Page 38 of Omega's Fever

“I don’t care what some bleeding-heart judge ordered. This is completely inappropriate.”

“It’s temporary. Just until the trial ends.”

“The trial.” He pauses, and I can picture him in his study. His fingers would be drumming on his desk, the way that they do when he is particularly annoyed. “Milo, I’ve been patient about this match situation. More patient than most would be. I understand these things happen, but surely you realize what needs to be done here.”

I don’t pretend I don’t know. “I don’t feel comfortable with that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His voice takes on that lecturing tone I remember from years of disappointing him. “He’s charged with serious crimes, Milo. Violence. Organized crime. Let the man be convicted the way he should be.”

Uncle Kenneth and Anne, both my mentors are giving me the same advice.

“If he’s convicted.” The correction comes out before I can stop it. “He hasn’t been found guilty of anything yet. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?”

Silence stretches between us.

“Ah.” His voice drops to something almost pitying. “Your parents wouldn’t have wanted this for you either. You know that.It’s long past time that you grew up.”

The line goes dead.

I stand there holding my phone, staring at the blank screen. I know Kenneth is an asshole. He’s always been rude, dictatorial and bossy. That doesn’t mean that he’s always wrong. In his own way, he’s trying to do what’s best for me.

I never expected to be matched with someone like Kellen Hayes either.

The worst part is, I know Kellen must understand the pressure I’m being put under.

He’s not stupid, despite what he look’s like. He knows that if he’s convicted, I’m free of the match.

It’s in my best interest for him to go to prison. Every logical argument points to the same conclusion: I should want him gone.

The thought of him in prison makes my stomach turn and for once, I don’t think it’s the suppressants causing it.

I push off from the wall and head for the grocery store, needing something normal to do, something that doesn’t involve thinking about prime matches or frame jobs or the way Kellen looked in my kitchen last night.

I’ve never thought of washing dishes as particularly erotic but the memory of his huge hands gently soaping my plates keeps intruding, domestic and dangerous all at once.

The store’s automatic doors open with a soft whoosh, flooding me with warm air. I grab a cart and start with produce. Things I should have at home when there’s someone else there, someone who might actually eat breakfast instead of surviving on coffee and anxiety.

When did I stop keeping real food in my apartment?

“Excuse me.”

I glance up, so lost in my own thoughts that the voice startles me. A man stands next to me, fifties maybe, wearing anexpensive leather jacket over designer jeans that are trying too hard to look casual. Something about him sets off alarm bells in the back of my mind, but I can’t pinpoint what.

“Sorry, am I in your way?” I shift my cart to give him more room.

“No, no.” He reaches for some tomatoes, his movements casual but somehow too deliberate. “Just trying to decide if these are ripe enough. Never can tell these days. Everything’s picked too early, shipped from God knows where.”

I make a noncommittal sound and move to the next section. Lettuce. Carrots. Normal things normal people buy when they’re pretending their lives haven’t gone completely off the rails.

By the time I reach the dairy aisle, I’ve noticed the same man three more times.

The prickle at the back of my neck intensifies, that ancient awareness that says predator even when the logical mind says paranoid.

Is this what Kellen feels all the time? I grab milk and head for checkout, trying to move casually even as every instinct screams at me to run. I’m being paranoid.

He ends up in line behind me. Of course he does. The universe has developed a twisted sense of humor lately.

“Big shopping trip,” he comments, nodding at my full cart with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.