Page 92 of Coco and the Misfits

“You need to sleep with her, dumbass. That’s how your body will get the message.”

He puts his glass down, frowning. “Are you sure about this? Knotting your omega is a commitment.”

“And you don’t wanna commit?”

“Damn, yeah, I do.” He pauses. “I think.”

“You think?” Universe, gimme strength. “You promised me, dimwit.”

“I promised not to break her heart. And you called me a boy. I’m still young, man. Up until a few weeks ago, I was sure I wasn’t ready to commit, but now…”

I sigh. “Fucker… let me repeat myself: the only way to get out of the rut is to knot your omega. That’s what this physical reaction is all about. A relic that has mostly faded over time, but long ago, when omega heats weren’t this obvious and painful, alphas went into ruts and that’s how they kept their omegas locked up in their dens until they conceived. It’s a biological thing. No medicine can stop it. Knot her, or… or you can ride the rut out.”

“Ride it out? How long would that take? It’s…” He grimaces. “Hard. I’m always hard. The knot pops up even when I think I smell her. When I think about her. When I dream of her.”

Ouch.

“The only cure is to be close to her,” I tell him.

“But—”

“Closer. Court her. Kiss her. Hold her. And get on with the knotting already, if you’re sure. As sure as your body is. Is she the one for you?”

“Yeah.” He seems not to have any doubts about this bit. “Yeah, she is.”

“Will you give her a pack?”

He slumps on his stool. “I don’t know. Maybe over time.”

“Fair.” Dammit, he’s so honest. “You could be good for her. You seem gentle.”

“Are you trying to insult me?” he growls.

“Honestly, no. You’d be a good match. She’s sweet. You’re kind. It’s like a fucking fairytale.”

“Whatever.” He shakes his head. Gazes down into his glass. “You had your chance with her. Why did you waste it? Or don’t you like sweet girls?”

“She’s amazing.” I hesitate. “I’d ruin her.”

“Why?”

“Told you. I’m a black sheep. Bad luck. Bad dice, man.”

“You’re an idiot,” he informs me.

“You don’t know me.”

He arches a blond brow. “I have all night. Tell me.”

“No. I won’t talk about this. Forget it. My demons are my own to obsess over.”

“Suit yourself,” he breathes. “Although it’s hypocritical, don’t you think? Encouraging me to talk when you won’t?”

“Never said I was perfect. Rather the opposite, or weren’t you listening?”

“Hell,” he grunts.

A growly puppy. I grin and finish my brandy. Damn, I like him. Never wanted to. Never thought I would.

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