Page 73 of The Rejected Omega

They have routine. History.He chose her.

Not me, never me.

My mind darts back to my conversation with Connor about him and Cassandra.

‘We’ve outgrown each other. Neither of us was interested in long distance, and she doesn’t want to move back east.’

They weren’t reasons. They were excuses. Things easily overcome if they ever wanted to get back together.

Connor’s guilty face locks on me, and I summon an imaginary wall between us, rapidly slotting in brick after brick like a demolition video played in reverse.

“Coffee?” Cassandra asks.

I want to scream.

“No thank you. I’ve got to get going.”

Connor takes a step toward me, and I wave a jerky hand. His scent is chaotic. Panicked. But it pales in comparison to mine.

Unsuppressed, my current level of distress is pungent. Cassandra’s oblivious—a beta’s nose can’t pick up on these signals. They aren't meant for them.

I fumble with the door, then jerk it closed behind me.

I dart for the porch steps and take them two at a time, focusing every inch of my dizzy, dehydrated mind on not stumbling.

I don’t know why I’m running so fast.

He won’t chase after me.

He never does.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

My drive homein Connor’s car is a blur. I enter the apartment and strip, immediately throwing Connor’s clothes in the wash along with two cups of descenter. The action feels like severing a limb.

I dress in one of my favorite sleep tees. My forehead is fever-hot, and I’m alternating between anxiously pacing my bedroom and fussing with my bedding and pillows. Fighting the urge to nest is pointless. My heat is here, and I’m woefully unprepared. All that’s in my fridge is two bottled waters, a wrinkly apple, and an assortment of condiments. I haven’t bought any of the toys Dr. Kanata recommended if I tried to go it alone. I can have items rush-delivered, but what if an alpha delivers them?

I’m spiraling. Anxiety eats through my stomach, and I tie my hair up in a clip to keep it off my sweaty neck.

I’m digging through the pile of bills and school notes on my desk, looking for the heat center pamphlets Kanata gave me, when I hear the familiar purr of Mac’s Miata pulling into my driveway.

Connor probably sent him to fetch his keys, and I need to hand them over before my heat begins in earnest.

I open my door before he can knock, planning to set the keys on my welcome mat and avoid the questioning about why I smell like his son.

Then I freeze.

Connor is striding toward my apartment. His hair sticks out in multiple directions, and he’s wearing the sweats he slept in last night. His scent is chaotic bliss.

He reaches me and spreads his arms across my doorway, panting as he leans toward me.

His eyes trail down my body, and his scent spikes, pheromones flaring. My thighs are already damp with slick, and his presence isn’t helping matters.

I tremble beneath his gaze. I can’t help it. My entire system is in overdrive. I’m so over-sensitized, the hair on the back of my arms is standing up.

Then Connor’s eyes hang on my chest, utterly arrested. There’s an audible swallow.

“Where’d you get that shirt?” His voice is hoarse. He almost sounds scared.

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