by the bailiff in handcuffs.
I’m not overly sad that he’s facing the justice he deserves, but I do hate losing.
Not to mention, the mob won’t be thrilled with the outcome.
Hopefully I’ve kept enough of them out of jail that they’ll understand. Can’t win them all.
Mark had been his typical infuriating self, though on far better behavior today, which caused the reporters to look increasingly bored. They had apparently hoped for a round two.
I head out the door, bracing for the inevitable. He’ll linger and corner me somewhere, like he always does. And he’ll want to talk.
Sure enough, when I step into the corridor, he’s there.
He walks a few steps behind me, giving me space, matching my pace instead of taking control. It confuses me and makes me feel a little off-kilter. I glance back at him, and his face is carefully neutral.
Is he letting me take the lead on this? Decide how we will play it out?
If so, he’s going to realize that I have no desire to talk about it.
We exit the courthouse together, the city noise washing over us. Reporters linger outside, and he’s pulled over to make a comment on winning the case. Coward that I am sometimes, I take the chance to make an escape back to my car.
I see him glance at me, a look of annoyance flashing across his face, and I give a small wave.
I ask Tony to take me to the Queens County Family Court, where I have the opening for Maya’s custody case this afternoon.
Since I’m now hiding from the district attorney, I have a few hours to prep, and I intend to make every second count.