Page 15 of Thorns That Bloom (Venusverse #3)

I wish I could get closer to see that beautiful face of his more closely.

His short beard is the same shade of brown as the sweater he has on.

He always wears them, and while it might make someone else look older or boring, he just looks…

comfy. This one is thick, hiding his bump somewhat, but it’s still visible.

“I was sorting some stuff with the Engineering,” I say, quickly showing him the tablet in my other hand as proof.

Can’t have him thinking I’m some weirdo who comes here only to see him.

No, no, that would be creepy. “I just wanted to stop in to make sure you’re…

doing okay, if that’s all right.” Is my voice trembling, or does it sound so stupid only in my head? Damn it.

Sam widens his eyes before his expression settles into that neutral, slightly hard-to-approach one. I like it. He doesn’t pretend. I can see all his emotions as they come, even if they’re not exactly the ones I want to see.

“Oh.”

Not much for me to work with, but that’s fine.

“I um…anyway, one of the guys got me lunch, but I brought in my own food today, so I figured maybe you’d want this? Since you’re eating for two and all that.”

My god, is that lie even believable? Why am I bringing food to this man who doesn’t want to have anything to do with me? Is it too out there?

“I-I just didn’t want to throw it away. Seems kind of wasteful,” I keep talking, keep making it worse, sounding more and more like a bumbling idiot.

Sam looks at the plate I’m presenting, and I think I sense a hint of interest in his eyes, so I make a slow, careful step toward him. And then another. He doesn’t look uncomfortable as I fully approach him. I want him to understand that I’m not dangerous, but I know it’s more complicated than that.

“Here,” I say, placing the plate on the edge of his table.

The way his eyes brighten up upon examination of it makes me melt.

He’s obviously hungry. I watch his lips as they part, and his tongue slides between them.

I do all I can to keep myself in check. He absolutely can’t sense my pheromones.

Cannot know what he’s doing to me. Not if I want him to feel safe around me.

And I want nothing more than that.

“That’s… Thanks for that,” he says, a little weary, but the sliver of warmth pushes its way into those words, and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. I smile widely, unable to control my own intensity, so I step away again, not wanting to ruin this moment.

“No problem.”

After feasting his eyes on the food in front of him, he cautiously raises them toward me, watching me through his long black lashes. I could stare at him forever. I could…but I shouldn’t. And when his gaze narrows, I realize I might be unintentionally showing a little too much of that desire.

I slap my hands together awkwardly, and a little too loudly for the small space. “I better get going. You enjoy that. See um— See you around, I guess,” I mumble, quickly retreating before he can get a proper look at what a mess I am.

Or before he can sense the whirlwind of emotion inside me.

Even though nothing happened, and Sam barely gave me a faint smile—honestly, he was more excited about the food than about me—I walk away with that soothing, fuzzy feeling one gets when falling asleep with a glass of warm milk in their stomach.

Ben gives me a suspicious look when I come back to my station.

He’s probably going to put it together soon, but I’m not saying anything to him unless he does.

I settle back into work, and for the rest of the day, I replay the scene of Sam talking to his belly in my mind.

It makes me feel nothing but contentment and peace and…

something else. Something deeper and more powerful than I dare to think about for too long.

I hum a melody to myself, hoping I won’t forget it before I get off work and have a chance to record it or write it down.

By the time the day is over, the familiar dull ache at the back of my skull sets in, and I know for sure there’s something off. My rut shouldn’t be starting now, but it apparently is.

On my way home, I keep my head down and my hands in my pockets. People’s stares annoy me, and my chest feels tight in that uncomfortable way it always does. Pressure builds inside my body, from head to toe, and there’s restless energy buzzing through my fingertips.

This isn’t ideal. Definitely not ideal. Not with Sam and…all that. I should not be around him like this. It would only make things harder on him.

I wonder if he could have something to do with it, even if it’s a ridiculous notion.

Sure, omegas can sometimes trigger rut in alphas and alphas heat in omegas.

It happened to me once before, with my first ever girlfriend.

We were both seventeen, getting to that point in our relationship, and she got her heat.

We fucked like rabbits for what felt like twelve hours before I started feeling the same fire she was driven by—that unmistakable biological urge—even though my rut wasn’t due.

But it came, and so did both of us. Many, many times in the span of the next two days.

I stop my mind before it tries to go the way of imagining Sam in any sort of delicate situation.

You shouldn’t. Absolutely not.

It’s not what he would’ve liked or wanted, and it just feels wrong. I know I could never understand what he or Dad went through, so this is the best I can do, even if it really means nothing in the grand scheme of things.

When I finally get home, I’m all sticky and hot underneath my clothes. Discomfort pulses against my temples.

With a groan, I let the door shut behind me. Martin is on the phone with someone in the kitchen, and from what I can hear, it’s something to do with work. His voice is all serious and important. It doesn’t really even sound like him.

Now that I know what’s going on with me, I become painfully aware of his scent.

It’s not like that in itself turns me on, but the faint smell of orchids is just much more there to me.

It stands out and pulls my attention, as opposed to being something I ignore most of the time, especially after living together for three years.

I step into the room, making sure I’m quiet not to disturb him. When he notices me, I wave at him with an exhausted expression, hoping he leaves me alone, but Martin’s eyes go wide. Raising his finger sharply, he turns away from me and asks the person on the call to give him a minute.

He puts his hand over the microphone and presses the phone against his chest. “There was, um, a box with your name outside the main door when I got back. I put it in your room,” he says while making an awkward, pained grimace.

It takes me a moment to figure out what that means. Emily. I groan and roll my eyes. “Right. Thanks,” I mutter. There’s nothing I want more than to get in my room and sleep this off, but first, I guess I’ll have to deal with this.

She did message me about giving ‘my things’ back.

I told her I didn’t need them, that she could’ve kept or thrown whatever of mine that was around her place, but she was pretty adamant.

At least that didn’t include an in-person visit.

I’m not sure I would have enough energy for an argument or even for witnessing the anguish in her eyes today.

I walk in, instantly recognizing her pheromones—rosemary and honey—coming off the small cardboard box that’s on my bed.

I sit next to it with a huff, opening it with an uncomfortable, somber mood setting over me.

There isn’t much. A few of my shirts, a teddy bear, my razor—really?

—and some photos, as well as some utter knick-knacks on the bottom.

My chest tightens, and the muscles at the back of my neck feel taut, like rubber bands ready to snap.

Emily’s scent lingers, reminding me of all the time she’d spent here.

We’d lie in bed, and she would listen to me play.

We’d watch movies and cuddle and talk about the future.

She’d muse about me blowing up and us living like superstars, able to afford anything and go anywhere.

We’d naively dream about white-sand beaches and fancy houses.

I was happy, and I loved her, but even then, there was this part of me that felt like those plans were more for her than for us.

They were only half-hearted, far-off wishes to me, and solid goals for Emily.

Too bad I didn’t realize it before things got so messy. It could’ve saved both of us this pain.

My body tries to release all the pressure with a long, deep exhale and has me sinking between my shoulders. I stare at the floor for a moment, trying to empty my mind. When I straighten my head again, I notice Martin nervously hovering outside the door, peeking in slowly.

“What is it?” I ask, barely managing to sound somewhat decent.

“You two are really over, huh?”

I let out a bitter chuckle. “Yes. I told you we were.”

Martin raises his hands in defense, all theatrical. “Hey! I figured you were having issues again and were probably gonna get back together eventually. Was I not supposed to take this in?” He glances at the box.

I want to be annoyed at him, but it would be a lie to say that’s never happened before. Emily has managed to reel me back in when I tried to pull away a few times, so I suppose his estimation was based on some solid evidence…

“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I put the box aside, deciding to deal with it later. I’ll keep the photos, because those moments meant something, but the t-shirts and anything else that’s salvageable can go to charity. I don’t want it.

Only look forward.

When I slouch my shoulders and sit on my bed, Martin studies me.

He must detect something isn’t right about me, or maybe he senses the change in my pheromones.

His otherwise punchable face becomes more understanding and tender.

“Enya brought a bunch of leftovers from work last night. She’s sleeping.

I’ll heat some for you, yeah?” he suggests, his voice softening.

Something within me eases, so I raise my head to him with a faint smirk.

“You actually spoke to her?” I ask, hinting at our inside joke about our third roommate being a sort of ghost. A shadow only seen or heard once in a blue moon.

A shadow whose only actual proof of existence is the magically sorted laundry and occasional restock of the fridge with boxes of takeaway food said shadow made at work.

Martin chuckles. “We talked briefly before I went out in the morning.”

I nod. “Cool.”

“Anyway, the food. I’ll bring it,” Martin blurts, turning on his heel in the door and then he disappears.

I let out another deep exhale and narrow my eyes, because it somehow eases my headache.

The quiet helps, too, even if I hear Martin in the distance, moving plates and using the microwave in the kitchen.

I remember Sam again, and everything inside me relaxes.

Smiling, I rest my head against the wall by the bed. What the hell does it matter what anyone thinks, anyway? Despite my discomfort and lingering frustration, a strange sense of acceptance overcomes me.

What does it matter if what I feel is reasonable or not? I feel it.

It’s the most real thing I’ve felt in maybe all my life, and deep inside, I know it will work out. It has to.