Page 22 of The Rejected Omega

“I know, I’m sorry?—”

“Start prep. I’m not clocking you in till 5.”

I glance at the clock. It’s only 4:36.

I’m pretty sure that’s illegal wage theft, but I don’t have the energy to argue with Francine today. I don’t have the energy for much of anything, lately. I was encouraged by friends and professors alike to quit one of my jobs, but if I do that, I won’t be able to afford my extra medication.

Extra, as in black market.

Extra, as in I take twice the prescribable dose to keep my heats at bay. I haven’t had one since the claiming ceremony, and I intend to keep it that way.

I’mlate to meet my new tutee, but I can’t be assed to care. Today has been a nightmare. I spilled my coffee on my way to my first class, managed to forget that an entire paper was due in one of my electives, and I’m sleep-deprived. I stayed late at Murray’s to close after a coworker called in sick, then I still had homework to do once I got home.

I only remember the tutoring appointment thanks to Dr. Craven’s email confirming the day and time. It arrived while I was sitting in my car, on break at my morning job at the third best café in town, fighting the urge to lean my seat back and take a nap.

I stomp up the library stairs to the second floor and hurry to our reserved study room. It’s on the back wall, deep in the stacks.

A wave of alpha pheromones overwhelms me when I enter the room. I plop my pile of shit—books, purse, requisite beverages, jacket, keys—onto the first available surface andhead to the whiteboard. I start popping the caps off markers to find one not dry as a bone.

“You came.”

I nod, distracted. “Sorry I’m late. My schedule is a nightmare this semester.”

“No worries, Birdy. It’s been a long time.”

I freeze and slowly sniff the air. Only one person calls me by that nickname.

It's been so long since I've smelled him. My sense of smell is shit on this many suppressants, but his scent is unmistakable.

Unchanged.

Unthinkable.

For a moment, I'm back in that clearing, holding his shirt to my nose, ignorant to the pain about to eclipse my entire life.

I blink and tear myself out of the flashback.

The dry-erase marker falls out of my hand and rolls across the room, and I slowly turn around.

Connor Masters is sitting in my tutoring room.

He’s only gotten more devastating with age.

His scent has matured over the past three years. It's rich and spicy. Tempting. The scent of an adult alpha male quickly curling around the burnt nothing in my nose and doing its wicked work. I can feel my body temperature rising.

My heart kicks into a panic. I survived the last three years by having a plan. I knew when he came to town weeks in advance. I went to school, went to work, made dinner if I had energy left and groceries in the fridge—or more frequently, settled for spoonfuls of peanut butter or butter noodles, and slept. My schedule kept me sane.Avoiding himkept me sane.

I was doing better lately. Recovering, even. I could go on walks in the woods again. I could research my condition without doom-spiraling. I finally started responding to texts fromfriends I didn’t deserve—the ones that still bothered to reach out, anyway.

Why now?

I swallow, my throat sticking with dryness. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm your tutee.”

“No, you're not.”

He raises a devastating eyebrow. “Yes, I am.”

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