Page 44 of Want It All
‘Our scents are complementary.’
His hands tightened on my hips, as if he couldn’t help himself, as if he needed to hold me tighter. ‘And did you like it?’
I fucking loved it. ‘Yes.’
‘So he and I –’
‘Could be complementary, too.’ I paused. ‘But he’s ass over head in love with Rose.’
‘Mmm.’ Tristan shifted beneath me. ‘I wonder if he knows that.’
‘If he didn’t before, I expect he’ll realise after tonight.’ I paused. ‘What now?’
‘You meanrightnow?’ he said, gently teasing. I could feel him shift beneath me, and I knew he was trying to lighten the mood.
Unfortunately for him, anger was burning hot in my stomach, and there was zero chance I was going to let him quench it with sex. I took his chin in my hand, forcing him to look at me. ‘Tristan, I need you to know that this is our first fight. I love you, but you have to understand that I’m serious. You manipulated us. No matter yourcontingencies, you still put Rose in danger. You putmein danger. What ifI’dslicked and someone noticed? It would have blownyearsof cover. If you pull something like this again, I might not forgive it.’
After six years together, we sometimes took each other for granted. Not in a bad way – I didn’t think – but rather we justassumedthat we’d always be together, that there was nothing we couldn’t get through. We’d squabbled over silly things before – what to binge watch next, usually – but this was different. It was a betrayal of my trust, regardless of whether there’d been danger, too.
His hands relaxed their hold on my hips. ‘I understand,’ he said quietly, his expression serious. ‘What do you need from me?’
‘I’m going to study.’ I slid off his lap. ‘I’ll be in the nest. I think I’ll sleep there tonight.’
His face fell. That made it sink home; we hadn’t spent a night apart the entire time we’d been together.
He bit his lip as I headed for the nest, but he didn’t try to convince me otherwise.
My nest was little more than a separate bedroom. Tristan had asked me what I’d wanted it to look like, so I’d dutifully picked out some things online, and I usually half-heartedly rearranged them in the days before a heat spike. Sometimes, it made my chest feel hollow that I didn’t have more of a connection to it, as if I were somehow being an omegawrong.
The low bed took up almost all the floor space, canopied by diaphanous cloth of silver. Tiny fairy lights stretched from themiddle of the ceiling to all four bed posts, and more fell in gentle arcs across the walls. The bed was covered in the softest royal blue coverlet Tristan’s money could buy, and cushions of blue and silver – all soft, none hard or scratchy or rough – were piled at the bed head.
I’d never spent the night in here before, because I’d never had a heat; I’d barely spent anhour. When I’d realised that my designation was changing, I’d taken every heat suppressant I could get my hands on. But I’d revealed late, and I’d been so surprised – and soscared. I didn’t knowhowto be an omega; I’d always been a beta. And that had been enough to manage, to be honest. I didn’t know what to do with heats, or scent marking, or biting and bonding, or the urge to be fucked into the floor. It had all been new, all unfamiliar, allterrifying, and I had still been fresh to university and had just found the love of my life.
I didn’t want being an omega to ruin all that.
Which waswithoutconsidering all the horror stories I’d read about male omegas, and the lengths that some packs would go to get their hands on one.
The internet really was the worst, sometimes.
So I’d suppressed my designation, both chemically and mentally, refused Tristan’s gentle suggestion to register myself, and thrown my energy into pretending that nothing had changed, that I was still a beta who dealt with the occasional complication of a pesky heat spike. A beta with areallygood nose, a beta who craved my alpha like I did food and water.
But it was hard to keep pretending in my nest.
I smoothed my hands over the coverlet, shivering at the softness against my palms. Without thinking too much about it, I pulled my shirt over my head and threw myself down.
I wondered whether Rose would like my nest.
I wondered whether she had one of her own.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and called her.
‘Sebastian?’ she answered, her voice unsure. We hadn’t spoken since the dance – since thekiss.
‘Rosebud. What’s your favourite colour?’
‘I …’ She trailed off, evidently thinking about it. ‘I’m not sure that I have one.’
‘Colours, then.’
