Page 37 of Omega's Faith

I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. The room spins lazily, and I have to grip the sofa arm to keep from sliding off. That's when I notice him.

Jonah's out on the terrace, silhouetted against the morning light. He's wearingpajamas. Actual, honest-to-God pajamas—soft blue cotton that makes him look about sixteen. He's got a book propped on his knee and a cup of coffee at his elbow, looking fresh and clean and absolutely untouchable.

Who the fuck brings pajamas on their wedding night?

Someone who has no intention of having sex with their groom, that's who.

The memory of last night hits me like a freight train. His hands pushing against my chest. That look of pure disgust on his face.You're drunk.

Of course I was drunk. It was my wedding. A wedding to someone who can barely stand to be in the same room as me, who flinches when I touch him, who looks at me like I wassomething he'd scrape off his shoe when I try to—

What? Be nice? Actually show him I wanted him?

I'd been genuinely attracted to him last night. Not just the physical pull that's been driving me insane since we met, but actuallylikinghim for a moment. The way he'd felt against me, the little sounds he'd made when I'd touched his hair...

Then he'd pushed me away with that look of revulsion.

I must have made some sound because Jonah's head turns slightly. He knows I'm awake. But he doesn't acknowledge me, just turns the page of his book.

Building a Blessed Marriage: An Omega's Guide.

Fuck me.

I force myself up, every muscle screaming in protest. I smell like a distillery. My tux is wrinkled. I look and smell like a disaster of a human being who couldn't even make it through his wedding night without fucking everything up.

The coffee is calling my name, but first I need water. Definitely a shower. Maybe death.

I stumble toward the bathroom, catching a glimpse of the bed as I pass. The covers are barely disturbed, pulled tight except for the indent where Jonah slept. Alone. On his wedding night.

The shower helps, hot water sluicing away the stench. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink, trying not to think about how this was supposed to go. Not that I wanted some fairy tale wedding night, but maybe something more than my omega reading marriage guides while I snored off a bender.

When I emerge, dressed in clean clothes and having brushed my teeth, Jonah's moved inside. He's sitting at the suite's dining table, that damn book still in hand, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"I asked Ricky to arrange a car," he says without looking up. His voice is perfectly neutral, polite and distant as a hotel concierge. "It should be here in twenty minutes."

He's learning. He’s already figuring out how to navigate this world, how to get what he needs without me.

"Good," I manage, throat raw.

He finally looks at me then, those whiskey eyes taking in my damp hair, my bloodshot eyes. Disappointment flickers across his face or maybe it’s pity. I can't tell and I hate that I care.

"There's coffee," he says, nodding toward the cart. "And aspirin."

The thoughtfulness of it makes me feel worse. Here he is, taking care of me even after I abandoned him at our reception, got blackout drunk, and passed out fully clothed.

"Thanks," I mutter, downing three aspirin with coffee that burns my throat.

The silence stretches between us. I can smell his honey-vanilla scent, sweeter than usual, making my alpha instincts stir despite my hangover.

The car ride to the estate is excruciating. Twenty-three miles of absolute silence. Jonah sits pressed against his door, as far from me as physically possible, staring out at the countryside rolling past.

I want to say something. Apologize maybe. Explain that I wasn't trying to maul him last night, that I actually just wanted to dance with my husband at our wedding. But the words stick in my throat, choked by the memory of how he'd looked at me.

His scent fills the car, that honey sweetness almost cloying now. It makes my head spin in a different way than the hangover, makes me want to slide across the leather seat and bury my face in his neck. But I don't. I can't. Not after last night.

When we finally pull up to the estate, Jonah takes a deep breath. It's the first real reaction I've gotten from him all morning.

The house sprawls across twelve acres of manicured grounds, all stone and gleaming windows. It's been in my family foralmost a century, though I barely spend any time here.