Page 85 of The Rejected Omega

I slide out of bed, and my entire body aches as I hobble to the bathroom.

I flip the light switch and freeze.

My neck’s red and purple with bruising. Unmistakable bite marks surround my mating gland, deep and overlapping, but the gland itself is untouched.

He never tore the skin. Never touched me where I needed it most.

I start to shake as the implications kick in.

I bit him.

I mated Connor, and he didn't mate me back.

I claw at my neck, as if making myself bleed might somehow count. A broken sob tears from my throat.

Connor snores softly from the next room.

A one-sided bond would fade with time, but what did it mean for us? He had the presence of mind to deny me mid-heat. Mid-rut. Mid-knot, when every core of his being should have been demanding he claim me. That was how little he wanted me. If he didn’t want me then, he never would.

The realization feels like being stabbed.

I try to rationalize the pain away. To scramble out of the pit I’m rapidly falling into. I let myself care. Let my guard down and was vulnerable with him again. How stupid of me.

It was simple—he didn’t want me. Not for anything long-term. He knew we belonged to each other, but nothing had changed. We shared a heat, but we hadn't figured outanything. Things happened way too fast, with him showing up at my door like that. Hell, was Cassandra still at his house? Would he leave me and go back home to her now that my heat was through?

My breathing comes hard and fast, and there’s a stabbing pain in my chest.

I twist the bathroom lock and pull myself into the shower. Connor won’t like it, but I need his scent off menow. I feel like I’m covered in him.

I sit on the floor of the tub and turn the cold water to full blast, letting it spray across my back. I need the frigid water to shake me awake from my nightmare. I draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, then bury my head between my knees.

I'm so tired of crying. So tired of wanting something I can never have.

The universe has made it abundantly clear that Connor's not meant to be mine. I'd have to hold this heat in my memory—crystallize it, encase it in amber—because we would never share another. Sometimes things that seem meant to be on the surface justaren’t, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.

Twenty minutes later, I’m shivering like a wet cat, my hair and skin soaked through, when Connor knocks.

“Lana? You in there?”

He waits a moment, then knocks again. More urgent this time. “Lana? Are you okay?”

I don’t respond.

The doorknob jiggles. “Let me in.”

He'll kick the door in next.

Part of me wants to let him do it. For him to destroy something physical of mine, like he’s been ripping my heart apart for years.

"I'm fine, Connor. You can leave now."

Based on the savage growl that erupts through the thin wood, things werenotfine.

I rise on shaky legs from the bath and spray myself down with the anti-pheromone spray I keep in my medicine cabinet. It isn’t strong enough to disguise something like a mate scent, but it masks some of the aftermath of our shared heat.

I wrap a towel tightly around myself and open the door. I refuse to meet Connor’s eyes.

But he’s still naked, still perfect. His body looks similar to mine—muscles even more cut than usual from dehydration. Bruises, teeth, and nail marks map his skin. The dried blood at his neck draws my eyes, demanding my attention.

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