Page 29 of Heat Hesitation

I don't bother saying good-bye, slipping out into the late night. I pull my Bugatti Chiron—matte black, low profile, fast as fuck—out of the garage and creep into the night, following the familiar trail toward Ophelia's apartment. I may not have inserted myself into my brothers' rotating roster to watch over her, but that doesn't mean I haven't done some light stalking of my own.

My anger toward her morphed over the week into frustration and curiosity. Now I'm just itchy and edgy. The need to claim her, protect her, and take care of her makes my incisors burn with the need just to bond her and be done with the worry.

I speed along the winding roads, knowing I'm mere minutes behind her and Red. I hate that she's with him, but logically, I know she's safe. Enzo looked into him—as Enzo does—and determined their relationship, as far as anyone could tell, was familial and that Red's parents took her in as a teenager to keep her off the streets since she refused to join the OFA after losing her family.

I may hate the closeness that fucker has with her, but I'll forever be grateful to him for being there when we weren't.

Spotting the taillights of what I assume is his shitty old truck, I slow, noting the relief in my chest, knowing she's close.

I can't believe she's a drug dealer. I mean, as far as drug dealers go, she's pretty tame, but still. When I pictured finding our omega over the years, I'm not sure I had a specific image in mind. I didn't particularly care if she was obedient, as some alphas prefer. I didn't care if she was sweet or silly.

Never did I picture her annoying the shit out of me and actually getting turned on by that defiant lift of her chin when she challenged me. I never imagined Ophelia… all barely five feet of her, long, flowing brown hair down to her luscious ass, messy and wild. Holey sneakers and ripped jeans.

Relieved Red continues toward her apartment and not his own, wherever the fuck he lives, or to his strip club—another mind-fuck I'll need to wrap my head around, that she works there or has anything to do with it; no omega from OFA or the Hills would be caught dead in one.

I park up the street from her apartment, knowing my car will stand out in this neighborhood, hoping it doesn't get stolen but not really giving a shit if it does. There's an invisible string in my heart and my viscera, and every step she takes away from me, it plucks, tugging me closer to her, not caring what we leave behind. A two-hundred-thousand car? Insignificant, a mere obstacle in the way of getting a just glimpse of her.

I picture her in the catering outfit the first time I saw her: ugly as sin, ill-fitting, doing her body no favors, and still, I couldn't stop staring. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I wanted to wrap my hands around her petite waist and squeeze those round hips. Her face is perfection; her eyebrows tilt downward slightly, giving her an almost sorrowful gaze, with thick, dark eyelashes and deep, ocean-blue eyes. There's a galaxy behind those glassy, glowing iris.

The urge to see her pretty face before she disappears into her building has me rushing down the now-empty sidewalk, my footsteps echoing on the pavement.

I'm too late, I note, when Red exits her building. He pauses, pulling his hood up like a thief, before walking toward me, knowing where I was all along.

His hands tuck into his pockets casually, but my alpha knows he feels anything but.

"How's our little omega doing?" I ask lightly, as though I didn't care for the answer. As if I wasn't salivating for a scrap.

"Like you give a shit?" He growls.

"Oh, come on now. We both know this thing," I wave my hand between my chest and the fourth floor where Ophelia lives, "is inevitable."

"Yes, you sound very excited by the prospect," he deadpans.

I can't help it, I growl back. "I know I haven't been the most—"

"You've been a dick."

"She say that?" I light up, not caring that she called me a dick but excited she's talked about me.

"She didn't have to. I know her, I can tell when her feelings are hurt. She tries to act tough, but…"

"But, what? She must be tough if you're okay with her running around in the middle of the night with a backpack full of cash and prescription drugs, in and out of your strip club, dealing like a common criminal."

"Watch it, pretty boy," Red seethes.

"Who the fuck you calling pretty boy?" I laugh, flicking his black hair that's artfully fallen in front of his eyes. He snarls, shoving me back, but I put my hands up in peace, though I'm sure the gesture seems sarcastic. Even when I try to be serious, most people think I'm fucking around.

"You have no idea what she's doing or why," he continues. "And she's safe up there. Safer here than in your fancy-ass neighborhood. At least here, my reputation precedes me. It might not look like much, but everyone in this neighborhood knows she's under our protection. No one would fuck with her."

I can't tell if he's reassuring me or himself. "I know she's safe," I admit.

He nods, but it's a little bit manic. Gahhd… dammit. I'd hoped not to like this guy, but the more I think about how much he's had her back, and hearing the story of him and Alma, Ophelia's twin sister, has me warming up to him—just a tiny bit.

"You alright, man?" I ask begrudgingly.

He rolls his eyes. "I just hate seeing her upset."

That doesn't feel like the whole story. "She tell you why she was crying? What she told us?"

---