Page 322 of Labor of Love

His voice was flat when he said that, like he was repeating something he’d heard or been told too many times in his life. Or maybe he was trying to convince himself more than me.

I supposed it was true. I didn’t generally walk around pampering all the single Omegas I ran across in my everyday life. I’d never have time to get anything else done. But it didn’t feel right to pull away. Not with this Omega.

He felt right in my arms, his huge pregnant belly pressing against me, stirring something deep in my brain. A quiet longing I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.

I’d given up on the idea of having an Omega and children of my own. Being the biggest and scariest-looking Alpha in most rooms meant I was never the one picked by sweet, delicate Omegas. I’d rarely gone on more than one date with the few who had agreed when I approached them. And the couple of times my mom had convinced me to let her set me up with someone, it had gone about as well as I’d imagined it would.

The only time I’d ever gotten an Omega to admit why they’d changed their mind after meeting me in person, they’d told me it was because I looked like I couldn’t be gentle.

I’d stopped looking after that.

I couldn’t change how rough my features were or shrink my size, and I didn’t want to continue terrifying unsuspecting Omegas. I mostly kept to myself nowadays, other than when my nosy family butted in.

But now, I had a trembling, pregnant Omega in my arms who didn’t seem to have an Alpha of his own—despite how near he had to be to giving birth. My size and appearance hadn’t scared him off so far, and I hoped my lack of experience handling upset Omegas didn’t run him off.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked, smoothing my hands up and down his back, trying to offer as much comfort as I possibly could.

“Been a hard day,” he said, then laughed without any humor. “Well, more like a rough couple of months.”

“I can go and get a spoon from my apartment,” I offered. I knew the lost silverware was probably the least of his problems, but it was the quickest one I could solve.

He huffed out a real laugh, then leaned back so he could look up at me.

“I’d appreciate that,” he said. His smile was a little wobbly, but it was there. I’d take it.

I kept my eyes on him as I backed out of the apartment, and once in the hallway, I sprinted to my place, nearly ripping the silverware drawer completely out in my rush. I grabbed one spoon—then a bigger one—and then a fork. I didn’t want to assume what the Omega would like, and the last thing I wanted was another breakdown because he’d have preferred something else.

I grabbed a roll of paper towel and hustled back.

Pausing in his doorway, my feet froze at the sight of the Omega clutching the bowl of stew. He was perched precariously on the edge of one of his boxes, eyes closed and inhaling deeply. Savoring the smell of foodIhad made.

Then his light brown eyes popped open, and his blotchy cheeks flushed at getting caught.

I slowly approached, utensils outstretched. He glanced from my face to the offering and back again, a smile coming a little easier, before he snagged the largest spoon and dug right in.

I tried not to stare as the Omega ate the food that I had prepared. I might not have made it with him in mind, but the fact that it was something I had done with my own hands soothed my own agitation and filled me with pride. I still wasn’t okay with how upset he’d been, but providing nourishment to a pregnant Omega—thispregnant Omega—calmed my instincts.

I glanced around the empty apartment in an attempt not to hyperfixate on the way he licked the spoon, but there really wasn’t much to see. Just the few boxes he’d brought up during his trips back and forth to his car.

I couldn’t help but frown at them, words spilling out before I could stop them. “How far along are you?”

He froze, the spoon halfway to his mouth, and then lowered it back into the bowl. My stomach turned. I couldn’t have just kept my fucking mouth shut?

“Thirty-five weeks,” he said softly.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. He looked like he was about ready to burst—his tiny frame consumed by his large stomach—but I still blanched and shook my head. “You shouldn’t be going up and down those stairs so many times in your condition.”

Instead of agreeing with me, the Omega lifted his chin, jaw set. “Unless I want to sleep in my car, I’m going to have to.”

I didn’t like that answer.

My frown deepened despite my intention of projecting gentle calmness, and I knew any goodwill I’d earned by providing food would soon be washed away. That this Omega would start to see me as all the others had: too big, too scary-looking, too mean and rough.

But I couldn’t seem to help myself.

“Is that why you were crying? You don’t have anyone to help you move?”

It was a shit thing to say, and I could’ve phrased it a lot nicer.

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