Page 20 of Omega's Fire

“I’ve made breakfast,” I try later that day. “Nothing fancy, justeggs and toast.” The food sits untouched until I remove it hours later.

On the third day, I leave books nearby, some of the ones I brought because I noticed they matched citations in his research papers. “I thought you might want something to read.” His eyes don’t even drift toward the stack.

Day four brings rain, the patter against windows filling the oppressive silence. “The forecast says it’ll clear by tomorrow.” I’m speaking more to myself now than expecting a response.

I’ve left the newspaper with sections I think might interest him: opinion pieces on omega legislation, debates about Bureau policy reforms. He never touches them, but once I catch his eyes drifting toward a headline before snapping resolutely back to the wall.

I cook three meals daily. Each meal is placed on the coffee table within Leo’s reach. Each is ignored. He has to be starving but he doesn’t let on.

I try not to watch him too closely, but I can’t help it. He makes me feel like a stalker. All I want to do is watch him. He is magnetic.

By day four, I’ve learned his rhythms. The subtle shift of his shoulders at around 7:45 PM, telling me he is going to bed. He rises carefully, never stretching despite hours of not moving. He takes measured steps to the bedroom and closes the door with just enough force to be heard but not slammed. I’ll hear the soft sounds of the shower running. I want to go in and join him so badly it hurts. The cottage is saturated with his scent. It is driving me wild and the thought of him in the shower, hot water streaming from his naked body is enough to leave me breathless and panting. Leo might be holding out, but so am I.

I’m not touching him until he tells me he wants it. One of us is going to have to give in. If it weren’t for the chemistry between us, I’d have said I’d fold before he did, but Leo isn’t fighting me.He’s fighting his own body and nature. He can’t win at that.

On day five, Leo eats.

I nearly drop the plate when his fingers brush mine, taking the offered meal without comment. He retreats to his corner afterward, but something has shifted. There is a hairline fracture in the ice.

Now, on the sixth night, I sit at the kitchen island, idly turning the pages of a book I’m not reading. Outside, rain taps against the windows, transforming the lake view into a dark fuzz of grays and blues. The cottage smells of herbs from dinner. I made rosemary chicken, potatoes, green beans. Simple food. Safe food.

And beneath it all, the scent I can’t ignore.

Leo’s natural fragrance has been changing subtly since our arrival. The sharp citrus notes are warming, deepening, taking on hints of vanilla and amber. Pre-heat pheromones, unmistakable to any alpha.

I inhale carefully, maintaining my composure even as my body responds. The pull is intensifying daily, and I know Leo feels it too. I can see it in the slight flush on his cheeks, the occasional tremor in his fingers, the way he sometimes holds his breath when I pass too close.

Leo is fighting it with remarkable control. It should frustrate me: this stubborn resistance to what I consider inevitable. Instead, I find myself increasingly impressed. My omega is incredibly strong willed.

“So, tell me.”

The voice startles me. I look up to find Leo standing in the kitchen doorway, one shoulder against the frame. His posture suggests casualness, but his eyes are sharp and focused.

“When exactly did you decide forced bonding was romantic?”

The question hangs between us. It’s the first sentence he’s spoken in days but it’s not an olive branch. A challenge.

I close my book deliberately, giving myself a moment to consider my response.

“I never said it was romantic,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral.

Leo’s eyes narrow. “Then what would you call it? Pragmatic? Scientific? Ethical?”

“All three.” I turn to face him fully. “We’re a prime match. This benefits both of us.”

“Benefits.” Leo’s mouth twists. “Like imprisonment benefits a captive.”

“That’s reductive.”

“It’s accurate.” Leo pushes off from the doorframe and takes a step into the kitchen, his scent intensifying. “You had me dragged here because some blood test told you we were compatible. Where’s the romance in that?”

I measure my breath, aware that this conversation is a minefield. “Romance isn’t the point. And I’m happy to be romantic but it’s hard for me to show you that with you spending the day ignoring me and staring at the wall. You need to at least give it a chance.”

“I don’t care about giving it a chance,” Leo cuts in. “I care about the right to determine my own future.”

“Even if that future is demonstrably worse?”

Leo’s eyes flash. “Worse by whose definition? Yours?”

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