Page 77 of Defiant Beta

Olin is complaining when I point my remote at the monitor and end the conference call.

“You’re Dexter Pieter,” Della whispers.

“Yes, and no.”

Yes, that’s the name most people know me as, and no, that is not who I am. Or, it’s not all I am.

I return to my desk and sit down as Della picks herself up from the floor.

It’s dim in here, but Xavier was right. Della hasn’t been sleeping, and judging by her hollow cheeks and the way she slightly sways as she gets to her feet, she hasn’t been eating either.

I pretend to focus on a file on my desk as I continue to observe her out of the corner of my eye.

“Why were you pretending to be a teacher?” she asks.

“That’s a big question, Miss Farrow.” The name slips out. It’s not her real name. It’s as fake as Dexter Pieter.

She drops gracelessly into the chair on the other side of my desk. “It’s Della Jackson.”

“I didn’t invite you to sit.”

“Didn’t you?” She stares at me as if daring me to throw her out.

“Maybe you could tell me what you were doing pretending to be a student at Haven,” I say, not expecting a response.

“Breaking as many omegas out of that hamster wheel as I could.”

I lift my eyebrow. “Hamster wheel?”

She rolls her eyes. “Everyone busy, busy, busy, but going nowhere.”

“You’re here for a reason.” I close the file, abandoning any pretense of reading it. My attention is locked on the woman across from me, and she’s making it impossible to look away. “What?”

She forced her way in here, inviting herself to sit without permission and staring me down as if challenging me to throw her out.

Defiance.

In every way since I’ve met Della Jackson, she has been defiant.

But now?

A flicker of uncertainty chases away the stubborn look in her eyes.

She swallows hard enough for me to track the motion on her slender, bruised throat. Finger marks tell me how those bruises got there and seeing them enrages me.

She catches me looking and lowers her chin, as if embarrassed by them.

I set my palms on my desk and lean toward her. “Miss Jackson.”

“No one calls me that,” she mutters, pulling up the neck of her shirt.

I patiently wait for her to tell me why she’s here.

“Being the big guy in charge, I suppose you have ways of finding things out,” she starts, head angled toward my monitor as she plays with her fingers.

“Things like what?”

“People,” she says in a rush. “Specific people.”

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