Page 74 of The Rejected Omega

I glance down.

Oh, fuck.

My comfort shirt. The one I’ve often worn in times of distress over the past three years. That I pulled out of my drawer when I got home without thinking. My little guilty secret.

It’s Connor’s, from the ceremony.

The one thing I let myself have of him. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, though sometimes I think I catch phantom flickers of his scent from that ill-fated night. Like when a stranger passes you on the street and you catch a faint whiff of enticing perfume before they disappear forever, leaving you with little more than a memory.

His eyes drop to my crotch and blow wide.

My belly cramps in response, more slick sliding between my thighs. I don’t have on any underwear beneath the oversized t-shirt. They’d only get ruined. And the suppressants are well and truly out of my system now, so the scent is undiluted.

I see the moment he realizes play out across his face. A kaleidoscope of longing, pain, and confusion.

“Holy fuck.It’s you.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Fuckkkkkkk.

I slam the door in Connor’s face, but he catches it with his hand. He looks fucking feral. His scent is blown wide open, and I feel it reaching for me with its tendrils, pulling me toward him.

We play a stupid game of push and pull with the door for a few seconds, but it’s pointless. He could kick it in if he wanted. He looks like he could rip it off its hinges right now.

I let go and back up until I hip-check an end table and wobble the hand-blown glass bird Connor got me for the last birthday we spent together.

He strides in after me and slams the door shut behind him. Then he inhales deeply. I watch his chest swell with the breath.

“Omega.”

I whimper involuntarily.

“Say something, Lana.”

I can’t. It’s too much all at once. Everything is happening too quickly.

Connor sinks to his knees in front of me and buries his face between my legs. The thin layer of cotton that hits me midthigh is all that separates his mouth from the slick flooding my pussy.

He drags in deep through his nose, and it’s like he’s taking a hit of a drug.

He looks up at me, and his eyes are glassy. Blown pupils eat up his irises.

“It’s you.”

I put my hands on his shoulders. As if they can do anything. As if I could push him away, when all I want to do is wrap my legs around his face and ride.

His fingers dig into my thighs, and there’s a wash of grief across his face as the full realization hits him.

He presses his forehead against my mons. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry, Lana. I’ve been a fucking fool.”

I don’t know how to respond, what to say. His scent is fast becoming overwhelming. I can taste him on the back of my tongue.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, rolling his head against me like a cat marking me with its scent. “You’re mine.”

He pulls back, his fingers digging dimples into my thighs.

“How could you keep this from me?”

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