Page 19 of Power Shift

“Yeah. Let me up.”

“A please would be nice one in a while,” she sasses before the door unlocks with a loud buzz.

I slip into the building and pull the door shut behind me, making sure the lock reengages before heading past the lone basement apartment and up to the second floor. The stairs creak beneath my weight, and I consider for a minute that they’ll cave in, leaving me buried in the rubble of this rodent-infested junkyard. It’s enough to have me taking them two at a time.

At least the owner of the place has the common sense to continue fixing the failing ventilation system. Like the new law states, all living locations with occupants of both beta and omega designation, including ones like this that wouldn’t pass any form of code inspection, are required to blow de-scenter through the vents. It’s a safety measure that I appreciate as an alpha with an omega sister.

The giant array of fake flowers looped around a Styrofoam wreath and hung on the apartment door makes it hard to mistake which one is theirs. It’s a new addition that must have been added between last Sunday and today because I’m here every single weekend and sure as fuck wouldn’t have forgotten something that ugly.

Dropping a hand to the door handle, I give it a test wiggle and scowl when it turns completely.

“Why is the door unlocked?” I snap as I throw open the door and stomp inside the cramped apartment.

The door snags on the entry mat, causing the flimsy material to curl beneath it. A collection of sneakers and high heels go tumbling when the corner of the door hits the shoe rack. I stumble over a lip in the floor and into the apartment, my shoulder colliding with the wall.

“That’s karma for coming into my house and barking at me, Ronan,” Mom chastises, appearing around the corner.

She’s still in her fluffy pink robe and flannel pyjamas, but that doesn’t change how intimidating she appears. I’ve wondered a few times if maybe she was born to be an alpha instead of a beta with her intimidating energy.

“I didn’t bark.”

She huffs, scurrying past me to kick the door shut. “You may as well have. And in a house with an omega? Shame on you.”

“Are you done?”

Standing a handful of inches below my chin, she pulls me forward with the strength of a three-hundred-pound man.

“Yes, actually, I am. Move away from the door and have some breakfast. I made that disgusting oatmeal you love so much.”

Only once I’ve locked the door myself do I follow her through the cramped hallway. The scent of fresh bread and blueberry jam is intense today, but I keep my complaints to myself.

I only mentioned enjoying oatmeal once in the last few years. Mom has a habit of remembering all that shit, though. Thinks it makes her a better mom.

Ciara is already slouched over the square, four-person table in the small nook in the kitchen with an array of schoolbooks splayed in front of her. Her glasses slip down her face, andher mouth twists in concentration as her hand moves lightning quick over her notebook.

“Breakfast, Ciara,” Mom says, slipping into the L-shaped kitchen. She uses a long-handled metal spoon to mix the contents of the pot on the stove. “And I don’t want to hear any complaints today. I added lemon zest exactly like Ronan suggested.”

“It’s literal slop, Mom,” Ciara says with a sigh.

I step up behind her chair and read the words she’s writing in her notebook. The letters are big and bubbly, far from what my chicken scratch looks like.

“History of music therapy?” I ask.

Ciara continues to write. “It’s good to know you can still read. I worry with how often you get your ass cooked on the ice.”

“You’re funny.”

“I know.”

“Breakfast,” Mom chides, banging the spoon against the edge of the pot. “Now.”

Leaving Ciara, I move to help Mom. I make note of the loose hinge on the cupboard door as I grab three bowls and set them on the counter. Mom steals the first one and fills it to the brim before handing it to me.

“Go sit,” she orders, shoving the bowl into my chest.

Taking it, I hiss at the heat against my palms and sit beside Ciara. She glares up at me from over the rim of her glasses when my knee bumps the table leg.

“Stop that,” she says.

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