Page 34 of The Rejected Omega

Connor laughs, breaking me free of my stasis. “Relax, Birdy. I’m joking. God, you’re wound tighter than a fucking rope, aren’t you? What do you do to unwind?”

“I don’t.”

I work. I study. I sleep. Repeat. I’m a hamster on a wheel of my own design.

“Well, that settles it. I'll see that you’re fed from here out. I already know what you like.”

I roll my eyes. “Like you remember?—"

“I remember.” He says it like a promise—like a vow. Like the last thing he’s talking about is food.

“Oh?” I croak. The chicken is lukewarm.

“No ice in your sodas cause it waters down too fast. You like fresh mushrooms but not cooked ones, unless they're enoki. Cheese and dressings on the side, and no mayo cause they always put too much. And if you’d actually drink the coffee I bring you instead of acting like a stubborn brat, you’d know I remember that, too.”

I swallow.

“You expect Lance to know all that?”

“You two eat at the caf together regularly. If he cared, he would remember.”

Fucking Connor.

I go for another piece of chicken, and he drags the plate away from me.

“What the fuck?”

“Don't eat that. You don't like it, and your stomach will hurt later. You'll be laid up until bed with your heating pad regretting your decisions. I'll get you food. I want to feed you.Let me.”

His words do something funny to my insides. There’s part of me that’s ecstatic he’s driven to take care of me, and another that recognizes it’s for all the wrong reasons. His guilt. Our past friendship. Not because he recognizes me as his mate.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“No, you are. You’re fucking lactose intolerant.”

“I’m paying for that. I’m not going to just waste it?—“

“Makes you pay, too? I hate him more and more by the second. What do you want to eat?”

I fling my hand at the Styrofoam container. “That.”

“No.”

“Know what? I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Your stomach has been growling for the past twenty minutes, Crane. You’re makingmehungry.”

“I’ll get something out of the vending machine, then. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Lana—”

He’s standing and pacing around now, his scent perturbed. I should really minimize the time I spend in this cramped environment soaking up his scent when it’s this strong.

“Fine.” He looks like he’s going to break something if we don’t get out of here.

He pauses in his pacing. “Fine?”

I was the easiest solution, the easiest way to end this conversation.

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