Page 193 of Captive Omega

I snort. “Yeah. Not your best idea. You remember those oysters?”

We spent the better part of a day running to the bathroom. It was years ago, and none of us have gone near an oyster since. We probably never will again.

As expected, his face turns green.

“You prick,” he mutters.

Yep.

And he rolls onto his front and shoves his head in the bucket for another explosive round of vomiting.

“Better out than in,” I mutter. “No one needs that much vodka rotting their belly.”

That almost apology confirms something I’ve always known, was less sure about years before, but am more certain of it now. Blaine isn’t broken, and he doesn’t need fixing. He needs to learn to forgive himself for something that wasn’t his fault.

He took Violet out on that surveillance job. But none of us could have foreseen how it would go. Not him, me, or Garrison. None of us.

The only person to blame was the alpha who hired us.

I wish Blaine would see what the rest of us do.

Chapter 54

Resa

Ifell asleep with an alpha’s body curved around me. His lips were on the back of my right shoulder, his arm looped around my middle, and his knot…

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and press my face into the pillow as I shove those thoughts aside because I don’t need them.

My heat is over.

Whatever happened between Garrison and me never needs to happen again.

Even if there is a teeny tiny part of me that wouldn’t mind if it did.

Waking up naked and alone after my heat isn’t anything new. My nose twitches. I lift my face off the pillow to identify that clean linen scent because that is new.

I’m in the same bed I was in before. The soft white linen sheets are different though. That’s not the biggest change. Or maybe not the biggest. The one that perks me up.

It’s the blue Post-it note stuck on the bedside table lamp.

Someone has drawn an arrow using a thick black marker. No words. Just an arrow pointing to a closed door on the other side of the room.

There is absolutely no way I can go back to sleep without investigating this Post-it note arrow. I sit up, wincing when I pull sore muscles as I wrap a sheet around myself.

I make a brief detour to the window, pulling open the drapes to let in sunlight so bright it must be the middle of the day.

Ignoring my growling stomach, I pad across to the closed door, push it open and get smacked in the face with the scent of roses, vanilla, strawberry, and watermelon.

It’s nice.

Nowhere near as nice as the sunken bath, near overflowing with bubbles. Or, when I walk inside, the white platter filled with cut up watermelon, strawberries, and apple.

It must be steamier in here than I thought, because my eyes are burning.

“It’s the steam,” I tell myself, “definitely the steam.”

And I get into the bath and dunk my head under the hot fragrant water to get rid of that burning feeling.

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