Page 55 of Wild Omega

Ozzie reaches out a claw to curl around my fingertip, sealing our pact.

Rickon glares at the bird and nudges me to turn around. Opposite my alpha’s bedroom stands the only other doorway, and I poke my head in. An electric scooter competes for the few inches of floor space left in an overflowing sewing room. A mannequin protrudes among boxes erupting with bolts of fabric, leather, and ribbons. A ribbed corset hugs the plastic hourglass torso.

“Ah, that’s, uh—” Rickon flushes, shyer now we’re in the privacy of his home than when we were sly fucking in public. It’s adorable.

“You sew?” I ask, wrapping my hands around his arm and vibrating with excitement.

He nods. “A bit. Pretty hard to come by the things I like to wear, so I started making my own.”

I scan his casual attire up and down, trying to picture that lovely corset on him, and he chuckles. “Usually I put in a bit more effort. I had no idea I’d be meeting my very own omega today.” He pivots around the doorframe to lean into me, stealing a kiss. A sweet twist to his lips tells me he’s as wildly happy as I am about this surprising piece of serendipity in our lives. He doesn’t like losing contact with me for more than a few seconds.

“Is that one of them?” I ask, pointing to a thick dress bag hanging on a rack to one side.

“Oooh, no, that, that thing is a disaster.” He groans and waves his hands, clearly flustered. “A professional one, I mean, not what’s in it.” He tugs me out of the room and closes the door, hiding the mess from view like he’s embarrassed. “Okay, so do you wanna eat now, since we kind of skipped that earlier?”

“Sure.” I kinda just want to tear that knitted sweater off him and lick every inch of his lean body, but I’m pretty sure we have plenty of time—assuming Samantha and her posse don’t catch up with me too fast.

I still need to figure out how to tell Rickon I broke out of a facility.

He gets forks from the kitchen and empties the cake tray onto the coffee table before coming back to grab my hand and tug me over to the sofa. Traces of his sewing passion, sharp-looking scissors and patterns drawn on baking paper, lie on the side table next to the couch.

“You gotta try this one. It’s my favorite.” He loads up the fork with purple-and-white marbled cake and offers it to me.

I stare at him like I’m in a trance, soaking in each voice inflection and every move of muscle in his throat when he speaks. My alpha. Rickon. I lean forward and open my mouth for him to load the cake in. A splash of flavor hits my tongue, and I murmur in appreciation.

Rickon’s pale green eyes light up. “Good, yeah? It’s boysenberry cheesecake.”

“More,” I tease, swallowing and opening my mouth again. It’s smooth, sweet, and provides a burst of flavor with every lick around my mouth. Just like Rickon himself.

“How old are you?” I ask, taking a sip of my lukewarm latte.

He grins slyly and offers me another mouthful of cheesecake. “How old do you think I am?”

I scan his face while I chew. “Twenty-two.”

Rickon chuckles. “Try twenty-seven.”

My jaw drops. “Shut the front door!” I take another look, but I’d never have guessed he was remotely near thirty.

He shrugs and strokes his smooth jaw. “It’s this baby face, I know. Maybe I should grow a beard.”

“Never,” I growl under my breath. I happen to be fond of seeing all that fine-as-sin face without any part hidden under hair.

He chuckles. “Not fair. I’m not even allowed to ask for a lady’s age.”

I drag the cheesecake slice closer and dig the second fork in. From now on, I think I’m adopting all Rickon’s favorite things too. “Twenty-five, I think.” His brows pop in question and it’s my turn to shrug. “I’ve got a bit of an unusual past. It’s light on details and things like birth certificates.”

Rickon stops with his drink halfway to his mouth. “Damn, Red, that sounds like quite the story.”

I hum under my breath. “Not one I’m eager to tell.” Some days I have dim memories of the person I was before entering the House of Bitches. Hard to know how many years I was there, when the painful heats all blend together.

Time to change the topic. “Any family? No, wait, you said you don’t have any except Callisto.” I lick the fork clean.

He nods and leans back on the couch, watching me closely. “Right, I lost them.” His teeth drag through his lower lip, making me wonder just how painful the memory is. “Although Callisto’s family basically adopted me as their own. How about you?”

“None at all. It’s just me, myself, and I.” Literally. I smile at my internal joke. “I’m good like this.”

Rickon slides closer and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. “Not anymore.”

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