Page 21 of Omega’s Fever (Prime Match #2)

Kellen

Milo hasn’t said a word since we left the law firm’s parking garage.

Something happened at his firm. I know his boss called him in and he hasn’t told me why, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out that it was something to do with me and it was something he didn’t want to hear.

His jaw works as he drives and I can practically see the gears turning behind those wire-rimmed glasses.

I check the passenger mirror for the third time in two blocks. Silver sedan four cars back, maintaining perfect distance. Could be nothing. It probably is nothing. But after seeing Cobb in the park, vigilance is the only way to go.

“Take a left here,” I say, breaking the silence.

Milo’s eyes flick to me. “My apartment’s straight ahead.”

“Humor me.”

He takes the turn without further argument. The silver sedan continues straight. I relax a fraction, but I keep watching.

Long shadows stretch across the street, perfect for concealment. Every doorway could hide a watcher. Every window could frame a scope.

“Right at the next light,” I say.

Milo complies, taking us on a circuitous route that adds ten minutes to the drive.

Whatever his boss said to him has lit a fire I can smell in his scent. His vanilla is sharpened with determination and something else. Fear, maybe. Or anger.

By the time we pull into his building’s garage, I’ve picked up six potential tails and dismissed them all. The itch between my shoulder blades hasn’t gone away though. All it means is that I didn’t spot them.

“Clear,” I tell him as he parks.

He nods once, gathering his briefcase as he exits the car.

The mirrors in the elevator up to his apartment show our reflection—him in his expensive suit looking like he stepped out of a law firm catalog, me looking exactly like the thing I am: his publicly allocated defendant.

The hallway to his apartment stretches empty, but I make him wait while I check it anyway. No one in sight. No unfamiliar scents.

“It’s fine,” Milo says, but he waits for my nod before approaching his door.

Inside, I do my circuit while he drops his briefcase on the dining table with more force than necessary. Windows first. The curtains hang exactly as I left them this morning. No fresh marks on the fire escape. Everything is exactly as we left it.

He lets me do it. He sits at the dining table, already pulling files from his briefcase.

“I’ll make dinner,” I offer, needing something to do while he processes whatever’s eating at him.

He doesn’t respond. By the time I’ve got water boiling for pasta, he’s surrounded himself with a fortress of legal pads and case documents.

I know better than to interrupt. In prison, you learn to read the difference between quiet and silence. This is silence.

The kitchen in his apartment is a thing of beauty. It’s perfectly equipped and high-end. I’m used to kitchenettes with a single slightly dull chopping knife and chipped plates. Milo’s knives are sharp enough to shave with and nothing he owns is chipped.

I dice onions and garlic, letting the rhythm settle my nerves about Cobb.

Cooking was one of the few things I learned young that wasn’t about survival.

My third foster mother taught me. “A man who can cook will never go hungry,” she’d said.

She’d shown me how to stretch cheap ingredients into something delicious.

I’d gotten out of the habit of cooking in the last years at the Pit, but I’m reminded of it now.

There’s something soothing about taking the time to create something that tastes delicious and nourishes at the same time.

The scent of garlic and olive oil fills the apartment, competing with the vanilla sweetness of Milo’s suppressant-dampened pheromones.

I can smell the chemical tang of the suppressions underneath his natural scent. I wish he’d stop taking them but that’s not my decision to make.

While the sauce simmers, I drift toward the wall I’ve been curious about since I got here.

His diplomas and certificates hang in perfectly aligned frames: Harvard Law, summa cum laude.

Law Review editor. Debate champion. Award after award, achievement after achievement.

The photos tell the same story—Milo in graduation robes surrounded by beaming professors, Milo accepting some trophy, Milo shaking hands with people who look important.

He has worked hard to be where he is.

Only one photo shows him as a child. He’s tiny, maybe four or five, standing between an older couple. The woman has his eyes, the same sharp intelligence softened by genuine warmth. The man’s hand rests on Milo’s shoulder with easy affection. They look at him like he hung the moon.

“My parents,” Milo says behind me. I didn’t hear him move. “Before the accident.”

I turn carefully, gauging his mood. Somehow, he looks even more tired than usual.”

“When did it happen?”

“I was four.” He moves past me to adjust a frame that doesn’t need adjusting. “My uncle took me in. Made sure I had every opportunity to succeed.”

The way he says it doesn’t sound like gratitude. I think of this morning’s phone call, the way his whole body had changed when he saw who was calling.

“Dinner’s ready,” I say, giving him an out if he wants it.

He follows me to the kitchen, watching as I plate the pasta. Nothing fancy—arrabiata with fresh basil I found wilting in his crisper drawer. But his eyes widen at the first bite like I’ve performed magic.

“You cook.”

“Among other things.” I take my own seat, careful to position myself where I can see both the door and windows. “Picked it up over the years.”

We eat in silence for a few minutes. I can see his mind working. He’s working his way up to something as he eats.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. I can see his mind working, churning through whatever Anne said to him.

The pasta’s nothing special—just what I could throw together from his kitchen—but he eats it like he hasn’t seen food in days.

Good. He needs the calories. Needs the strength for whatever’s coming.

“She wants me to throw the case.”

His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, but I can smell the turmoil underneath. It’s not a surprise. I’d guessed it was something like this.

I set down my fork carefully. “Yeah?”

He pushes pasta around his plate, not meeting my eyes. “Wrap it up. Stop making an effort. Let you take the fall and move on with my life.”

“Smart advice.”

His head snaps up, blue eyes blazing behind those wire-rimmed glasses. “You think I should do it?”

“I think you should do what keeps you safe. This isn’t your fight, Milo. Never was.”

“Bullshit.” He stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “It became my fight the moment I met you.”

“Milo, you can’t do this for me.”

“No.” He spins to face me, and the determination in his expression steals my breath. “I’m done letting other people tell me what to do. I’m not going to send an innocent man to prison and it doesn’t matter that you’re my mate. I couldn’t do it even if you weren’t.”

He moves closer, and his scent wraps around me like a caress.

His jaw sets in that stubborn line that makes me want to kiss him senseless.

His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along my jaw.

The touch burns through me like lightning.

His mouth turns up at the corner, amused.

“But you know? I’d fight for you even if you were guilty and you know why. ”

I do. Can smell it in his scent, see it in his eyes. But I need to hear it.

“Say it.”

“Because you’re mine,” he says. The words come out fierce, possessive in a way I’ve never heard from him. “My alpha. My mate. Mine to protect, just like I’m yours.”

Something snaps inside me. Maybe it’s control. Maybe it’s the last wall I’ve been holding between us. I cup his face in my hands, thumbs brushing over those sharp cheekbones.

“You sure about this?”

“I don’t want to fight this anymore.” Milo’s voice breaks on the words.

“Then stop fighting.”

I kiss him, and it’s nothing like our desperate coupling in the courthouse. This is slow, thorough, a claiming of a different sort. He melts against me, hands fisting in my shirt, and I can taste his surrender. I can taste his decision.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“Bed,” he says, and it’s not a question.

I follow him to his bedroom, watching the way he moves. There’s purpose in his steps now, the uncertainty burned away. He turns at the foot of the bed, starts unbuttoning his shirt with steady fingers.

“Let me.” I brush his hands aside, take over the task. Each button reveals more pale skin, more of him. I’ve had him in the most primal way possible, but this feels different. More.

His shirt falls to the floor. I trace the line of his collarbone, feel him shiver.

He works at my shirt, pushes it off my shoulders. His hands map the scars on my chest, each touch reverent. He looks up at me, and the raw honesty in his expression undoes me.

I lift him onto the bed, follow him down. This time, I can touch him properly. Can explore every inch of skin, learn what makes him gasp, what makes him arch. He’s sensitive at the base of his throat, responsive when I nip at his hip bone. Information I file away, treasures I’ll hoard.

“Kellen.” My name on his lips is prayer and demand both. “Please.”

I know what he needs. I can smell it in the way his scent spikes, feel it in how his body moves against mine. But I’m not rushing this. Not when he’s giving me everything.

I work him open slowly, watching his face for any sign of discomfort. There’s none. Just need and trust and something that looks dangerously like love.

When I finally slide inside him, we both stop breathing. This is different from the frantic coupling in the courthouse. This is coming home.

“Mine,” I growl against his throat.

“Yours,” he agrees, legs wrapping around my waist. “Always.”

We move together, finding a rhythm that builds slow and devastating. His nails rake down my back, and I’ll wear the marks proudly. Evidence that Milo Warren, brilliant lawyer and fierce omega, chose me. Wants me.

“Look at me,” I demand when I feel him getting close.

His eyes fly open, pupils blown wide. The connection between us hums, electric and undeniable.

“I love you.” The words tumble out without permission. “Fuck, Milo, I love you.”

He breaks apart with a cry, body clenching around me. “Kellen, I—”

I follow him over, vision whiting out as pleasure crashes through me. But I hear him. Hear the words that match mine, that seal whatever this is between us.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin. His head rests on my chest, and I card my fingers through his hair.

I pull him closer, breathe in his scent—vanilla and sex and mine, mine, mine.