Page 21 of Power Shift

“Considering you won’t let me buy you a house and continue to live in this hellhole, I think you’re already sticking it to me, Mom. If you change your mind and let me buy you a place of your own in a safer neighbourhood, I’ll accept the money back for the tuition.”

Her cheeks flame as she sucks in a sharp breath. “Have you brought this up to your packmates, Ronan? You have a family of your own now to look out for. Stop babying your sister and I.”

“There is no family other than you two. Landon is making sure of that,” I bite out, the words acid.

Some of Mom’s ire dulls. “Don’t say that. Things aren’t that bad.”

The silence now draping over us is too heavy. I take the bowl of oatmeal and stand, carrying it to the sink. Instead of dumping it, I stand in front of the window and scarf down the rest of the sticky substance, wanting out of here quickly.

Our mornings together aren’t usually so tense. I use my visits to this place as not just an excuse to break away from the stifling emptiness of the pack house but because I worry about my family. The guys understand who I am on a fundamental level and have never tried to change me. The same goes for my sister and parents, whenever my dad is ever home, that is. If I’m not up for being at the pack house, this is where I come.

Today, though? I’d rather sit beside Landon while he scowls about something than here while my mother tries to dig for information on why my pack is falling apart at the seams. She’s never understood pack life or why I chose it, so getting into this now will only bring up topics that I’m not up for explaining right now.

“I’m going to head out,” I say once I’ve finished eating.

The white bowl with hand-painted blue flowers goes in the sink before I spin and head for the front door. A heavy, dramatic sigh sounds from the kitchen table.

“Don’t leave already. Come sit,” Mom says.

I stall, coming up with a lie too easily. “Jasper needs my help with something.”

“You’re lying. I’m sorry I pried.”

“You don’t have to apologize. There’s just nothing to talk about.”

“Have you tried listening to music when you get upset, Ro?” Ciara asks, not looking up from her papers.

“I listen to it in the gym.”

She shifts in her seat and finally peels her gaze from the table and to me. It’s not judgmental, just curious. Even a bit sympathetic, which is rare with her.

“You should try it outside of the gym too. It could help.”

“What kind?—”

A clunking noise from the ceiling has me pausing.

“Oh, what now? I bet Jake from upstairs fell again. I’ll go check on him,” Mom says, already pushing away from the table.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I mutter, staring up at the vents that have gone completely silent. “The ventilation system isn’t on a timer, right?”

Mom shakes her head. “Not as far as I know.”

The confirmation isn’t needed when the blueberry scent in the apartment plumes. I flash a worried look at my sister before focusing on Mom’s waiting stare.

“Stay here. I’m going to call the owner of the building. Lock the door behind me,” I demand sharply.

As much as my mom loves to argue with me, she doesn’t this time. An omega’s home is their safe place. That’s the reason behind the new legislation for de-scenter in buildings like this. Without it, there’s a greater risk of visiting alphas making their interest in an omega known in a space where they’re supposed to be protected.

Of course, it isn’t foolproof. The de-scenter they’re required to use isn’t strong enough to completely cover an omegas scent somewhere they’ve already made their own. The main point is to help provide a sense of protection and comfort to the omega population when many fear that they’ll be unsafe in a building open to other designations.

The hallway is empty and silent as Mom locks the door behind me. A mix of scents has grown exponentially since I arrived. Beta and omega scents are muddled together, nearly turning my stomach.

I hover at the stairs and call the owner of the building, having his number saved from the last time this happened only three months ago. The line rings and rings until I’m sent to voicemail. After I’ve called another three times, I leave a message.

“The ventilation system is out again in your Howard building. You have half an hour to get it fixed.”

There’s an imprint of my phone in my palm when I hang up and attempt to rein myself in. My protective instincts are intense, especially with my family.

---