Page 34 of Omega's Fever

“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.

11

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 belowcould 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 sometimesthat’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.