Page 91 of Defiant Beta

“About what happened at Haven…”

She spins on her heel and walks back to the kitchen island, dragging herself up on the stool. “It’s fine.”

She picks up a piece of toast.

“He blames himself for it.” I circle the kitchen island and lean against the counter.

She puts the toast down without taking a bite and looks at me. “For what?”

“Aly. Not saving her. It’s why he threw himself into being Dexter Pieter. Pretending to be someone else for so long changes you. There are times I’m not sure he even remembers who he is anymore.”

I told him it wasn’t a good idea for him to use his real name at school. He said he was sick of fake names and didn’t want another one, insisting that no one would link Professor Vincent to his past. I didn’t push him on it, even though I knew it wasn’t a good idea.

The killer might recognize the name if no one else did, then what?

“Wasit his fault?”

I shake my head. “He wasn’t there, but none of us were.”

“So, he has a savior complex?”

“What happened to you is on us. If we hadn’t chased you out of Haven, you’d have been safe?—”

“But Mercy wouldn’t have been. If they got hold of an omega…” Dark shadows cloud her eyes, turning them into a stormy sea of despair. She looks away. “Better it was me than her.”

I smile faintly. “What was a certain someone saying about a savior complex?”

“Betas don’t have savior complexes.”

I sip my cold coffee while Della picks at her toast. I should encourage her to eat more to regain the weight she lost, since she wasn’t big to start with.

“I don’t blame you for it.” She glances at me. “What happened wasn’t your fault. You don’t need to look after me.”

“Part of it is guilt. A small part,” I admit.

“And the other part?”

At school, it was attraction. I know when I’m attracted to a woman and when it’s something else.Thisis something more. It’s fascination and attraction, along with a need to protect her from the evils of the world.

She’s so damned pretty that I can’t take my eyes off her. She came into our lives like an electrifying live wire, shocking life back into all of us—even Vince. But she doesn’t need an alpha flirting or trying to impress her; she needs time to heal and recover.

“I’m not sure,” I lie.

As I walk over to empty my half-drunk coffee in the sink and place my mug in the dishwasher, I feel her staring at me again. She’s curious about my tattoos. Most people are. They want to know what designs I have, how I decided on them, and what the significance of it all is.

I make up some bullshit for each person who asks.

What I never tell them is that the reason I got the things in the first place was to hide the worst of my scars. No tattoo could have concealed the belt marks on my back. The scar tissue is too raised, and the wounds cut too deep.

“You want to know about my tattoos.” I close the dishwasher and turn to face her.

“You have a beetle on your neck.”

“Ah.” I cross my arms and lean against the counter. “Did you know, in Ancient Egypt, the scarab beetle signified rebirth?”

“No. Is that why you had it?”

I open my mouth to tell her yes. The truth is, the tattoo artist I’d gone to had rambled on about his passion. All I’d seen was that the beetle would cover the marks I was trying to hide, so I shrugged, telling him, “Sure. Whatever. Just make it big.”

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