Page 8 of Advocate Omega (Unforeseen Paths #1)

Lucan

His questions are innocent, self-preserving.

They aren’t asked with the intention of hurting, but fuck do they hurt.

There is so much more I could tack on to my statement, so much I could tell him to prove that I’m not doing this for any other reason than to help him get far away from here.

If I could, I would leave too. But even though this place is a constant reminder of everything I’ve lost, I can’t leave her.

Thalira might not need me, but I need her.

So, I stay.

I wish I knew his name, though, because it feels wrong to refer to him as the omega , even in my thoughts. He has made it clear that he wants nothing to do with his role in our society. It’s not hard to see why.

Outside my clan, shifters are much more modern. Some of our practices just aren’t done. But one thing remains true for all wolves, no matter where they live or come from.

There are no lone wolves.

Even though he’s rejected his biological place in our world, he’s still an omega.

And, as he so crudely pointed out, omegas are easy to take advantage of.

It’s not unheard of for alphas to prey on them while in heat, using their lack of judgment to satiate whatever urges or feelings they might have towards that omega.

It’s why I’m not allowed to set foot on Ulric’s property unless it’s necessary.

Not that I’d ever do something so deplorable, but it’s best for everyone if I… stay where I am.

I guess I can be decent, though, and introduce myself properly. “Anyway, as you’ve already figured out, I’m Lucan.”

He crosses his arms. This hairstyle he’s wearing only highlights his beauty. It’d be disarming if his mouth didn’t ruin it. “I have very sensitive ears,” he says, like I’m stupid. Then he bristles. “Fine. I’m Zander, but my friends call me Zan, unless I’m in trouble.”

Well, I’m not his friend or anything else. “Zander it is, then.”

“So what’s with the—wait, Zander? Did you not listen to me? I said they only call me that if I’m in trouble.”

Something about his shock over my choosing to call him by his true name makes me want to smile. I don’t, though. “We aren’t friends.”

“Right. I suppose that’s true. Fair enough.” He shrugs. “You don’t have to sleep outside, though. That’s just weird.”

It’s really not. He’s an omega with a strong scent.

If I plan to survive this, I need to keep my distance.

I might be ruined, but I still have a working nose.

It took all of my self-control not to do more when I scented him.

My instincts did take over; the urge to drown him in only me was heightened.

An alpha always protects their omega. He’s not mine, though, and I had to remind myself of it every second he was in my arms, and his skin on my tongue.

“I’ll sleep wherever I wish,” I tell him and settle back on my couch. The bottle I’d been nursing before sits at the foot of it, so I swipe it off the floor and twist off the lid.

It’s not lost on me how he portrays this air of confidence, but his movements contradict it.

With his chin held high, he meanders over and then hesitates while he decides where to sit.

His eyes bounce to the empty seat beside me and then to the armchair closer to the fireplace.

Twice, he does this before stiffly walking to the armchair.

I don’t know why he’d want to sit next to me.

“So, tell me about all this stuff,” he says casually, gesturing to my many carvings.

I take a long swig of alcohol before answering. The amber liquid dribbles down my beard, and he scrunches up his nose in disgust. Can’t be helped, Zander. Apparently, I’m fucking revolting.

“Some of it I’ll give away. The rest is sentimental.” There. Minimal, simple, and non-revealing.

“You have a half-built crib.”

“So?” More booze.

“Why do you need a crib? I don’t see any other omegas here, nor any kids.”

“Pups,” I correct.

“It’s the 21st century, Luc. No one says pups anymore.”

Luc.

“Maybe everywhere else,” I say smoothly, avoiding the loaded nickname he’s given me. “But here? We are traditional.”

“Meaning?”

I shrug, fiddling with the bottle to avoid his eyes. “We operate in a way that works for everyone.”

“Except you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I bark, pushing more aggression into my voice than necessary. I’m not used to being questioned like this.

“Well, you live alone, those alphas that were here said you are part of their pack, and you didn’t seem to like that, and judging by all this kid shit, you really, really , want a kid.”

Gods, is he determined to make me blow my fucking shit?

“Change the subject, Zander.”

“Fine.” He looks around, clearly annoyed I won’t answer him, and settles on my lap. For a solid ten seconds, he stares at my crotch, unabashed, then sighs, “Do you have any food? Or are you on a liquid diet?”

First pups, then my cock, and now food. And he says he doesn’t want to be an omega…

“I eat.” Another sip.

“Can I snoop? Or are you going to cook for me?”

Something…stirs. Absently, I rub at my sore chest and study him. It’s clear he hides behind buckets of sass, but I think he’s serious about wanting me to cook. Would he like that? Would I like it if he did? I don’t know anymore, but I am also unwilling to find out.

“Help yourself,” I mutter and polish off the rest of my booze in one go.

Zander is loud.

And unorganized.

And he’s clearly never had to make a meal from scratch before.

He’s cursing every other word, pans are banging around, and I’m past the point of drunk.

But I rally just to ensure he doesn’t destroy the kitchen I built with my bare fucking hands.

When I finally manage to get inside the kitchen, I gape at the mess .

Half of my refrigerator contents are strewn all over the counters.

Every seasoning I own is either open or on its side, spilling out.

He has several cooking utensils in my sink.

All he has actually done so far is put on a pot of water to boil.

“I’m trying to make a BLT,” he says and goes back to fiddling with the other burner knob.

“I see no bread, lettuce, or tomatoes in this war zone.”

He laughs, then. A sweet sound that sends me back in time, where sweet things were a regular occurrence, and I wasn’t so jaded that just the thought of them didn’t make me want to drown myself inside a bottle.

I rub my chest, the soreness always present but somehow not as much. “I’m just fucking with you. I have no clue what I’m doing, though. How does one actually boil meat? Is there a secret trick to make it good? Or you just throw it in and hope for the best?”

He’s got my pork chops on a plate, and he’s about to dump them in the pot. “Don’t do that,” I rush out, sprint to his side, and take the plate from him.

He beams at me. Again, something stirs inside me. Familiar yet foreign.

“Great. Now that you’re in here, I’m starving.”

I arch a brow at him, and he swallows. “Thought you were some independent, doesn’t need anyone, type of wolf?”

The smile drops. “Well, I am, but…” Fidgeting with a whisk that he doesn’t need, he flicks the end of it before blowing out his lips. “You’re kind of a Debby Downer, and I thought maybe…maybe if you were in here with me, you’d be less sad, you know?”

Fuck.

That’s…

“What do you actually want to eat?” I ask, my voice tight with a surge of emotion.

He bites his lip and admires his mess. “I’ll settle for a sandwich.”

I end up making him three sandwiches and grabbing another bottle of whiskey for myself.