Page 32 of The Omega Trials: Part Three

“Ti?” Ecker asks again.

The word is sour on my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to say anything else. So, I lie. “Same.”

1. “All That Really Matters” by ILLENIUM, Teddy Swims

Chapter 18

Confessions

Sinclair

When I get out of the shower after dinner, Titus still isn’t back. He didn’t eat with us, but Ecker chalked it up to the second Fortitude Trial. I check his room, and his bed is still perfectly made, the way he left it this morning.

I unwind the towel from my hair and ask Bishop, who’s relaxing on the couch, “Has he stopped by at all?”

“No.” He sits up, light concern on his face.

“You think he’s still down by the lake?”

“Probably, I’ll come with you,” he offers when he realizes that’s my intention.

I pick one of their hoodies off the back of the armchair and pull it over my head. “It’s okay. I don’t know, I just . . .” I scrunch my nose, not exactly sure what I’m trying to say.

“Feel like you need to do this yourself,” Bishop finishes for me, and I nod.

“Yeah, something like that.”

I head out, but before I leave, he lets me know, “Come back before dark, okay?”

“You got it.” I smile weakly, unable to shake this uneasy, foreboding feeling, like guilt for something that hasn’t happened yet.

It takes me a few minutes of walking the perimeter of the lake to find him. He’s sitting on a pebbly patch of shore, limply tossing stones into the water. He sways slightly where he sits, and I notice a glass bottle next to him.1

“Titus?” I call several paces out, not wanting to startle him.

He doesn’t turn around, just drawls dolefully, “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

I sit next to him, and he picks up the whiskey, taking a lugging swig straight from the half-empty bottle. He offers it to me when he’s done, and I shake my head, disturbed by this drunken version of the man in front of me.

His eyelids hang half-closed, and his gaze never focuses, even though he’s looking right at me. I’ve never seen him drunk before.

I’ve never seen any of my alphas drunk before, but there’s something distinctly unsettling about seeing Titus this way. He’s always so in control. Even in the rare moments when he losescontrol, he’s still measured, fully aware of every step he takes over the line.

Tentatively, I ask, “Do you want to talk?”

“Nope,” he says flatly and throws another rock into the lake.

“You missed some really good meatballs at dinner—”

“It hurts.” He cuts me off as if he couldn’t possibly hold in the words any longer.

I reach for his hand, and he hangs his head when I wrap my fingers around his. “What hurts?”

“It hurts so much,” he laments, so much pain in his voice, it cuts me like razor blades.

“What does, Titus?” I plead with him to tell me.

He doesn’t lift his head, but his heavy, drunken eyes sweep up to mine. “You.”

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