Page 78 of Heat Hesitation

The woman on the TV screen chooses that moment to scream. She gets stuck in a garage door as the killer stalks her through the garage.

I hug Enzo tighter. Someone hands me a plate, and the guys ignore me when I suggest we eat at the table. We have dinner on the couch and keep my horror movie marathon going into the evening.

I feel better. Not good, and still sad. But better.

"I want to go," I tell the guys later on that evening.

"Go…" Asher prompts.

"To the Omega Selection Gala. I know we're packed up already, but we'd be allowed to go, right?"

Sully responds, "Of course. We're their biggest sponsor. And it would look bad if, after the headlines you're making, they didn't allow you or us to go. Fletcher would never deny us entry, though."

"Are you sure, Phe?" Things must be serious if Theo's using my actual nickname.

I look back at the TV, then close my eyes and snuggle deeper into Enzo's embrace, knowing I'll fall asleep soon. "I'm sure."

I don't know why, but I feel like I need to go, to attend one of these events—the event, really—that Alma craved so much; not as a caterer or a pretender, but as a guest. As Ophelia Constantine.

Chapter 31

Theo

She spins in place while Imogen and I watch on. She looks stunning in anything but this… midnight blue lace, sheer fabric without a bra. Her nipples aren't visible through the lace pattern, the design hinting at what lies beneath, but her bare flesh is exposed, regardless. The shape cuts open from her collar bone, breast and sternum to her waist, where the dress becomes less sheer in an ombré pattern, hugging her beautiful curves.

"No," I say at the same time as Imogen's enthusiastic "Yes!"

I growl. Ophelia darts between her new friend Imogen and me. I was delighted to take my omega shopping for a dress for the gala. It was last minute. Though the invitations only just arrived, most attendees know exactly when it is, and the women—and men, for that matter—are prepared months in advance.

Omega fashion is a big deal, especially in the High Hills. While the OFA hosts at least two major events like this a year, no omega from the Hills would be caught in the same dress twice. So boutiques are always ready, even for last-minute stragglers like us.

"This dress is not exactly in fashion right now," the shopkeeper tells us. Apparently, lace and sheer fabrics are out, and rhinestones are in. She tells us that Imogen will be wearing a baby blue A-line dress adorned with cascading stones.

"But it doesn't matter if it's hot right now, or passé. You've already got a pack. And you're going to make a statement, right? What better way? You look incredible, Phe," Imogen squeaks and claps.

Ophelia's excitement is contagious. My brothers are going to kill me. Us. Because it doesn't matter if it's in fashion or not. This dress is… fire. It's fucking fire. She's so goddamn sexy; it's taking everything in me to restrain my alpha, to keep from pheromoning all over the damn room and rutting my woman.

I let out a deep breath and look away.

In a rare form of heavy alpha dominance, my voice lowers. "You will not go anywhere without us. You'll stay by one of your mates' side at all times. Are we clear?"

Imogen's eyes immediately downcast, as though she were the one I was barking at.

"Theo…"

"No. I'm sorry, Ophelia. I love you, and if anything were to happen to you…"

Her brow softens a little as she steps closer to me. I don't think I should touch her while she's wearing this dress, but my hand snakes out around her waist regardless.

"So you think I look pretty?"

Her lashes blink slowly, teasingly. I groan. "Alright, time to take this dress off. We need to get the fuck out of here."

Ophelia's face lights up, and she lifts on her tippy toes, smacks her lips on my cheek, disappears into the dressing room to change, and returns a few minutes later wearing jeans and a T-shirt. We buy the dress, but Imogen reminds Ophelia she needs shoes. And since my adorable little walking catastrophe can't walk in heels, it becomes a whole ordeal.

They end up in a shoe store, where Ophelia practices walking in platform heels because Imogen thinks she can pull them off. She cannot, and settles on something with a very low heel. I'm glad Phe's making friends, but, instead of fucking my omega in the backseat of my car after dress shopping like I wanted to—because why else have blackout windows—we're taking Imogen to lunch, so it's turning into a long day.

When Ophelia is distracted, talking to the server—she starts by asking what their favorite thing on the menu is and ends up discussing the merits of afternoon caffeine intake and favorite smoothie recipes—my phone beeps in my pocket. Imogen's goes off a moment later. With a deep sigh, I pull my phone out of my pocket while Imogen digs hers out of her purse.

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