Page 28 of Thorns That Bloom
Even though nothing happened, and Sam barely gave me a faint smile—honestly, he was more excited about the food than aboutme—I walk away with that soothing, fuzzy feeling one gets when falling asleep with a glass of warm milk in their stomach.
Ben gives me a suspicious look when I come back to my station. He’s probably going to put it together soon, but I’m not saying anything to him unless he does. I settle back into work, and for the rest of the day, I replay the scene of Sam talking to his belly in my mind. It makes me feel nothing but contentment and peace and…something else. Something deeper and more powerful than I dare to think about for too long.
I hum a melody to myself, hoping I won’t forget it before I get off work and have a chance to record it or write it down.
By the time the day is over, the familiar dull ache at the back of my skull sets in, and I know for sure there’s somethingoff. My rut shouldn’t be starting now, but it apparently is.
On my way home, I keep my head down and my hands in my pockets. People’s stares annoy me, and my chest feels tight in that uncomfortable way it always does. Pressure builds inside my body, from head to toe, and there’s restless energy buzzing through my fingertips.
This isn’t ideal.Definitelynot ideal. Not with Sam and…all that. I should not be around him like this. It would only make things harder on him.
I wonder if he could have something to do with it, even if it’s a ridiculous notion. Sure, omegas can sometimes trigger rut in alphas and alphas heat in omegas. It happened to me once before, with my first ever girlfriend. We were both seventeen, getting to that point in our relationship, and she got her heat. We fucked like rabbits for what felt like twelve hours before I started feeling the same fire she was driven by—that unmistakable biological urge—even though my rut wasn’t due. But it came, and so did both of us. Many,manytimes in the span of the next two days.
I stop my mind before it tries to go the way of imagining Sam in any sort of delicate situation.
You shouldn’t. Absolutely not.
It’s not what he would’ve liked or wanted, and it just feels wrong. I know I could never understand what he or Dad went through, so this is the best I can do, even if it really means nothing in the grand scheme of things.
When I finally get home, I’m all sticky and hot underneath my clothes. Discomfort pulses against my temples.
With a groan, I let the door shut behind me. Martin is on the phone with someone in the kitchen, and from what I canhear, it’s something to do with work. His voice is all serious and important. It doesn’t really even sound like him.
Now that I know what’s going on with me, I become painfully aware of his scent. It’s not like that in itself turns me on, but the faint smell of orchids is just much more there to me. It stands out and pulls my attention, as opposed to being something I ignore most of the time, especially after living together for three years.
I step into the room, making sure I’m quiet not to disturb him. When he notices me, I wave at him with an exhausted expression, hoping he leaves me alone, but Martin’s eyes go wide. Raising his finger sharply, he turns away from me and asks the person on the call to give him a minute.
He puts his hand over the microphone and presses the phone against his chest. “There was, um, a box with your name outside the main door when I got back. I put it in your room,” he says while making an awkward, pained grimace.
It takes me a moment to figure out what that means.Emily. I groan and roll my eyes. “Right. Thanks,” I mutter. There’s nothing I want more than to get in my room and sleep this off, but first, I guess I’ll have to deal with this.
She did message me about giving ‘my things’ back. I told her I didn’t need them, that she could’ve kept or thrown whatever of mine that was around her place, but she was pretty adamant. At least that didn’t include an in-person visit. I’m not sure I would have enough energy for an argument or even for witnessing the anguish in her eyes today.
I walk in, instantly recognizing her pheromones—rosemary and honey—coming off the small cardboard boxthat’s on my bed.
I sit next to it with a huff, opening it with an uncomfortable, somber mood setting over me. There isn’t much. A few of my shirts, a teddy bear, my razor—really?—and some photos, as well as some utter knick-knacks on the bottom. My chest tightens, and the muscles at the back of my neck feel taut, like rubber bands ready to snap.
Emily’s scent lingers, reminding me of all the time she’d spent here. We’d lie in bed, and she would listen to me play. We’d watch movies and cuddle and talk about the future. She’d muse about me blowing up and us living like superstars, able to afford anything and go anywhere. We’d naively dream about white-sand beaches and fancy houses.
I was happy, and I loved her, but even then, there was this part of me that felt like those plans were more for her than for us. They were only half-hearted, far-off wishes to me, and solid goals for Emily. Too bad I didn’t realize it before things got so messy. It could’ve saved both of us this pain.
My body tries to release all the pressure with a long, deep exhale and has me sinking between my shoulders. I stare at the floor for a moment, trying to empty my mind. When I straighten my head again, I notice Martin nervously hovering outside the door, peeking in slowly.
“What is it?” I ask, barely managing to sound somewhat decent.
“You two are really over, huh?”
I let out a bitter chuckle. “Yes. I told you we were.”
Martin raises his hands in defense, all theatrical. “Hey! I figured you were havingissuesagain and were probably gonna get back together eventually. Was I not supposed to take this in?” He glances at the box.
I want to be annoyed at him, but it would be a lie to say that’s never happened before. Emily has managed to reel me back in when I tried to pull away a few times, so I suppose his estimation was based on some solid evidence…
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I put the box aside, deciding to deal with it later. I’ll keep the photos, because those moments meant something, but the t-shirts and anything else that’s salvageable can go to charity. I don’t want it.
Only look forward.
When I slouch my shoulders and sit on my bed, Martin studies me. He must detect something isn’t right about me, or maybe he senses the change in my pheromones. His otherwise punchable face becomes more understanding and tender. “Enya brought a bunch of leftovers from work last night. She’s sleeping. I’ll heat some for you, yeah?” he suggests, his voice softening.
