Page 269 of Incompatible

The only issue is that Bay does not know everything about my private life, because I could have slept with other people as well, nine years have passed now, almost ten since we broke up, and during that time I could have had casual flings or simple hookups, but he does not know that I never had any. Maybe I could tell him? The only problem is that the topic is sensitive and the moment I open it we will circle back to the stalker again.

I turn and glance at him. He is wearing black leather pants and a black tank top. His hair is trimmed slightly over the temple but tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. I notice a few thin earrings along the rim of his left ear. He is looking at the wall instead of at me.

I think about it. The fact that he accepts my potentially promiscuous past feels bittersweet. On one hand it is genuinely decent and honest of him, and on the other there’s a part of me that wants him to be jealous and possessive and to call me a whore and grab my hair and bite into my neck gland. He should be furious, disgusted.

Label me a fucking, little omega, slutting around in the woods.

But he loves me… so he does not do it.

He has not been with anyone else. He could restrain himself, and I could not. My omega nature, my heats, were a harsh test of my strength.

I want to hear him demand an apology from me, to feel that humiliation, to feel as dirty as I actually feel, and to beg him onmy knees for forgiveness, but that twisted little part of me stands completely alone in that desire, because Bay still wants me no matter what and that is what matters to me most.

It is wonderful. I love him with the love of someone who cannot love himself right now, desperately, frantically.

So even though something inside me is boiling, I change the subject.

I lean against the table and gesture toward the hallway.

"Which room would you like to live in? I sleep in the upstairs room on the right, the one on the left is pretty small but you can squeeze in a bed and a desk if you try, and the one downstairs… Jared used it before he moved out. But since someone died in that room, I am not expecting you to take it."

I realize I am rambling and lace and unlatch my fingers in a nervous gesture.

Bay watches me the whole time, and that calm on his face is the same calm he has developed over this past decade, something he never had before. When we were teenagers, his face was much more expressive, showing emotions freely. Now it resembles a kind of mask that reveals only the bare minimum, with emotions showing mostly in his eyes and eyebrows, less often in his mouth.

Despite that, we have an additional channel, something that lets us read each other’s real emotions, that strange connection we always had, even if I never fully knew how to use it. Yet it seems so much more palpable now. The Bond. Bay seemed to sense it better, and I always thought it was a small but real fragment of what a true Bond between True Mates must feel like.

"I think I will take the room where someone died," Bay says in this particular tone, a blend of amusement and irony.

"Of course," I answer and grab one of his suitcases, the smallest one, and head toward the room while Bay follows with the rest.

When he passes me I realize he is still on suppressants, his scent is nonexistent, and I catch only the smell of his shower gel and laundry detergent, but it is different from the one I sensed on the stalker.

I set the suitcase on the floor and straighten up, gesturing toward the wardrobe.

"Jared cleared everything out except for a few of Tommy’s blankets; you can put your things in."

"Thanks. And how is he doing? Your cousin?"

I sigh. "His story is unusual, but I will tell you another time. For now let’s get some food, I haven’t eaten anything yet."

Bay nods and we return to the kitchen.

I start preparing breakfast and he asks if he should help, but I refuse.

It feels so strange to be with him again in the same room in this domestic atmosphere. Bay sits at the table and checks his phone but puts it away almost immediately and his eyes settle on me in silence.

I prepare a few sandwiches, two fried eggs and some toast, set everything on the table, and he simply says, "Thank you, Alex."

We start eating, and I see something building in him, I see him preparing to say something but hesitating, maybe not wanting to ruin the mood?

From time to time he sets the sandwich down, sits in thought for a moment, then resumes eating.

"I see you’re bothered. Is there something you want to tell me? Ask me?"

"There is something. Eugene Hanson is still interested in me, and he may have acquired some… evidence suggesting I might have had something to do with the death of his grandsons."

I sit there with a half-chewed bite of sandwich in my mouth.