Page 41 of Shattered Omega: Part Three

That was the common denomination between all the movies.

“Uh…” Roxy giggled. “Yeh, that sounds about right.”

“And then… what? I just ask for what I want?”

“Yup.”

“Before or after the sex?”

“I don’t think the order matters at that point.”

“No?”

“No, but best right after they finish.”

“Okay.” I nodded. “I can do that.”

I was sceptical. This seemed a little silly.

Roxy was peering at my notes. “That’s solid.” She read through my list. “Scent match… receive gifts or nest… play damsel, dangle sex, remove clothes and… yup. That’s it. Do that, and you can ask for anything in the world. Especially the damsel thing. There’s nothing that melts an alpha’s brain more than an omega in need of protection.”

But then another question popped into my mind. “Do you think it would work if, uh… if I didn’t have sex with them?”

Roxy considered that. “Honestly. It’s just about getting them thinking about sex, and then their brain has melted anyway.”

FOURTEEN

RANSOM

Maybe I shouldn’t have done this alone.

I cocked my head to the side. If I tilted my head a little, the wood was level. Level enough.

Right?

It was Tuesday afternoon. There was a free block, and I’d been in the academy workshop late into last night and all afternoon today.

With paint, the angle would be less obvious… I think… I glanced at the tins of white paint waiting on the scuffed up workshop floor. Well—they weren’t pure white. Off cream… bridal colours, I’d been told when I’d turned up at the hardware store with beach wedding pictures.

Our wedding pictures could live on this bookshelf forever, beside all the Arkology books she was so particular about. I imagined she would be just as particular about the wedding photos when we had them.

I’d even bought the frames, all hexagons and pentagons—all supposed to look perfect on this shelf.

I frowned as I tilted my head the opposite way. Could paint really fix this?

Shit.

The others in the workshop gave me and my bookcase a wide berth. I’d thought it was because I was Ransom Kingsman… but now I was starting to wonder if it was because I was Ransom Kingsman with a monstrosity of a project no one wanted to have to comment on.

“Damn,” I hissed, rubbing my brow with fingers raw from sanding. If I spent another few hours sanding the edges, could I maybe make that stupid level bubble lie to me? “No way I can give her this.”

Would it even hold books? And what if it fell apart and she got hurt?

In my head, this had gone better. Every step, every agonising hour of figuring out how to use the tools in here, and I had been confident it was going to be perfect.

A gift beyond money, and more precious for it.

But in hindsight, that was pretty fucking stupid. Who did I think I was, making a bookshelf?

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