Page 101 of Begrudgingly Yours
I am insanely gone for this girl and if I start thinking about the noises she makes, I’ll need a while to cool down.
Rory points at the corner, a townhouse that lookscompletely different from the others. The brick is painted black and the front door is a deep shade of blue.
“Why does that house look like you?” Jett takes the question right from my brain.
Rory gives an honest-to-god belly laugh. “Well, the beginning of freshmen year before school officially started, Stacia and I came downtown to sight see and explore what would be our home for the next four years. We got coffee from the place we just left and then strolled along until I saw this house here.” She looks at it with total admiration, like she is still seeing it through the same eyes as her younger self. “It was the first time either of us were on our own and I knew I was never going back home, so I was feeling a little bit lost. But then I saw this townhouse, so different from the others but standing just as high. It gave me hope that one day I’d have a beautiful house and a life where I didn’t have to constantly look over my shoulder.” I swallow my need to growl at the fact that she ever felt that way when she adds, “The door has been repainted since then, but it’s always been some shade of blue.”
“Wait,” Jett says. “Do you… dye your hair blue because of this house?”
She grins from ear to ear. “I do. And just like the door keeps getting repainted, I keep re-dying my hair. It made me feel powerful that day. I want to always remember that feeling. And I never thought I’d see the day where it’s being sold.”
I didn’t even notice the ‘For Sale’ sign because I was too busy looking at the uncanniness of the house to our omega. Dax catches my eyes and I can already see the wild plan forming behind his.
“I hope whoever buys it doesn’t change it,” Rory comments. “It’s too beautiful of a home to remodel.”
I have a weird hunch that it’ll stay exactly the way it is.
FORTY-SEVEN
Being bonded is way better than I thought it would be. I wake up to morning texts, there’s always at least one of them waiting for me on campus with either coffee or treats, and there’s always someone up for a nice cuddle. I didn’t even know I was that much of a cuddler, but if it’s the choice between going out or staying in with my alphas for a nap, I’ll choose the latter every time.
There’s also three people who can feel what I’m feeling every hour of the day. They completely understand me no matter how irrational I’m being. Which is a big perk for someone like me, who never knows how to put how they’re feeling into words.
I can describe my emotions by using movie scenes. Like right now, I feel like Cobb in Inception, who knows things are going to end very badly if he doesn’t figure things out before the clock strikes zero.
There’s still a few lines I’m struggling with. That wouldn’t be bad in normal circumstances, but our Shakespeare class is coming to an end and our opening of Romeo and Juliet isthisweekend. Every time I say them, it doesn’t feel natural and I haven’t yet found a way to say them that makes sense for Juliet. They’ve been in my head for weeks, but with the holidays and bonding surprisingly—and welcomely—stealing my time, I’ve forgotten to put aside an hour or two to figure them out. As the car I ordered takes me back to campus for our nightly rehearsal, I can’t stop torturing myself over the words, restating them over so many times that I’m pretty sure my driver is going to physically push me out of the vehicle when we get there.
When we arrive, I thank my driver—in which he gives me a tight smile—before getting out and continuing to go over the lines. I walk on autopilot, but I don’t get very far because there’s suddenly an influx of the most ripe fruit I’ve ever smelled. It’s almost rotting and mixed in with this insanely over-sweetened perfume that I absolutely hate.
The recognition of what I’m smelling causes sweat to immediately trail down my neck.
I look around, hoping that it’s just a trick or a blip, something trying to tell me to deal with my trauma, but she’s there, like a ghost in the night. Her long dress is too expensive, her hair too rigid in its high bun. Her high cheekbones and flawless makeup looks haunting under the dimmed streetlight.
“Mom?” I huff out, and I hate how small my voice sounds. “What are you doing here?”
The woman in front of me smiles. It’s too sweet and drips with deception. “Don’t be silly, Veronica. I know you better than anyone. A Shakespeare class? And one with actual acting experience to put on your resume? All I had to do was call the head of the drama department and ask for the night of rehearsals because‘my daughter is the lead.’” She ends her sentence with an exaggerated tone, emphasizing howproudshe is and proving how easy it was to find me. “Plus,you know, I didn’t give him much of a choice. Betas are so easy to manipulate.”
I feel an instant bout of nausea as I look around, noticing that I’m completely alone in this dark parking lot. I feel down my bonds, tugging each one with emphasis. I bet they could all already feel my panic, but the extra toss in the dark is enough that it helps me ground myself on this asphalt.
“I have rehearsal,” I say, trying not to let her see my fear, because the second she does it’s over. She’ll have everything she wants from me and more.
“We have things to discuss, Veronica, and I guarantee it’s way more important than your rehearsal.”
I scoff under my breath. She’s never cared much for my acting. I’d bet my entire inheritance that she’d change her entire attitude about it if I were to make it big one day.
I’m going to make it my own personal mission that she never finds out about my mate’s family. They don’t deserve this kind of headache.
“My name is Rory,” is all I say.
That causes her to chuckle. “I never understood why you insisted to go by that wretched name. It’s so boy-ish, and as an omega, you should be anything but boy-ish.”
I roll my eyes. “There are male omegas, mother.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. Your father always went on and on about how he wished he had designated as an omega. That complaint of his lives in my head rent free, like being an omega was something that men should want to be?—”
“Wait, what?” I interrupt her, much to her dismay as she scowls in my direction. “Dad wanted to be an omega?”
“Yeah, he always thought he would be. It took him years to accept that he wouldn’t present as one. Something about wanting to be a part of a pack.” She waves her hand at the idea.
