Page 12 of Stolen Omega

In the absence of suppressants, discomfort might be my only hope.

I go back to the sink and wash my underwear with soap until the coconut scent is gone.

Then, I dump them on the floor where I’ll leave the towel after I’ve showered, and I strip out of my T-shirt carefully, checking to make sure I haven’t left any traces of my perfume on it. Once I’m satisfied it’s clean, I set it by the side of the sink, along with my sweatpants. I leave my sneakers under the sink and put my socks with my underwear when I realize they’ve been splashed with water while I was cleaning the panties.

Yawning, I grab a towel and set it on the rail next to the shower.

If all else fails, I can tell Russ I need an early night.

Every second I spend with him now will be risking my perfume coming back out.

I’ve chosen him, and I wish it was as simple as going into the other room and asking him to claim me.

It pains me to admit it’s more complicated than that.

I need to be smart about this. I don’t want to be sent home, and I definitely don’t want to be paired up with random Alpha fuckboys until my first heat passes.

I’ll find a way to control my perfume and delay my impending heat.

If I can be with Russ, even if it means waiting, I’ll figure out how to do it.

Whatever it takes, my life isn’t going to change until I decide I want it to.

Chapter Five

Russ

My attention is split when the girl in the kitchen picks up their phone, and it takes me a second to remember what I was in the middle of doing when Zelena darted into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her. I blink at the door, as if I’m expecting it to open again.

Something’s wrong.

Shit. Was it something I did?

“How can I help you?” the young female voice on the line repeats patiently.

Right. I was calling for room service before I got distracted.

Finish the call so you can check on Zey.

“Uh, yeah. I need a room service order brought up to the presidential suite.”

“Of course, sir. What would you like to order?”

I move away from the cordless receiver’s cradle by the lamp table at the side of the couch as I rattle off a few of Zelena’s usual favorites. We’ve fallen into a fairly predictable routine. I just have to remember what day it is. Friday nights always mean salad and chicken wings and a few varieties of hot sauce for dipping.

Hanging up the call when dinner’s confirmed, my gaze fixes on the bathroom door.

I’m not sure what’s wrong and that’s the only thing that makes me hesitant to check on her.

She might be feeling sick. It would be a first since I’ve known her, but that’s the main kind of thing that can make someone rush to the bathroom.

And if that’s what’s wrong, she probably doesn’t want me knocking on the door asking if she’s okay.

I think about what she’s had to eat and drink today, and nothing stands out as different from usual so I can probably rule out food poisoning. I don’t remember any of the crew or her backup dancers looking or acting like they might be sick, either.

I put the phone’s handset down on the coffee table and take the last few steps toward the closed door, just intending to listen for signs of life before heading back to the couch to wait for her.

I hear the shower running a second before I breathe in the faintest hint of coconut in the air.

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