Page 33 of Omega's Fire

I curl onto my side, still fully clothed on my newly-made bed, and stare at the wall. My old room slash office had pictures of beaches on the wall, but this one has motivational posters. The one in front of me reads: Stop Thinking. Start Doing.

I don’t want to Do. I don’t want to Think either. I feel like I just want to Shut Down. I close my eyes.

The flowers’ scent mingles with the musty smell of the building.

I’m back. I’m alone. I don’t have to stay with Nash Thorndike. I’ve gotten exactly what I wanted.

Nash

The sheets are still saturated with Leo’s scent. I shove my nose into them. I immediately drown in the memory of his moans and growls of pleasure, his body soft in the right places, deliciously hard in others and so incredibly wet for me. I press my nose harder into the sheets.

I don’t want you.

The words slice through my mind.

“Fuck,” I whisper. Coldness spreads through my chest. I sit up, suddenly feeling sick.

My suitcase lies open on the stripped bed, already filled with my neatly folded clothes. I catch sight of the laundry basket in the bathroom and freeze. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m on my knees beside the basket, digging through the discarded clothing with desperate hands. I find the t-shirt he was wearing when his heat started and the loose sweatpants he had on before the fever took him fully. And then there’s the boxers he wore that first morning, when he still looked at me with cold defiance instead of desperate need.

“You’ve lost your fucking mind, Thorndike,” I mutter, but I don’t stop.

I lift the wrinkled t-shirt to my face, inhaling deeply. The scent hits me immediately. It’s pure Leo, intense and undiluted. My cock hardens instantly, a Pavlovian response to the memory of his body writhing beneath mine, his heat-slick skin sliding against me, his voice breaking as he comes.

Without letting myself consider just how pathetic I’m being, I carefully fold each article of clothing and place them in my suitcase, wrapped in my own shirts to preserve the scent. I find one more treasure under the bed. Another thin cotton shirt Leo slept in. The scent sends a jolt of pure longing through me, so intense it borders on pain.

My phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand. I snatch it up immediately in case it’s him. It’s not. The name on the screen is Rowe.

I let out an undignified huff. I don’t want to deal with her right now. She’ll have some strategy, some PR manoeuvre. I don’t know if that’ll include fighting for my match with Leo. On the one hand, having an activist like Leo Torres walk away from a prime match will be enormously humiliating for the Bureau. On the other, forcing a match with Leo when he has made it clear he doesn’t want me, is going to be just as bad for it.

I let it ring. I’m not ready yet to hear what she has to say.

This isn’t over. It can’t be over. I’m not going to let it. Leo Torres belongs with me, whether he’s ready to admit it or not. I just need to make him see it.

I take my time packing up the cottage. I feel a bit stupid, but I take a photo of the bedroom when I leave. This was the place where Leo and I finally connected. I want to remember it.

I drive home in silence, my thoughts all over the place and get home just past six in the evening.

My apartment doesn’t feel like home. It doesn’t smell like Leo the way that the cottage did. Nothing feels right without my beautiful stubborn omega.

God, he’s stubborn. It’s infuriating. It’s fucking magnificent. He is the most perfect thing in the world.

I go straight to my bedroom, unzipping the suitcase and rummaging until I find what I am looking for. I slip one of Leo’s shirts over my pillow and fall face down into it. His scentenvelops me immediately, and my body responds yet again with that same embarrassing predictability. My cock hardens and a low whine builds in my throat.

“Get it together,” I growl, stalking to the bathroom for a cold shower.

The icy water beating against my skin does nothing to cool the fire in my blood. All I can think about is Leo and the tight heat of his body around my cock.

I don’t want you. It can’t be true. We’re not done yet.

With renewed determination, I shut off the water and grab a towel, not bothering to dry off completely before reaching for my phone. Three missed calls from Director Rowe. Two from my old friend Ben Halvorsen. One from the Bureau’s PR department. I ignore them all and dial the ceremonial office instead.

“This is Dr. Nash Thorndike,” I say when the coordinator answers. “I need to schedule a bonding ceremony with Leo Torres. As soon as possible.”

There’s a weighted pause on the other end. “Dr. Thorndike, I see that Mr. Torres has filed a formal rejection of the match which has been upheld by the courts. May I put you through to Director Rowe?”

“No, you may not. I want you to book the ceremony. As soon as possible,” I cut in, my grip tightening on the phone. I look at my watch. It’s just past six in the evening. Today is out. “Tomorrow. Eleven a.m. The Central Bureau office.”

“Sir—”

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