Page 14 of Omega’s Fever (Prime Match #2)

Kellen

The sofa bed creaks every time I shift position, but I don’t mind. In prison at night, the noise is endless. There’s snoring, of course, and the pacing of the guards. Someone’s always crying or praying or jerking off.

I stare at the ceiling. Everything’s been finished with a high-end paint job, probably that expensive stuff that goes on like silk. No white wash here.

These are the details that matter when you’re choosing a home, but they don’t mean shit when someone puts a bullet through your skull from three hundred yards.

My skin is prickling. We’re too exposed. The windows face the street and the park beyond.

Earlier, I watched the doorman for exactly thirty seconds before he waved us through. He didn’t check my ID or call up to verify anything. He just took Milo’s word for it that I was a client. I know what I look like. The guy should have asked more questions or called the police.

I could be doing anything to Milo up here and if I could do it, so could anyone else.

The apartment is pretty but it’s fragile and can be broken. Like Milo.

The clock on the wall ticks steadily. A digital one would be silent, but Milo has one of those minimalist designs with a white face, black hands, and no numbers.

3:17 AM.

Every shadow could hide a scope, and every car passing below could carry one of Cobb’s men.

I remember the first time I saw someone cross Cobb.

It was years ago. He was just some guy who’d visited the club and got into an altercation and been banned.

He had a nice little apartment six blocks from here, a corner unit.

None of that mattered in the end. They found him at his kitchen table with a neat hole in his forehead.

I hadn’t been fighting long at the club and it had been a lesson. The Pit was a place to earn some cash. It’d be a bad idea to get involved or make a scene.

I swing my legs off the sofa bed. The hardwood floor is cold under my feet. Prison teaches you to move quietly, but I learned that lesson long before, in foster homes. It’s amazing how similar the survival skills are.

My father’s house was never quiet either. Drunk assholes showed up at all hours, and they always cranked the music up. I learned to sleep through chaos and wake at the wrong kind of silence, because quiet meant someone was doing something they shouldn’t.

I cross to the drapes first. The fabric whispers as I pull them closed, but it’s not enough.

They’re sheer things, more decoration than anything else.

The streetlight still bleeds through. I grab the throw blanket from the sofa and use the curtain rod brackets to pin it up over the window. It’s better, though not perfect.

Milo has a solid cherry wood dresser in the corner.

I test its weight, then start sliding it across the floor.

The sound seems thunderous in the silence.

I freeze and listen for any movement from Milo’s bedroom, but there’s nothing.

He’s probably passed out from those suppressants.

Their chemical smell clings to everything, sharp and wrong under his natural vanilla scent.

I position the dresser against the front door. Anyone trying to force entry will have to deal with a few hundred pounds of furniture first. It might buy us a few seconds, and sometimes that’s all you need.

The apartment’s layout works against us. The open plan means no chokepoints and no defensive positions. I drag the coffee table to create a barrier between the windows and the hallway to his bedroom. Then I push the armchair into the corner where it blocks the sight line from the park.

My shoulder throbs where some asshole caught me with a lucky punch three days ago. The ankle monitor isn’t uncomfortable but it is weirdly heavy and I’m not used to it.

Judge Melkham’s idea of mercy was making me Milo’s problem instead of the state’s. Some mercy that turned out to be. Now we’re both targets.

But then I don’t think mercy was what Melkham had in mind. I think he was just pissed off and doesn’t like either of us.

I work methodically to reduce our vulnerabilities.

The kitchen knives go in the drawer under the silverware where they’ll be easier to reach in a hurry.

I taken the decorative mirror down and prop it against the wall, so we can see movement if we’re in the bedroom.

I unplug the lamps. Lamps make silhouettes.

By the time I’m done, the apartment looks like someone’s preparing for a siege. Maybe that’s exactly what I’m doing. I don’t know what Milo is going to make of this when he wakes up. Maybe that I’m paranoid.

That doesn’t matter. What matters is that he stays alive to think it.

Only then can I lie back down. The sofa bed still creaks, but now it’s positioned where I can see both the door and the hallway. I can protect what needs protecting.

Sleep comes in fragments filled with prison dreams and fighting dreams. In between those, I dream that Milo’s scent is everywhere and nowhere at once, and I’m drowning in want I can’t have.

The spike of omega panic yanks me from sleep like a fishhook through my brain.

I’m on my feet before my eyes fully open. My hands are already fisted, and my body automatically drops into a fighter’s stance.

Milo stands frozen in the hallway entrance. Pale blue pajamas hang loose on his too-thin frame. His hair sticks up on one side where he’s slept on it. Behind those crooked glasses, his pupils are blown wide with fear.

The panic scent intensifies, sharp and acidic and flooding my nostrils in a way that makes my stomach twist. My omega is afraid of me.

I force my hands to uncurl and my shoulders to drop, but the damage is already done. He’s trembling now, one hand gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

His gaze darts around the rearranged room, taking in the blocked windows, the barricaded door, and the furniture positioned like fortifications.

His breathing turns shallow and too fast and I realize he has no idea what I’m doing and that is freaking him out.

I knew he would freak out. I should have made sure to wake before him but I didn’t.

“It needs to be safe,” I say. The words come out rough.

He blinks at me and opens his mouth before closing it again. The silence stretches between us, broken only by his rapid breathing.

Then something shifts in his face. The panic smooths out, replaced by something I can’t read. He pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger.

“Would you like some breakfast?” His voice only shakes a little. “And coffee? I have... I can make coffee.”

I nod once.

He practically flees to the kitchen side of the open space, and I follow more slowly. He fumbles with the coffee machine, some chrome monstrosity that belongs in a spaceship.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how you take it. Your coffee. I should have asked. I have regular milk and oat milk and there’s sugar or I might have some of that fake sweetener somewhere if you prefer...”

He’s babbling again, words tumbling over each other while his hands shake on the machine’s buttons. He does that when he’s nervous. He says sorry a lot too.

“Black is fine.”

“Right. Of course. Black.” He measures beans into the grinder with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. “I’m sorry about the beans. They’re nothing special. Just what I usually... I should have gotten better ones. I can go out later and...”

More babbling. Another apology. I’ve been counting them since he woke up. That makes six in the two minutes since he saw me, seven if you count the way he apologized with his whole body when he found me ready to fight.

“I don’t have much for breakfast. Some eggs? Toast? I think there’s bacon but it might be old. I’m sorry, I don’t usually... I mean, living alone, I just grab something on the way to work most days.”

That makes sorrys eight and nine.

“I could make pancakes? Though I don’t have mix. From scratch, I mean. If you want. Sorry, I...” He breaks off.

Ten apologies in under three minutes.

The thought burns through me, unexpected and sharp: Who taught you to apologize for living?

Someone put that reflexive cringe into him. Someone made him feel like existing was an inconvenience he needed to constantly excuse.

My hands clench involuntarily. The anger must bleed into my scent because Milo goes rigid. The coffee cup in his hand rattles against the counter.

“Eggs are good,” I force out, trying to modulate my tone. “Whatever’s easy.”

But the damage is done. He’s wound tighter than before, movements jerky as he pulls eggs from the fridge. I feel massive in his kitchen, like one wrong move will shatter something irreplaceable. Not the dishes. Him.

I lower myself carefully onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, trying to make myself smaller and less threatening.

The attempt is laughable since I’m six-six and built like a brick wall. There’s no version of me that doesn’t loom. I’ve always tried to stay quiet and make myself smaller but it never works.

Milo cracks eggs into a bowl and I see the moment that his brain shifts and he turns his attention to something he thinks he can talk about.

“We should talk about the case,” he says, whisking the eggs with unnecessary violence. “Go through your testimony. Make sure we’re prepared for whatever the prosecution throws at us.”

“Sure.” We should probably talk about what happened in the interview room. Or maybe that we are a prime match, but I suspect if I even approach the subject, he might implode completely.

“Good. That’s... good.” He pours eggs into a heated pan, and the sizzle fills the silence. “We can go through the timeline of events. Practice your responses.”

Practice. I’ve been over that night a thousand times already, picking apart every detail while trying to figure out how I missed the setup.

“The raid happened at 2 AM,” I say, because he seems to need words to fill the space. “I was in the basement, waiting for my match.

Milo plates the eggs and adds toast that’s perfectly golden. He sets it in front of me and we’re both careful to ensure our fingers don’t touch.

“Tell me about that night. From the beginning.”

So I do. Between bites of eggs that are surprisingly good, I walk him through it. I tell him about the fighters who were on the roster and the crowd that was smaller than usual. I explain how I was pulled aside and asked me to just watch over things because he had something important come up.

“Who pulled you aside?” Milo asks.

In all this, I haven’t mentioned Cobb’s name once. I got into the habit of avoiding talking about him years ago. We all did.

I hesitate. “The guy who ran it all.”

Milo leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “What’s his name?”

“Better that you don’t know,” I say. “He’s bad news.”

“You need to work with me here.”

“Why?”

He looks at me flummoxed. “Do you want to go to prison?”

“No but it’s better than a bullet in the brain.

Right now, if I go to prison, it’ll take away years of my life but I’ll still have that life.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d fight it if I thought I’d have a chance but I don’t.

It’s not just C— the guy in charge. It’s everyone around him. He’s got everyone in his pocket.”

Milo just looks at me, then he sighs. “The police’s file on you is a mess.”

I shrug. “Makes sense.”

“Is Sutter in on it?” Milo asks.

I think of the spiky public prosecutor. “I don’t know. I’m not sure she cares. I worked at The Pit. That makes me guilty.”

In between eating, Milo makes notes on a legal pad. His handwriting is neat. Everything about him is controlled except for the way his scent keeps spiking whenever I shift in my seat. Despite that, he seems a lot calmer. He pushes a piece of paper over to me.

“These names,” he says, tapping his pen against the paper. “The other fighters. Can any of them vouch for you?”

Damon’s name is on the list. He’s the only one I trust. The others aren’t all bad but everyone has their weak spots. I push the empty plate away. “No.”

Milo looks like he doesn’t believe me but he nods, still writing. The morning light catches in his hair and turns it gold at the edges. I force myself to look away.

It’s cute how hard he is trying, but we can’t go down this route. I’m not dumb enough to take down Cobb. And I’m not cruel enough to let Milo get hurt just for a chance at my freedom.

“Milo—”

“We just need to prove it wasn’t you. We don’t need to bring anyone else’s name up” He reaches for another paper and slides it across the counter. “If we can establish...”

I sigh. Our fingers brush. It’s just the barest contact as I take the paper.

The reaction is immediate and devastating. His scent blooms, sweet and wanting. Color floods his face from his collar to his hairline.

For one endless second, we’re frozen. His pupils dilate and his lips part as he inhales. Every instinct I have roars to life. I want to make him mine in every way that matters.

Then he’s moving, launching himself off the stool like it’s on fire.

“I need to go to the store.” The words tumble out in a rush. “I need groceries for two people. Because there’s two of us now. Here. In the apartment. So I should...”

He’s already grabbing his keys from the hook by the door and shoving his feet into shoes without bothering with socks. He’s still in his pajamas.

He stops, stares at the dresser in front of the door where I shoved it the night before. The scent of panic spikes. I might have stopped anyone from getting in, but I’ve also trapped him in here with me.

Thoughts spin. On the one hand, he’s not safe out there, but it’s me that’s the target.

It’s convenient for Cobb if I die. Then the case gets closed, suspect dead.

So far, Milo is only on the sidelines. I weigh up the options. I don’t know if he is safer with me where I can protect him or at more risk staying with me in case I can’t.

While I think about it, the scent of his panic rises higher and higher.

“Hang on,” I say. “I’ll move it. Go get dressed.”

He nods, not looking at me, then disappears into the bedroom.

He reappears moments later wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

He looks ridiculously good in them. He still doesn’t look me in the eye when he says, “I’ll be back.

An hour. Maybe two. The good store is further but they have. .. things. Food things. That we need.”

The door slams behind him before I can respond and I’m left alone with the ghost of his scent.