Page 57 of Omega's Fever

“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.