Page 87 of The Rejected Omega

His voice drops an octave. “Don't tell me what I want. I told you?—“

“You told me a pretty story. But that’s not real life. The heat, the bite, it’s affecting your judgment...”

“How long?” he snarls.

His entire body is tense. There’s something rolling off him in waves. Not violence, but close.

“What?”

“How long do I need to stay away from you before you’ll stop making excuses and give us a fucking chance?”

“Till the bond fades? I don’t know?—”

A stiff jerk of his head. “Not happening. That could take months.”

"I’ve already waited too long for you. I’m tired of being hurt.”

His face falls.

I knot my fingers in the towel fabric. “I need you to leave.” I need him to go so I can fall apart without him seeing.

He pulls me to him and kisses me savagely, nipping at my lips and plundering my mouth with his tongue. I can’t help but respond, kissing him back but keeping my hands to myself.

When the familiar heat of his erection brushes my thigh and lifts the edge of the towel, he curses and lets me go.

“This isn’t over.”

He stalks throughout the house to wherever he left his clothes. I sit on the lip of the tub and wait until well after I’ve heard the door slam and the roar of an engine.

When I return to my bedroom, I just stare.

Everything’s a mess. The smell of Connor and sex hangs heavy in the air. I have a metric fuck ton of laundry to do—my entire wardrobe is strewn across the room or part of the nest. Was my mattress even good anymore? I didn’t have one of those expensive heat-proof mattresses.

I want to hide under my covers and forget the world, but I can’t even do that, because my bed and blankets are soaked with the scent of heat sex. I’d have to bleach my entire apartment, to kill our scent.

I strip the bed and stuff the linens in the washer with way too much detergent. The rest of my clothes and anything with Connor’s scent on it I stuff into garbage bags and sit on my back porch.

I spray some anti-pheromone spray directly into my mattress until it’s wet, but it makes little difference. I’ll need something industrial-grade to overpower a week’s worth of heat sex.

I want Connor’s shirt. The one from the mating ceremony. I’ve played this game long enough to know that later, whenthings return to normal, I’ll be desperate for something with his scent—something of his. I can triple-bag it until then.

I tear my house apart looking for it until I’m certain it’s gone. He took it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I spendthe next day on the couch, flipping through bad movies and infomercials. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to clean, or study, or pick up a shift. I don’t want to do anything.

So much of my identity and daily habits were wrapped up in keeping secrets that I feel directionless.

I miss him.

Sitting in my apartment isn’t doing any good. I’ve cleaned and sanitized and sprayed, but the place still smells heavily of Connor. Maybe they make one of those foggers that kills bugs that works on alpha scents, instead?

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, my nerves are frayed, and Ihaveto escape the house.

I grab the Miata’s keyring and drive it to Mac’s. I’ll catch the bus back, and it will keep Connor from being tempted to knock on my door again when he picks it up.

Will keep me from being tempted to answer.

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