Page 65 of Heat Hesitation

"She tried to convince you the Olcenes weren't in the wrong."

"Yeah! She did! And?" This time she stops. There's real pain behind her eyes. I want to take it away. I want to ease every burden, to shield her from the harshness of the world.

She talks about Alma more than her parents because she had to grow up fast and doesn't like to be vulnerable, but it's painted right there on her face. She lost her protectors, and it's hard to explain that this is what I'm trying to do now: protect her.

"Ophelia, look at me," I encourage, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, taking her face in my hands. Her eyes drag up to meet mine, begrudgingly.

Lips pressed together, her pout is nervous. She's scared.

"I know what you told me. And I know what Fletcher said when I confronted her about it after you told us what happened."

"You confronted her?"

"I did. I think you need to hear her out. Her side of the story."

She rips away, pulling my hands from her face. "Her side?"

"Ophelia, you were sixteen—a child. And you just lost your entire family. I'm not saying what you remember was inaccurate. In fact, it matches her story perfectly. But… I think her point of view should be heard. At the very least, to give you some closure."

She looks down at the ground. Only a foot or two of distance between us but it feels like a field.

"Ask her all the questions you've been holding onto for years. I'll be right there with you."

She doesn't respond, looking up toward the office before marching forward. I follow. Because, of course, I do.

I pick up the pace as she approaches the door so I can open it for her. Ducking beneath my long arm, I don't miss how she breathes me in and slips inside, pretending to be unaffected.

Fletcher, the Director of the OFA for the last twenty years, has made this office her home away from home. Unlike the typically put-together older beta woman, the waiting room outside the offices is warm, inviting, and cozy, likely for the benefit of the omega residents, most of whom live a few buildings over.

Ophelia runs her fingers over the soft pillows of the couch in the waiting room. Theo mentioned her temperature has been spiking and whether she admits it or not, her nest has been slowly growing with bits of clothing and other items that smell like us. Her alphas.

I know Ophelia would deny her collection if I pointed out that a t-shirt I work out in went missing. Also missing was a hand towel I left by my bedside that I, ahem, used for relief after hearing her scream her mates' names in ecstasy every fucking night.

I couldn't figure out where it went and when I caught a light, faint trace of lavender and realized she was in my room, I should have felt embarrassed. Instead, my chest puffed up, and I felt about ten feet tall.

We wait in loaded silence until the receptionist, a lovely beta woman around my age whose name I cannot remember, comes around the corner, taking a seat behind her desk.

"Oh, Sullivan! So nice to see you again. Madam Fletcher will be right out," she smiles and leans forward on her desk. "Is there anything I can get for you while you wait? Water? Or…"

She blinks rapidly, darting her eyes to Ophelia, who scoffs.

"No, thank you. We're both fine."

I can feel Ophelia's distress. She should know there's no other woman for me, even if she's still being stubborn accepting me, mad I strong-armed her into moving in.

So I place my hand on her lower back, and when she softens beneath my touch and her scent blooms between us, I lean in and kiss her temple. It's a small, simple thing, but it's the most I've touched her since we met. I must give her some indication of how much I crave her touch because the look she gives me in exchange is one of… hope.

"Mr. Constantine, come on ba—oh. Ophelia. I wasn't expecting you."

"Fletcher," Ophelia drawls, but the old woman doesn't bristle. She gives us both a tight smile, tugs on her button-up suit jacket, and leads us to a conference room just outside her office. The walls are glass with a long narrow table within, but, like everything else in Fletcher's domain, it's comforting and cozy with pillows and soft lighting. Ophelia seems to approve when she sighs and heaves onto the couch at the edge of the room instead of sitting at the table.

Fletcher pauses, looking from the table arranged with snacks and tea, to Ophelia who's kicking her legs up on the couch, and then back to the table with snacks. Without laughing like I want to, I join Ophelia on the couch, but I take her legs into my lap when she tries to steal them back.

"Right. Well." Fletcher gathers all the accouterments and sets them up on the low glass coffee table, dragging one of the chairs from the table opposite the couch. The moment she settles, Dr. Rubens enters the room.

I've met the man only once, and only in passing. He's older, with a long, white, winding beard and a soft demeanor. Most OFA employees are betas, and he's no exception.

Ophelia doesn't seem to recognize him, so I guess we're off to a good start.

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