Page 94 of Rut Bar

“Darlene’s niece is a painter,” Anthony says, confusing me with the sudden switch in topics. “She’s hand-lettering the new window. It’ll be done tomorrow. Dan ordered new stools and chairs to replace the ones that were broken. Everyone already cleaned everything up and restocked the bar. Relax, Vee. It’ll be as good as new when you get back.” His hand drifts down to my shoulder and tightens as he keeps me from getting up.

His tight grip on me should make me anxious—I hate being held down—but the panic never comes. I feel secure, not smothered. My scalp tugs as he goes back to playing with my hair. “You have a team full of people who love Rut, who loveyou, so let them help. Take a day off. You can go back to being the boss tomorrow.”

I should get up on principle alone. I’ve never enjoyed being told what to do. Years of being told I was too young, too female, too omega to run a business—especially a business like Rut—has made me obstinate. When I’m told I can’t do something, I’ll do the opposite to prove them all wrong. Instead, I sink deeper into Anthony’s grip.

I’m exhausted. I’ve been running on fumes for far too long, and all it took was one good heat full of pampering to make me realize how depleted I’ve been for a while now. And he’s right. We have a good team of people at Rut. Sure, there are a few who are only in it for a short time for the money and then they move onto something else, but the core group is dedicated. They believe in what we’re doing. I can trust them.

What’s one day?

Besides, some omegas have heats that last a week. At three days, mine is shorter than average. One more day won’t make a difference. And Brendan can’t audit me if he’s here helping clean the splattered smoothie off the kitchen ceiling from when Jamie forgot to put the lid on before blending.

“Fine,” I sigh. “But we’re going in early tomorrow. We’ll have to do inventory, and I’m sure the insurance company has more forms for me to fill out.”

“Deal.”

I should probably be concerned that I’ve made a deal with a devil, but the way Anthony’s fingers knead the back of my neck makes my eyes slide shut. If this heat was a dream, it’s one I don’t want to wake up from.

By the time he’s done massaging my shoulders, my limbs are boneless and I’ve collapsed in a puddle on the couch. My phone alarm goes off in the bedroom, but before I can get up, he puts a hand on my thigh and squeezes, then goes to get it.

He comes back with my birth control packet and a bottle of water, but when I reach for them, he holds them out of my reach. “Uh-uh. Open for Daddy.”

It’s easier to comply than fight. Resisting Anthony when he’s set his mind to something is like arguing with a brick wall. I give him an unamused look, ignoring his smirk, but let my mouth fall open. Anthony pops a pill out of the foil and holds it out to me, his eyes locking on my mouth as he places the pill on my tongue. The sweet coating that masks the underlying bitter medicine dissolves as soon as it touches. He uncaps the water and feeds that to me too, instead of letting me do it myself.

“Swallow.”

I gulp down half the bottle. Somehow, after drinking everything liquid they’ve thrown at me, I’m still thirsty.

“Good girl,” he says once I’ve swallowed it down.

My belly squirms at the praise. I hate that I like it so much. I hate being needy. It makes it too hard when they leave. And they always leave. They always want more from me than I can give them. More time, more attention, more omega-ness. I’m a terrible omega. I’m married to my job, I’m bossy, and I don’t have any plans of popping out babies anytime soon.

His knees bump into mine as he stands between my legs. The fingers at my nape squeeze as he tilts my head back and leans down, claiming my mouth in a gentle kiss.

His hand tightens, creating a dull ache at the back of my head, and my mouth softens with surprise. He wastes no time slipping his tongue inside, as if he’s making sure I did what I was told rather than self-sabotaging for the sake of being defiant. As if I’d fuck with my birth control.No thanks.

Anthony ends the kiss with a nip of my lower lip that makes me squeak and my pussy clamp down on nothing. Soreness radiates from my pelvis as I take a deep breath and groan. He chuckles, his fist releasing my hair so he can palm the nape of my neck instead. His thumb strokes along the corner of my jaw. A meager bit of slick dampens my fresh panties and makes them stick to me.

“You good, baby?” Anthony rakes a hand through his tousled hair and grins at me, as if he knows my traitorously horny omega pussy wants to boot and rally for another round. As if I didn’t spend the last three days getting dicked down and knotted.

I’d squeeze my thighs together to stem those thoughts, except he’s still standing between them. “My pussy is closed for business. Maybe permanently. It’s like someone rammed a car between my legs.” Muscles I didn’t know I had are sore.

“That’s not what I asked, baby. I asked if you were good. I know your pussy’s feeling well taken care of right now. But what about the rest of you? How areyou?”

“I…” I’ve never had a heat hookup ask before. And most alphas cut and run after the heat’s over. Usually, once the pheromone levels drop, they can’t get out of my place fast enough. They certainly don’t stick around to make me smoothies or knead tense muscles or finger comb my hair. “I’m good.”

“Only good?” Anthony sucks his teeth, his expression thoughtful.

Jamie pads into the room, holding up a white plastic bag from the grocery store. “Who wants pancakes?”

My stomach rumbles at the thought, and the rest of me is glad for the interruption too. “Me. I’m starving.” The smoothie helped, but it won’t tide me over for long. I have three days’ worth of calories to eat my way through.

Anthony pulls me off the couch, his hand never straying far as it dips to the small of my back. It’s like he doesn’t want to let me out of his reach. As if he thinks I’ll disappear the moment he steps away.

The clinginess should bother me. I’m not used to it. But I don’t mind. Not even when he takes the seat next to me and reaches over, dragging my chair closer so he can cut up pancakes and feed them to me. The fork twirls slowly so syrup doesn’t drip everywhere.

“I can feed myself now, you know,” I tell him, frustrated that he won’t let me take the fork. It’s not like I’m in heat and clumsy or unfocused anymore.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks. “Open. Jamie and I made these coconut cream pancakes especially for you and I want you to eat all of them.”

---