Page 11 of Omega's Faith

"I'm well aware."

The judgment in those three words makes my hackles rise. This kid who's never been anywhere, done anything, sitting there radiating disapproval like I'm something he stepped in.

"Right." The sarcasm bleeds through. "Sorry I'm not what you ordered from the holy alpha catalogue. But hey, at least you'll get some interesting stories for prayer circle."

I regret the words the moment they come out of my mouth. I’ve always been too bitchy for my own good.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His gaze meets mine and I can see how much he dislikes what I said, but does he say so? No. Instead, I get a “Yes, Alpha.”

I sigh. I know I’m being a dick, but so is he. He could at least talk to me like a human being. “Look, I didn’t want this either. We’re just going to have to find a way to deal with it.”

“Yes, Alpha.”

“And it won’t be all bad. I know you’ve been brought up in a particular way, but you’ll have a bit more freedom with me. It’ll be different.”

His gaze snaps up. Okay, I’ve managed to piss him off further. “Yes, Alpha.”

Silence stretches taut between us. The vanilla scent spikes with something else—hurt? Anger? My alpha instincts scream at me to fix it, to comfort, but my brain's too scrambled to figure out how. What did I say wrong?

"Look." I rub my temples. "This is coming out wrong. Ijust mean... we're obviously from different worlds. You're what, twenty-one? Still living at home? I'm thirty-four and I've been around the block. Several blocks. In multiple countries."

"I'm aware of your reputation."

Oh my, I actually got a sentence that’s not ‘Yes, Alpha.’ But still, there it is again. That tone like I'm something that needs to be scraped off his shoe.

"Are you?" The words come out sharp. "Because you're sitting there like you're at a funeral. I'm not that bad, you know. I shower regularly. I tip well. I've never kicked a puppy."

Nothing. Just those carefully folded hands and that ramrod spine and the look in his eyes that says he doesn’t believe me. As far as Jonah Wells goes, he’s clearly convinced I do actually spend my day kicking puppies and laughing maniacally.

I try again. “What do you do for fun?”

He looks at me like it’s a dumb question. It’s not. It’s standard first date stuff. He doesn’t have to make it so hard.

"Come on. Pick anything? Bible study? Knitting circles? Judging sinners?"

His chin lifts. "I don't judge."

"Could've fooled me, sweetheart."

The endearment slips out before I can stop it. His whole body goes rigid, that pretty flush deepening. For a second, just a second, his scent changes—honey warming, vanilla going rich and sweet. Interest. Attraction.

Then it's gone, locked down behind that iron control.

"Don't call me that."

"What should I call you? Mr. Wells? Jonah? Church mouse?"

"My name is fine."

"Jonah." I test it out, let it roll off my tongue. Biblical. Of course. "Guy who got swallowed by a whale, right? Bet you love that symbolism."

He doesn't rise to the bait. Just sits there, radiatingdisapproval and that maddening scent that makes me want to climb across the table. He’s irritating the fuck out of me now. I’m trying for fuck’s sake. The silence stretches.

Oh forget it. I drum my fingers on the table, partly from nerves, partly because I know the sound will annoy him. Petty? Yes. Satisfying? Also yes.

"So what happens now?" I ask.

"We get married." Simple. Matter-of-fact. "The rest is up to God."