Page 79 of Power Shift

“Really?”

My thumb swipes a hot line across her bicep, and I focus on the lift of the thin hairs there more than the way mine do the same.

“Motorbikes, leather, and boots are his favourite things. Such a typical bad boy.”

“Don’t forget the scowl,” she teases.

“Ah, yeah. He’s perfected that by now.”

“Speaking of Ronan, where is he? I’m not early, am I?” she asks, nervously eyeing the living room behind us.

“No. We got home a few minutes ago, but if we’re being totally open right now, we’re all exhausted. Road trips are always more tiring than usual.”

She nods, twisting her mouth as her stare slips back to me. “If someone had told me, I would have made dinner or something. Are you hungry?”

“You don’t have to cook for us. We usually just order in on nights like this.”

“That was before you had an omega who was offering to make you something to eat,” she says before her eyes flare wide. “I mean, not like I’m the pack’s omega or anything. What I meant is that I’manomega, and I’m here offering to make something.”

I crack a slight smile. “I knew what you meant.”

“So, can I?”

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

She laughs softly. “No. I’m not.”

“Then the kitchen is this way.”

Removing my hand from her arm is like trying to peel apart two pieces of paper that have been glued together. It takes a hard yank that no doubt makes me look incredibly odd before I can drop it back to my side and lead her through the house.

My head starts throbbing with a hunger headache again while my stomach does summersaults with nausea. Airplane sickness is a real thing despite what the guys on the team say, and it’s a constant reminder that I may have chosen the wrong profession. If I didn’t love hockey so damn much, I would have chosen something that wouldn’t involve going thirty thousand feet in the air every few days.

I swallow past the bile creeping up my throat and focus on not collapsing onto the floor.

“I’m not sure what we have to cook with. We always let the fridge go empty before a road trip,” I warn Briar, keeping my eyes forward.

“I can figure something out.”

“Alright,” I mutter.

The lights are still on in the kitchen when we enter. I immediately collapse on the closest bar stool at the island while palming my forehead.

“Are you okay?” I hear, Briar’s voice twinkling in my ears.

With my eyes squeezed shut, I grind my teeth to try and curb the wave of nausea.

Inhaling, I pick up the fresh scent of lemon with the slightest note of sweetness. I can’t help but take in another deep pull of it before releasing the pressure I’m applying to my forehead. The gentle yet steady press of her hand between my shoulder blades halts the rolling in my stomach.

She slowly starts massaging my tight muscles. “Does it help when I do this?”

“Yes.” It’s a throaty noise more than it is a verbal reply.

“I’ll keep doing it, then.”

“Why?” I blurt out.

Her hand stalls for half a second before continuing its movements. “Why what?”

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