Chapter Thirteen
Ava
It feels like someone has wedged a jackhammer between my temples. I grimace and attempt to sit up, immediately regretting that choice as a sour wave of nausea rolls through me as the room tilts and spins.
“Oh, fuck,” I whine, squeezing my eyes shut and turning to bury my face into my pillow.
Only, it isn’t my pillow. The bedding is soft, but not my silk blend, and the mattress is smaller and firmer than mine at home. I inhale quickly, realizing that the room smells a little dusty, like it isn’t frequently used.
Panic claws the inside of my ribs, making it feel as though my lungs are in a vise. My breath comes in short bursts as I push myself upright too fast, vertigo knocking the air from me. My heart thunders as I try to make my brain put the pieces together.
I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know what happened.
The uncertainty drags me into a flashback, and suddenly I’m back in the clinic during my last heat.
The sharp, metallic burn of the synthetic spray in my nostrils that made my eyes water as it kicked in.
Normally, it tricks your omega into compliance to ensure that the assigned alpha is a compatible match.
Except this time, it didn’t. The man in the room with me reeked of cloves and the chemical suppressant, and my omega had responded in kind. He’d smelled wrong.
The memory of his scent floods my nose as my present situation blends in my head with the memories from that day.
I’d been lucid enough to tell him no, a rarity during a heat, but he hadn’t stopped.
And the guards that were supposed to be paying attention to ensure that sort of thing didn’t happen had taken far too long to intervene.
Bile licks up my throat as I remember the feel of his hands on my skin.
I squeeze my eyes shut, nails biting into my palms as I fight to separate then from now. It’s not the clinic. It’s not the same. You’re not there. You’re not there.
My body doesn’t believe me. My omega is shrieking inside me that I need to run. Find the alpha whose scent reminds me of the old leather-bound law books in my father’s study.
My throat is tight, lungs refusing to pull in enough air.
I go through the steps my therapist taught me to calm a panic attack.
Five things I can see, four things I can touch, etc.
It’s only when I get to the things I can smell that my omega calms, because I can smell him. Leather and bourbon surrounds me.
Mark.
Relief floods me so hard, it’s almost painful. A glance down makes me realize that I’m wearing an old UCLA sweatshirt that is comically oversized on me. If the panic hadn’t gripped me so quickly, I would have realized exactly where I was.
Shame quickly replaces the relief. Because if I’m here in his apartment, then I didn’t resist the urge to see him. Which is its own sort of panic. How had I gotten here? Tony wouldn’t have left me anywhere if I was that wasted. Oh god, and what kind of things had I said?
I frown as I look around the room and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. There’s no familiar twinge between my thighs to indicate that we had sex. He’d obviously put me in here to sleep it off, but why?
As soon as I ponder the question, I already know the answer. He wouldn’t have. Not when I was drunk. Gratitude makes tears fill my eyes, and I rub angrily at them with my palm. Goddamn him for being such a good man. It makes it so hard to keep up the hate that I’m trying to cling to.
I spy my purse on the dresser across from me, and beside it, my phone. He even put it on a charger for me.
I groan, throwing myself back on the pillows and covering my face with my arm.
I’m not ready to face him. He’s already been so sweet with how he’s handled this, and I’m feeling incredibly vulnerable and uncomfortable.
Mainly because I want to give in to it and him so badly.
I can see it in my head—how easy it would be to find him wherever he is in the apartment and wrap my arms around his middle, lean my head against his back.
How I could whine about feeling like shit and he’d take care of me.
He’d tease me mercilessly, but he’d still do it.
I stay like that for a while, letting my heart and breathing settle as I try to think of what to say to him. I wonder if I’m lucky enough that he’s still asleep.
Eventually, my bladder forces my hand, and I slip from the bed, trying to silently ease open the door of the guest room I’m in. Of course, being in an old building in New York, it groans on its hinges, making me wince. I dash for the bathroom.
I think I hear a suppressed chuckle from the area of the kitchen, and my cheeks flame. So much for my hopes that he would still be asleep.
As I’m washing my hands, I notice the new toothbrush and tube of toothpaste sitting on the small shelf.
They’re the small sample kind you get from the dentist in the little baggie after a cleaning, but the fact that he thought to set them out for me makes tears well in my eyes. Jesus Christ. This man cannot be real.
I brush my teeth quickly, look in the mirror, and take a deep breath.
I look like a hot mess, of course. One thing he hadn’t done was take off my makeup.
I appear to have lost one of my strip lashes, and dark rings of smudged mascara sit beneath both eyes.
I grimace and remove the other lash so at least I match, and I glance around the bathroom until I find a small bottle of face wash.
It’s some kind of foaming action for oily skin, and it’s going to dry me out something fierce, but at least I won’t look so awful.
I quickly double-cleanse my face, patting dry with a hand towel.
Thankfully, Mark has dark ones that won’t stain.
Out of things to do to stall, I throw back my shoulders and prepare myself to exit the bathroom. “Come on, Ava. You can do this,” I whisper to myself. I’ve never backed down from a challenge before; I’m not going to start now.
I open the bathroom door and walk into the kitchen. Mark has his back to me, pushing around what smells like eggs in a skillet with a spatula. He’s wearing a pair of loose pajama pants, and they are slung low on his hips.
I tell myself that my mouth is only watering because I haven’t eaten in way too long.
“Morning, Ava,” he says over his shoulder. Did he hear me coming, or did he scent me?
Shit. I don’t think I have any neutralizer with me. Or my suppressants.
The clawing urge to bolt is nearly overwhelming, to get out before he can figure out my secret. But he’s been so kind. I can’t do that to him.
“Good morning,” I say quietly. “Did I make too much of an ass of myself?” I ask, figuring it’s better to rip the Band-Aid off and address the elephant in the room.
Besides, this will test how he plans to respond.
Is he going to continue to be nice, or start a fight because we don’t know how else to interact with each other?
“Nah,” he answers. He turns the burner off and slides the eggs out onto two plates. “You made it fairly clear what you wanted, but it’s not really my style. Once I distracted you from my overwhelming masculine charms, you fell asleep pretty quickly.”
I swallow, a little unsure of how to respond. I think I’d been mentally prepared to fight, so now I’m frozen. As I take my plate from him, our fingers brush, and it’s like I can feel all the awareness of my body pinpoint on to the contact. It makes me jerk back slightly, and I nearly drop the eggs.
Smooth, Ava. Real smooth. Acting like a skittish virgin when I’ve been actively having sex with this man for nearly two months. Hell, I’ve fucked him on this very island.
We’ve never shared breakfast, though, so this feels like a whole new world.
We move over to the table, and I sink into the chair opposite him, acutely aware of how his sweatshirt smells like him every time I breathe in. My stomach is still queasy, but his scent and the smell of food make it more tolerable.
“You didn’t have to cook,” I mutter, stabbing at my food. I frown, not liking how small my voice sounds, and I clear my throat. “I could have just grabbed something on the way home.”
Mark shrugs one broad shoulder, completely unbothered. “I was hungry, and I figured you would be too. You probably didn’t eat much at whatever fancy party you were at.”
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. “Why would you think that?” For a split second, I wonder if he knows about my issues with food, but that doesn’t make any sense. And besides, it’s not something I’m ashamed of. I worked damn hard for my recovery. No, I’m just on edge.
He smirks, tearing a piece of toast in half. “In my experience, people don’t typically get quite that wasted unless they don’t have much in their stomachs.”
Oh. Right.
I snag my own piece of toast, nibbling on the edges of it after slathering it with the strawberry jelly he has on the table. I might have issues with food that I’ll likely fight in some form or another for the rest of my life, but I’m still an omega. We adore sweets.
I glance at his cup of coffee and realize I’m fairly thirsty. “Is it okay if I get something to drink?”
“Shit, sorry. I meant to tell you that before you sat down. There are some energy drinks in the fridge.” He starts to stand, and I put a hand up to stop him. He’s already done enough; I don’t think I can handle much more.
I walk to the fridge and pull the door open. Neatly lined up along one side are several cans of my favorite peach-melon energy drink. My pulse speeds up. Surely it’s a coincidence, right? Maybe he also just happens to like them.
Except I’ve never seen Mark with anything but coffee, water, or whiskey.
My cheeks burn, and I snag one before returning to my chair. I can’t bring myself to look at him. I feel exposed at the same time as my omega is practically preening that he’s paid enough attention to know what we like. Like we matter to him outside the bedroom.