Page 119 of Claiming the Pack's Omega
I lift my free hand, ignoring the twinge in my shoulder and gently brush a finger between her brows.
“You’re adorable,” I murmur.
She blinks up at me, her eyes going wide.
“You—you’re not supposed to move that arm," she says.
“Yeah, you’re right, but alphas heal faster than betas or omegas, so I should be fine,” I say, shrugging.
“Don’t you think the hospital takes that into account when they make recommendations?” She says, rolling her eyes and pushing my hand away so it’s resting where it should. “Don’t hurt yourself on my account, okay?”
My expression grows serious.
“I can’t promise that,” I say, my expression growing serious. “Because I would. I’d hurt, if it benefited you.”
“Get hurt or hurt other people?” She whispers.
“Both.” I squeeze her hand in mine, her fingers feeling delicate and almost fragile under my touch. The thought of anyone trying to hurt her makes me rage inside, a bone-deep anger that begs to be let out one day.
She swallows hard and nods.
“Good to know," she says, glancing away. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“What’s the tattoo on your back?”
“It’s for my sister. She’s an angel now, so… yeah.”
“The biblically accurate angel is pretty cool, different than the kinds of angels most people get, you know?”
“I was an angsty teen when I got it, I sought out pain in all shapes and forms.” I leave out the fact that I’ve continued to do so every day since I found her hanging in the garage. “I couldn’t stomach the idea of having her face on my body, not when—when—” I shake my head and clear my throat. “It also just seemed wrong to put another face there when it was supposed to be for her, you know?”
“I get it," she says softly. “How many hours did it take? Probably a shit ton, that thing is huge and it’s so detailed.”
“Seventy hours,” I say. “So a long time on the table.”
“Damn. I’ve always wanted a tattoo, you know.”
“You should get one.”
She stares wistfully out my bedroom window, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Maybe I will.”
CHAPTER 27
Reyna
The drive to the doctor’s office is just as awkward as you’d think it’d be, with just Killian and I in the car. It’s dead silent the entire way there, minus the notifications that keep popping up on his phone.
I’d offer to read them out to him, but I don’t wanna read anything I shouldn’t. The man’s a fucking councilman of Riverwell.
I forget that, sometimes.
Not that it’s easy to forget, considering the way he carries himself. It’s just that living in his home and seeing him in the kitchen in a white t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms while he drinks a cup of coffee—black, of course—is the kind of domestic image that I’d never associate with any of the old, crotchety council members.
“You’re staring at me,” he says, turning into the parking lot of what I assume to be the doctor’s office.
“Sorry,” I say, jerking my gaze out the window.
