Page 13 of Omega’s Fever (Prime Match #2)

“You’re nervous. Breathing too fast. But you have nothing to worry about from me.”

“I’m not—”

“I have never hurt an omega in my life.” His hands clench and unclench at his sides. “Never will. Whatever you think I am, whatever you’re afraid of, it won’t come from me.”

My chest tightens. The suppressants churn in my stomach, a constant low-level nausea that spikes whenever I look at him. Because looking at him means wanting.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

For the first time since I first saw him in that courtroom, I see him smile. It’s like the sun coming out.

“Liar,” he says. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t want this. I’ll try to not make it harder for you.”

I submit the clothes order, adding expedited delivery. Estimated delivery in three hours. I switch to food delivery apps, needing something to do with my hands.

“Are you hungry? Thai food okay?”

“Whatever you want.”

“That’s not... Do you like Thai food?”

“Anything’s better than prison food.”

Of course. Before that, looking at his bank statements, he’s used to dollar menu fast food and ramen. My fingers hover over options I’ve never had to think twice about affording.

I order too much: Pad Thai and green curry and spring rolls and tom yum soup because I don’t know what he likes.

“Forty minutes,” I announce to the silence.

Kellen nods and moves again, crossing to the windows. The sun is beginning to go down. He stands with his back to me, and I can breathe for the first time since the courthouse.

I take the opportunity to really look at him without having to cope with the intensity of those beautiful dark eyes.

I can’t see much of his body. Most is covered in the jump suit, but his hands are scarred and there is another scar on his neck. His hair is cut short and he has a light beard. I wonder what that beard will feel like against my inner thighs. The thought comes unbidden.

I grit my teeth. What is the point of the suppressants if they’re not stopping this kind of thought?

Because even across the room, even through the chemical fog, his scent reaches me and my body responds without permission. Slick dampens my underwear. My hands shake worse. I want to go to him. Want to press against that broad back and breathe him in and—

“Excuse me,” I say, and dart into the bedroom, closing the door.

I don’t know what I want. I want him to leave. I want him to stay. I want to go out there and drop to my knees and find out what he tastes like. I want to throw up the damn suppressants again because I am so fed up with feeling like I’m dying.

I lie on my bed and get out my phone. I need distraction. I sit and scroll through pointless social media, trying to occupy my brain so I don’t run out there and do something I shouldn’t.

Half an hour later, the door buzzer goes and saves me from my own stupidity.

When I come out of the room again, Kellen isn’t in my living room. I feel a moment of panic before I hear water running in the bathroom. He emerges a moment later, his face still wet where he has splashed it.

“Food’s here.” I nip downstairs and back up again.

Setting up dinner fills more time. I arrange everything on the dining table I rarely use, usually preferring to eat at my desk while working.

Kellen joins me at the table and sits carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking my chairs. He waits for me to start, then eats mechanically.

“Is it okay?” I can’t stand the silence.

“It’s good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We eat. I manage a third of my pad Thai before my stomach rebels. The suppressants make everything taste like cardboard anyway.

Kellen cleans his plate. Then looks at mine.

“You should eat more.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“When’s the last time you ate a full meal?”

I have to think. Yesterday? The day before? “I’m fine.”

“Liar,” he says again. Softer this time.

When he stands, I tense. But he just gathers our plates, carries them to the kitchen. The sight of him at my sink, massive frame bent over fixtures, breaks something in my brain.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m a guest.” He runs water, finds the dish soap without asking. “Guests help clean up.”

I watch, transfixed. Something about his huge scarred hands gently moving through soapy water is hypnotic. The orange jumpsuit pulls across his shoulders with each movement. He’s domestic and dangerous all at once.

“There are gloves. Under the sink. If you want.”

“I’m good.”

“The clothes should arrive soon,” I say to his back.

“Thank you.”

“It’s just basic stuff. We can get more tomorrow. Whatever you need.”

He dries each plate carefully, puts them back where he saw me taking them out. Then he wipes down the counters.

I don’t really know what to make of him. His scent is saturating my apartment like he’s marking territory.

I should hate having him take over my personal space, but something about it feels deeply satisfying.

He turns finally, leans against my counter like he belongs there. “Why are you doing this?”

“The judge—”

“Not that. The clothes. The food. You could have fed me cereal and left me to wear the jumpsuit.”

Because that’s the bare minimum? Was I supposed to leave him to starve? Wear nothing but the same old prison jumpsuit for possibly weeks on end. It makes me wonder about what his life was like growing up that he expects nothing at all.

He doesn’t apologise for everything like I do when I get stressed. Instead he asks for nothing, expect nothing.

Heat crawls up my neck. I don’t know what to reply. “You’re a person. Not a... You deserve...”

“As far as you know, I’m a criminal.” He says it flat, matter-of-fact.

“You said you weren’t guilty.”

“I’m not.”

Simple. Direct. It’s either the truth or a very good lie, but I believe him. The problem is that I don’t know whether I believe him because he’s telling the truth or I believe him because we are a chemical match.

“Then we should talk about your defense.” I move toward my briefcase, desperate for familiar ground. “The witnesses they’ve lined up—”

“Tomorrow.”

“But—”

“You’re exhausted.” He pushes off from the counter, and I take an involuntary step back. “When’s the last time you slept? Really slept.”

I can’t remember. The suppressants make real sleep impossible.

“I’m fine.”

“Third time you’ve lied to me today.”

The doorbell saves me again. The clothes have arrived in a heap of bags. I sort through them on the coffee table, suddenly aware of how intimate this is. Choosing underwear for him. Guessing at sizes. The boxer briefs look too small now that I see them. I try not to think about that.

“Bathroom’s yours if you want to shower,” I manage.

He gathers an armful of clothes, then pauses at the hallway.

“Milo.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Then he’s gone, bathroom door clicking shut. A moment later, the shower starts.

I sink onto the couch and drop my head into my hands. He’s naked in my shower. Using my soap. My shampoo.

My phone buzzes reminding me about my prescription. I should think about going back down to the recommended two but Kellen is right here.

I swallow three.

The shower cuts off. I hold my breath, waiting. The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam that carries his scent, clean and warm and absolutely devastating.

He emerges in sweatpants and a t-shirt that pulls across his chest. Barefoot on my hardwood floors. Hair damp and finger-combed.

He looks soft. Touchable. Human.

“Better?” My voice cracks.

“Yeah.”

We stand there, ten feet apart. Only a few steps and I can have him.

“I should...” I gesture vaguely toward my bedroom.

“Milo.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to have to talk about it eventually.”

“I know.”

“But not tonight?”

“Not tonight.”

He nods. Moves to the couch, tests its weight. He meets my eyes. “Get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

I retreat to my bedroom, close the door and lean against it, heart hammering. Through the wood, I hear him moving around. Making the couch into a bed. Settling in.

My mate. Prime match. Whatever that means.

Tomorrow, we talk about it. Tonight, I just have to survive the wanting.