Page 24 of Worthy or Knot (Serendipity Omegaverse #3)

Twenty-Four

COLE

“ H ere we are, Mr. Fallon,” the driver says.

I adjust the ball cap so it hangs just a bit lower over my eyes and then grab my backpack, casually slinging it over one shoulder as I ease the door open.

“Thank you,” I offer as I step onto the curb.

The street is quiet—or at least as quiet as any portion of Manhattan can ever quite manage, and certainly leagues better than Dad’s condo in the Financial District farther south.

Trees line the curb every thirty feet or so, large and full of leaves, giving shade to the concrete and steel doorsteps that meet the sidewalk down both sides of the road.

The driver is quick to get my two bags from the trunk.

The need to help him is an itch under my skin, but I do my best to ignore it, knowing the drivers are trained to not let anyone else handle luggage.

Partially for that “white glove” experience that most who pay their service fees desire, but also so if something breaks, their liability insurance will actually do something about it.

Not much is worse than a rich asshole who’s decided someone barely making enough to get by is the problem.

The thought has Sienna popping into my head, and I fight back a shudder.

Thinking about the woman who birthed me is absolutely not the move right now.

The man places both duffels on the curb, keeping the straps from touching the concrete, and then looks to me in silent question.

“Thank you,” I say again. And then I hand him a bit of the cash my fathers made sure I had before flying out here.

Never mind that my trust is plenty for four families to live off of for the rest of their lives.

Just one more way they’ve been trying to protect and care for me the last few years since I got sick.

The man pales as he realizes what bills I handed him, but he covers it after only a moment’s hesitation.

“Have a good day, Mr. Fallon,” he murmurs.

When I give him a smile and nod, he drops back into the driver’s seat and guides the nondescript car into the light traffic filling the street.

I grab both duffels, fitting one cross body and holding the other, keeping my backpack haphazardly balanced on my open shoulder.

My joints ache today, so it’s not exactly comfortable, but I do my best to ignore the dull pain.

The row homes here are dark gray brick and three stories in height, tall, narrow windows filling most of the facade facing the street.

Toward the far end of the block, a building reminiscent of the fifties sits on the corner, a neon script sign announcing it as Mina’s Drinks.

Across from it, another squat building with only an abstract logo that probably means more to a sub-sect of people I’m clearly not part of.

I focus on the townhomes, squinting to get my eyes to focus enough to read the house numbers.

Theirs is maybe thirty feet back down the block, the parking immediately in front occupied.

Its front stoop is five large concrete steps, each one decorated with a pot of overflowing flowers and vines.

A half-height wrought iron fence edges the sidewalk, spreading from each side of the steps.

My phone vibrates as I start toward it. There’s a new text from Dad when I manage to pull it from my pocket without dropping any of my bags.

You make it ok?

Just got here. Drive and flight were fine.

Good. Glad you’re safe.

And then there’s a text from Papa.

Johnathan’s too polite to ask, but we’ll be at the fundraising event with him on Sunday. We’d love to meet them if it’s not too soon.

Trust Papa to be the one to plan things around Dad’s society manners.

I’ll check with them this evening but it should be fine. You pick the place.

You sure?

Definitely.

Alright. Let us know timing if it works out.

Of course.

I tuck my phone away and head up the wide stoop, fingering the backpack’s strap, and then take three long, deep breaths that almost don’t hurt.

A dull ache starts behind both eyes, the subtle headache I deal with most days finally making its presence known today.

With a roll of my shoulders, I knock on the door twice.

It takes a minute for it to open, but then all three of them are standing in front of me.

Megan’s in a knee-length, navy t-shirt dress that hides her curves.

Her hair is pulled back in a single braid falling straight down her back.

Charlotte’s hair is loose, cascading over one shoulder, nearly reaching the bit of stomach revealed by her boxy black crop top.

Marcus is the most formal of them, wearing dark jeans and a dark green polo.

His blue eyes are keen and bore into me the moment I lock my gaze with his.

All at once, his nervous excitement fills my chest, overwhelming after so many years keeping the connection suppressed.

“Hey,” I manage.

His lips tip up, showing off a single dimple that I want to kiss.

“You’re here!” Charlotte grabs my wrist and pulls me into the house, squealing with excitement. Her arm snakes around my waist the moment I’m across the threshold, her cheek rubbing against my sternum.

“How was your flight?” Megan asks, amusement in her voice.

When I focus on her, she’s smiling. She circles my wrist like she did in Seattle, running her thumb down the inside of my forearm—scent marking me with a subtlety I’ve never seen before. Even as she does it, Marcus closes the small distance and eases the duffel bag out of my grip.

“It was good,” I finally manage to say. My skin itches with the need for Marcus to touch me, for all of them to have their hands and scent on me. My throat dries out between one moment and the next as desire rips through my body.

Holy Jesus , how am I supposed to have any kind of coherent thought with all of this happening in my mind and body?

Marcus sucks in a breath, no doubt feeling the sudden rush of need, and inches closer, his body crowding into Charlotte’s.

Between one breath and the next, his nutmeg scent curls around me, sinking into me.

Some of the itchiness fades away. He hums and takes another half-step closer, forcing Charlotte to press entirely against me.

She wraps her other arm around my waist, her nails digging into my back.

Megan closes the distance, too, her hand still holding my wrist immobile.

A deep-seated part of me I’d never quite realized was there spreads out, sprawling in the heat of their joint attention like a cat on a sunny windowsill.

I close my eyes and soak in the feeling, breathe in all three of their scents that are now mingling around us.

For an infinite moment, we’re just our basest instincts.

I’m an Omega that needs scent and touch and attention.

They’re Alphas that thrive on providing and soothing and protecting.

The tension from the travel eases away, melting down my body and pooling at my feet. Marcus hums, and the sound shoots straight down my spine. I need him against me, under me, inside me . He groans as the bond hums to life and betrays the force of my sudden, unholy need for him.

“Better?” Megan asks, ripping me out of the thoughts.

I swallow around the lump in my throat. Yeah, all right, I definitely understand Violet’s sudden attitude change the last six weeks. Jesus .

“Y-yeah,” I manage to say with only a slight crack. “Thank you. I didn’t realize how stressed I was.”

Which is true. Even the aching in my joints is better than it’s been all day. That seed of hope grows a bit bigger, digs a bit deeper. Maybe Marcus will be enough after all.

“Would you like a tour?” Charlotte asks. “I know I already showed you on the video calls, but in person is different.”

“Yeah, that would be great.” Marcus and Megan both take a few steps away, and Charlotte grabs my hand like it’s the most natural instinct in the world. Before we’ve taken more than a few steps, Megan’s eased my backpack off my shoulder and slung it over her own.

“So living room, obviously,” Charlotte says, gesturing to the large room to the right of the entryway.

Two green velvet sofas face each other. The far wall is occupied mostly by a brick fireplace with large white candles in a minimalist holder where a fire would traditionally be.

Built-in shelves flank both sides, painted a dark gray that coordinates with the exposed brick.

The floors are a light oak that carry deeper into the house.

“And then the main floor’s bathroom is here,” she points to one of the two doors maybe five feet from the entrance. “The other one is a closet.”

She walks us deeper into the house. Marcus palms the small of my back, and I have to swallow a whine that’s way too desperate for literally just arriving.

“Stairs,” she says, pointing to where they stand about ten feet from the front door on the left. Rather than a wall, the side of the stairs are panels of tinted glass, a cool-toned gray that stands as an interesting contrast to the warm floors and stair risers.

“And then kitchen and dining room,” Charlotte says with a smile as we reach the back of the house.

The kitchen is a modest size in an L-shape with dark cabinets and white counters.

The sink sits centered under a large window that overlooks a backyard.

On the windowsill is the small bouquet of azaleas I’d given Megan earlier in the week.

Warmth fills me at the sight of them. The counter juts out of the wall toward us, creating a peninsula designed for dining.

Three chairs are tucked under the edge of the counter there, facing into the kitchen.

“And we have a small yard, too. It’s not huge, but way bigger than most people have, especially in Manhattan.

Megan tries to grow a garden every year.

This year she’s been growing cucumbers to pickle.

Oh! And over here is the other living room.

I grew up calling it a den but I guess that’s not something they really use here. ”

She points to the left. Sunken down two steps is another living room done in a similar color palette as the rest of the house.

This room has a large brown sectional, though, that takes up most of the floor space.

It all combines into a warm, nearly cottage feel.

In the heart of Manhattan. It shouldn’t work, but it does.

Marcus eases closer.

“Some of the family room is a bit messy. We’re still adjusting everything,” he says. “Why don’t we go drop these in your room? And then we were thinking of grabbing some boba if you’re feeling up for it.”

I turn away from the main floor’s warmth, focusing on Marcus.

“You’re sure I’m okay to take the entire bottom floor?” I ask. “I really don’t need that much room.”

He raises a single eyebrow. “Yes, you do. We don’t have enough rooms to give you a separate nest. So take the basement. Make it your own.”

Charlotte pulls me toward the stairs. “Come see.”

I don’t resist, carefully following her down the open stairs. Her smile is so wide, brightening her entire face, as she turns at the bottom of the stairs and holds out her arm in a grand gesture.

The wood floors continue down here as well as the off-white walls that offer a brightness without hurting my eyes.

It’s larger than any bedroom I’ve ever had, even in my parents’ over-the- top gated house before the dissolution this summer.

The only piece of furniture is a mattress in the center of the room.

“We know you were ordering a frame, so sorry it’s on the floor,” Charlotte says apologetically.

“The bathroom is through here.” She flounces across the large room and opens a door on the wall across from the wall of windows.

“And there’s a small patio out here.” She points to the french doors between the windows.

“It’s sunken below street level, and we were able to put in that little half-fence with Marcus’s bonus last year, so it’s actually really private. ”

“Do you like it?” Megan asks, her voice a quiet juxtaposition to Charlotte’s bubbling excitement.

“Is it enough?” Charlotte asks, bouncing on her toes. “We could probably come up with another spot if you’re not totally sure. The upper floors aren’t as big as this, though. The den was an addition in the seventies, so it’s the only reason the main floor is as big as it is.”

“Yeah,” I say, cutting off her worry. “This is more than enough.”

Then I focus on Megan and Marcus where they flank me. Megan silently sets the backpack just to the right of the stairs, and Marcus puts the duffel beside it before taking the second one from me.

And then he’s pulling me toward him, his gaze so intense my breath catches. His lips are soft but insistent, and the rest of the room falls away. His nutmeg explodes in an instant, and I can’t help but groan.

“Welcome home,” he whispers.

A wealth of emotion bubbles up my throat, and I have no idea what to say. His gaze sharpens, and I know he can feel it all. It’s only the first day I’ve been fully off the suppressors, and already it feels so normal, so natural to feel his smug satisfaction and soft wonder.

I clear my throat. “So boba?”