Chapter 18
Saint
If the Rover had an ejection seat, I would punch the button. Fly right out the roof and never look back. That’s how much I hate being in this car right now.
Lark and Graham are in the back making out like a couple of horny teens. The sounds are destroying me.
Soft sighs. Breathless little laughs. The slow, unmistakable slide of mouths finding each other again and again. Over and over until I want to poke my fucking eardrums with a stick.
Her caramel and salt scent fills the entire vehicle. It’s heavier now. Richer. The salt sharpens when she’s worked up. I didn’t know that yesterday. I know it now. It coats the back of my throat, seeps into my lungs, settles low in my stomach and lower still.
Silas drives. Steady hands on the wheel. I sit in the passenger seat and stare straight ahead like that’s going to save me from this nightmare.
It doesn’t.
I turn the radio on. I tap my playlist and the angry tones of Slipknot’s People = Shit blast through the speakers. Guitars screaming, drums pounding. The kind of song that sounds like breaking glass and split knuckles. It used to feel like release. Now it just feels like the inside of my head.
For three blessed seconds, it works.
Silas reaches over and turns it off. The car drops back into heat-heavy silence. Except for them. I shoot him a look. He doesn’t look back. Just keeps his eyes on the road.
I know he’s as affected as I am. I saw him adjust himself no less than three times since we pulled out of the driveway. And yet, the bastard has the faintest smile on his face. He smells like whiskey and satisfaction.
He checks the rearview mirror. Not for traffic. For them. Like he’s proud. Like this is exactly what he wanted. His omega in the backseat, tangled up with his packmate. For him it's simple. She's ours. We take care of what's ours.
I used to think like that.
His gaze flicks sideways to me. Frustrated. He has no idea what to do with me. Neither do I. That’s the problem.
When he cornered me earlier, he reamed me out. He was quiet and precise about it because Silas doesn’t go in for that loud, barking alpha shit. But it was still jarring. He lectured about responsibility. About pack. About not walking away from something this rare because it’s inconvenient.
Inconvenient.
That’s not what this is.
Inconvenient is a bad parking spot. It’s a double shift when you’re tired. What I’m carrying isn’t inconvenient. It’s a weight I can’t figure out how to set down. It’s too much. Everything lately is too damn much.
Mom’s gone. Work feels pointless. I can’t hit the gym and burn it out of me like I used to. For months, the world’s been gray and heavy and exhausting.
And now this. Her. Color slamming back in so hard it hurts.
A soft gasp from the backseat makes my grip tighten on my own thigh.
I don’t turn around. I did that once already.
About five minutes ago. Just a glance over my shoulder.
Quick. Careless. Her hair was a mess around her shoulders.
Golden streaks flashing under passing streetlights.
Golden eyes, molten and glassy. Her hand fisted in Graham’s shirt while he bent over her like she was the only thing in the world.
I haven’t looked back since.
Another muffled sound. Almost a laugh. Almost a moan.
I shouldn’t look. I look anyway.
Fuck.
She’s straddling Graham’s thigh now, hips thrusting slow. His hands are on her waist. Her chest is flushed. She drags her mouth down his jaw, and I swear I can hear the slide of skin on skin.
She’s taller than most omegas. I never liked those tiny omegas.
They always look like they could break in the wind.
Not Lark. She’s sturdy but also feminine.
Her figure curves exactly the way I dreamed it would.
Lush hips. Narrow waist. Strong thighs that tell me she works out.
She moves like she knows her body, controlled even when she's worked up.
I imagine her in the home gym. Hair tied back. Tank clinging to her back. Bracing under a barbell while I step in close to adjust her stance. My hands on her hips. Her breath hitching.
The image is instant and too vivid. I jerk my gaze forward again. My hand is shaking slightly on my thigh. It wasn't doing that before.
Jesus Christ. I’m not doing this.
She smells even stronger now. It crawls under my skin, pools low in my gut, and keeps going. I shift in my seat like that’s going to help. Silas doesn’t say anything, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
I should have held my ground and not come on this fucking trip. They didn’t need me at the nesting store. They don’t need me to see this stupid warehouse. Graham and Silas have it covered.
Another quiet murmur from Graham. He’s so soft with her. Devoted even though he’s known her for a fucking day. It makes my chest feel tight.
She laughs again. It moves through me like a current.
When I walked into that room yesterday, something in me snapped into place. Recognition. Heat. Possession. And panic. Pure cold panic. I’m barely holding it together as it is. I can’t care for an omega. I know what I’ve got to give, and it isn’t enough. Not right now. Maybe never.
Coward.
My alpha only speaks to chastise me, now. I don’t argue with him anymore.
I think about the roast I've been working on. The Ethiopian blend. The notes I need to adjust. Anything that isn't the sound of her voice.
Silas clears his throat. The warehouse comes into view.
Fucking finally.
The second the Rover slows, my hand is already on the door handle.
It’s not an ejection seat, but it’ll do.
We roll to a stop. I’m out before the engine fully dies.
Cold evening air hits my face. I drag in a deep breath.
Oil and asphalt, faint river water drifting up from the docks.
No caramel-thick air pressing in on me from every side.
Just space.
I shove my hands into my pockets and take a few steps away from the vehicle, putting distance between myself and the scent clinging to the leather seats.
Another slow breath. Better. Not perfect. But better.
The warehouse is bigger than I expect. Cleaner, too.
Metal shelving stretches in long rows. Stacked boxes. Labeled bins. A shipping station at the far end where two betas are scanning barcodes and sealing cartons with quick, practiced motions.
It smells like cardboard and old wood and faint lavender. Two exits I can see. Sprinkler system overhead. Clean floors. No trip hazards, no pooling. Good sight lines between shelving rows.
Lark guides us through each section like she owns the place. Because, of course, she does. Graham is immediately at her side, eyes bright, questions spilling out of him in rapid-fire.
“So companies just… send you products?”
“They pitch us,” she explains, gesturing toward a pallet stacked with neatly wrapped boxes. “We test them first. If they score high, we include them in a future OmegaBox. Omegas do unboxing videos online and share reviews. It drives traffic. Revenue almost always increases for our partners.”
“Even though they basically give you the products?” Graham asks.
“Even though they sell to us at a low cost,” she confirms. “Exposure is worth more than the initial loss. And we don’t accept anything we wouldn’t personally recommend. We want our subscribers to be happy. We want our company partners successful.”
Silas watches her with a steady, assessing look. He’s obviously impressed. It takes most people months to get that look out of him. She got it in about four minutes.
“I bought Lucy a membership when she was diagnosed,” he says.
Lark’s head snaps toward him. “Lucy?”
He nods once. “My sister. She’s currently in chemo treatments. I wanted her to have something that felt special.”
Lark steps closer to him. “You’re a good brother.” She stands on tiptoes and kisses his cheek. “I have something in my office for her. We just finished testing it. It scored incredibly high. I think she’ll love it.”
Silas cups her jaw and kisses her without hesitation. I look away.
Graham grins. “Before he purchased, he showed us your intro video. The one where you explain the subscription model and testing process.”
My spine locks.
Lark blinks. “You watched that?”
“All of us,” Graham says cheerfully. “We thought you were smokin’ hot.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
Graham keeps going. “Saint was practically obsessed.”
I should kill him. Slowly.
Silas’s mouth twitches.
Lark turns toward me. I study the middle distance with great intensity.
“Practically obsessed?” she repeats.
I say nothing. It’s the only safe answer.
The memory of that video. Her confidence. The way she leaned against her desk. The gold in her eyes catching the light. Four times. I watched it four times and told myself it was because Silas wanted to be certain it was a good gift for Lucy.
Humiliation burns low and steady in my gut.
Lark clears her throat. “We also have beta subscribers. Not as many, but they deserve to feel special too. Market research indicates that betas are taking advantage of omega-centered products.”
Graham lights up again. “That’s smart. Expands the market without diluting the omega branding.”
She beams at him like he's just said exactly the right thing. He probably has.
It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
“Where’s your office?” he asks.
“Next building over. We’re expanding soon. Right now it’s mostly storage and my office. I’m rarely on site, so it’s not a big deal that it’s separate.”
Silas nods. “Let’s see it.”
The next building is… not like the first. Concrete exterior. Faded paint. Rust at the base of the loading doors.
Inside is worse. Exposed beams. Fluorescent lights that flicker before fully committing to life. Concrete floors and walls with visible spalling, flaked patches where moisture has chewed through the surface. Water stains creep up one wall in a tide line.
I stop walking. “This building has been inspected?” I ask.
She glances back. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
I step toward a support column and press my thumb against a cracked edge of concrete. It flakes under pressure. “This isn’t cosmetic,” I mutter. “Freeze-thaw damage. Load-bearing stress will accelerate it.”
She folds her arms. “We’re upgrading before we fully transition operations here. The report said it was safe.”
I narrow my eyes at the exposed rafters.
“Saint,” Silas warns quietly.
I clamp my jaw shut.
She walks to a shelving unit and pulls down two plastic wrapped items. One sky blue. One soft pink. She unwraps the pink one, revealing it to be a neatly folded blanket. She presses it into Silas’ hands.
“For Lucy.”
His throat works before he manages to speak. I look away. Some things aren’t mine to watch.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” She smiles. “These go in the box three months from now. They’re weighted and incredibly soft. Ranked highest for anxiety reduction.” She holds the blue one against her cheek.
Silas bends and kisses her again. Slower this time. Reverent. She lights up under it.
I shouldn’t want her. But I do. Even here. Even irritated. Even drowning in concrete dust and the hum of fluorescent lights.
I look at the crack in the floor again. I hate this building.