Page 52 of Bullied Forced Omega
“Ok, well, you should have just started with astrawberry tart.I’m all in for strawberry tart,” I chuckle.
Watching her from the corner of my eye as we drive away from the compound toward the little town nearby, I’m struck byher softness. Her sweet heart. How she’s willing to go out of her way to support someone else and uplift them, even though all her life people have treated her like shit.Including me.
The market is bubbling with laughter, and the low hum of many conversations blurred into one atmospheric sound. It’s set in a tree-filled, hilly area overlooking the little nearby town. Warm sun spills dappled light through the tree leaves onto the stalls beneath them. It’s quaint and peaceful, yet energetic.
Mira is loving this. I follow her from stall to stall as she examines old books, delicately touching their covers and flipping through the crisp pages. She finds a lace skirt she clearly likes, but seems hesitant to buy it.
“What’s wrong? I thought you loved it?” I ask when she hangs it back up on the railing.
“Oh, it is too beautiful for words, but that is for someone… um…. more feminine.” Her cheeks flash pink with heat.
I pick the skirt up and take it to the lady managing the stall. “We’ll take it, and the matching top,” I say.
“Jace, I don’t…”
“I think it will look stunning on you, Mira,” I insist. And I mean it too. I have no idea what she’s talking about with thismore femininerubbish. She’s gorgeous. She’s beautiful. Her body is curved, soft, and pink, and couldn’t be more feminine if she tried.
Mira grins, biting her lower lip, and it spikes desire in me.
Clearing my throat, worried my wolf will start noticing and complicate things, I drag my eyes away from her. But obviously, Jux has been paying attention the entire time. He never seems to stop paying attention to my mate.
He’s always paying attention. Always eager.
Mira slips the lace items into her canvas bag and gives me a quick, slightly awkward hug. “Thank you, I love it,” she says.
“I’ll take you out to dinner next week so that you can wear it somewhere nice,” I smile.
We roam and explore. She gets a few classic, old books. She tells me about her favorite author and takes me to her favorite coffee stop. She introduces me to the old farmers, where she gets the strawberries and figs, and she’s right. They are the most incredible strawberries I’ve ever tasted.
The day goes by, and to my surprise, what started out as a dutiful obligation, at some point, becomes the most fun I’ve had in a very, very long time.
Her energy and enthusiasm are infectious, and watching her smile brings me joy.
My mind has stopped racing with the pack business and the long list of things I need to attend to. I’m calm. I’m relaxed and it’s a wonderful feeling.
There are a few people in this world that I can truly relax around and
“Oh!” she exclaims, jumping up and down. “You’re going tolove this!”
Mira grabs my hand and pulls me toward a stall tucked away in the corner beneath a shady tree. “He only comes to these markets once a month and practically sells out the moment the market starts, so we’re really lucky he’s still here!” she explains.
“What is it?” I ask, intrigued.
“Only thebestwaffles you will ever have in your entire life,” she says with a glimmer in her eyes.”
“Fantastic, I was about to say I’m starting to get hungry again,” I tell her.
We’ve been tasting biscuits and muffins and homemade pies all day, but we’ve also been walking around all day, so Jux is whining for another snack.
“Two, please,” she says, wiggling her hips in a happy little dance.
I chuckle, watching her with fondness. “They’rethatgood that they warrant a dance?” I ask.
She nods. “Better.”
I watch with growing fascination as the guy makes the waffles. Golden brown waffles coated in syrup and butterscotch sauce. A giant scoop of vanilla ice cream. A generous sprinkle of crispy bacon bits and a sprinkle of homemade fudge crumbs. Top it all off with another drizzle of butterscotch and…boom.
The guy hands two carryout bowls with our waffles, and Mira leads me to a bench on the other side of the tree. We sit looking out over the small town.
