Page 31 of Omega's Fever

I order everything in XXXL. T-shirts, sweatpants, underwear, socks. Basic colors because I don’t know what he likes. Don’t know anything about him except how he tastes and the sounds he makes when he comes and—

“I would never force you.”

The words slice through me. I freeze, finger hovering over the checkout button.

“What?”

Kellen finally moves, taking a single step forward. I fight the urge to scramble backward over the couch.

“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.