Page 69 of Fourth Base with the Alpha
“Nonsense. You find an omega you like, you claim them, son. Make them yours.”
I reach down and take Isabella’s hand, tugging her to her feet and away from my father. “That may be the way you did things–”
“That’s the way omegas like things done. No omega wants an alpha pandering to them. They want a firm hand.”
Rage simmers in my stomach and if my father keeps stoking it, it will be boiling before long. Isabella, on the other hand, smothers a smile like she finds my father’s offensive words amusing.
“Klara’s preparing some food. We’re going to go and eat now.” I pull Isabella towards the door.
“Going already. Now there’s a surprise,” my father mutters before breaking into a fit of coughing. The nurse pops her head around the door and seeing us walking her way, goes to see to my father.
“Hope to talk again,” Isabella calls to him and I push her through the doorway.
I rub at my beard. “I’m sorry. He’s a miserable–”
“Hunter, don’t worry about it.”
“The stuff he said about–”
“Was bullshit. I like to be pandered to. Then again, I also like a firm hand in certain circumstances.”
Her words instantly heat my blood and I’m searching for the nearest bedroom I can drag her into.
“Oh yeah, Cupcake, what circumstances are those?”
I slide my hand around her throat, gliding the pad of my thumb over her pulse, feeling it thump against my pressure.
Her lips part and her eyes darken. “I think you know.”
I lean in to kiss her–
“Hjalmar! The food is ready.”
“Crap,” I mutter. I glance at the staircase. “If we’re quiet, they might forget about us.”
“Nope, I’m starving. Come on.” And she’s wriggling free of my clutches and bounding down the stairs.
No one walks around this house with lightness in their step. Isabella does though. It’s as if she’s immune to the heavy oppression of the house. Like she can’t see the shadows and cobwebs and worn floorboards. All she sees is the view of the sea, the sunshine pouring in the window and the antique pieces of furniture.
Klara has already laid out a feast when we walk into the kitchen with its long communal table, Mick sitting at one end and filling his plate.
This is the one room that felt like a refuge when we lived here. A kitchen wasn’t for men so my father never stepped inside this room. We’d hide in here with my mother, and once she was gone, the string of housekeepers that followed.
“You made all this?” Isabella asks, walking along the table to examine all the dishes.
“No, most of it I bought. I thought you might like to try some Swedish dishes while you are here.”
“She’ll hate them,” I say.
“I won’t,” she protests and I stare at her with my don’t-give-me-that-bullshit look.
“Here,” Klara says, handing the omega a plate of cinnamon rolls. “Try this first.”
I take the seat next to Mick and pile my plate. I’m pleased to see there are ballerina biscuits. They were my favorite cookies as a kid and I hadn’t realized I missed them until I see and smell them right in front of me. It brings back memories of the four of us kids gathered around the table playing endless games of cards while we snacked.
Maybe it wasn’t all bad.
“How’s your dad?” Mick asks.
