Page 208 of Captive Omega

I wanted to spar, and I hoped the next time I said it would be closer to the truth than a lie, but I never meant it. It was only ever a way to buy myself time.

Ever since the trial, I keep seeing Resa sitting tall and fierce in that witness box, making an alpha flinch, forcing me to confront something I’d spent years shying away from.

Nothing will change unless you change it.

I’ve been waiting for the day I’d wake up and that day would be when I said, sure, let’s go spar. But that day isn’t coming unless I make it happen.

I hold out my right hand, palm side up. “If you’re up to the challenge.”

His eyes dart to my palm, but he doesn’t move.

It’s clear he doesn’t believe me, so I walk toward him and stop inches away.

A grin splits his face, and he slaps his hand into mine.

I squeeze and pull him to his feet, but I don’t let him go.

He isn’t just a friend. He’s pack. Family. We’ve been living under the same roof for years, but I’ve missed him.

“Are you planning on holding my hand to get out of me kicking your ass?” he quips, squeezing my hand as if just as reluctant to let go as I am. “Cause I have to tell you, it won’t work. Your ass is hitting the mat.”

“Ah, eager to learn a painful lesson, huh?” I release him. As we move to the center of the mat, I hope I’m not making a painful mistake by not warming up first. It’s been years since we last sparred.

We circle each other, eyes locked as we wait for the perfect opening.

“And for reference, I don’t dip my shoulder,” he says.

“If you didn’t…” He must think I’m distracted to suddenly charge me. “Then I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

I toss him.

He hits the mat with a thud, but he’s grinning as he springs to his feet. “Uh, yeah, it’s on. It is fucking on.”

I’ve tossed Vaughn to the ground twice more when I spot Garrison standing in the doorway, a familiar book clasped in one hand, and a smile creasing the corners of his eyes.

“Want to join us?” Vaughn asks, getting to his feet.

“And get tossed around like a noodle?” Garrison crosses over to the drum kit and sits. “I think not.”

“A noodle, he says.” Vaughn scoffs.

I brush sweat forming on my brow and prepare for the next round of teaching Vaughn a lesson he’s not learning.

Garrison pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. “It’s hot in here. Should I?—”

Turn on the AC with his phone so I’m not too uncomfortable in a long sleeve turtleneck?

“No.” I pull my sleeves up over my wrists. Both of them. It’s not enough to cool me, but it’s more—a lot more—than I could have done before.

Vaughn doesn’t show even a hint of a response. “You ready?”

He doesn’t care about my scars, which makes it easier to not care either. “Ready for what?”

Garrison is sitting at the drum kit, the pregnancy book balanced on his knees as he watches us circle each other.

Vaughn cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders. “Wouldn’t want you to be crying later that you weren’t when I kick your ass.”

“I’m ready.” I smile, settling into the moment.

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