Page 42 of Adoring Fletcher
I scoffed softly. “Father, you’re healthy as a horse and in great shape. You’re not dying anytime soon,” I pointed out. “I don’t think I need to get married. Besides, we already agreed that we would worry about this after I turned twenty-five. I’m twenty-three and?—”
“Yes, but it won’t hurt to start dating wealthy young Omegas now,” Father said, obviously not taking no for an answer. “You never know who you might hit it off with.”
“Father, I?—”
“Adam Allen, you listen to me. I am doing this for your own good.” His voice took on a sharp, loud tone that made my inner-wolf whimper. Bastard, using his Alpha prowess to get me to cow down to him. “My father picked my Omega out for me, and your mother has been a good, loyal partner, has she not? She has given me three beautiful, brilliant children, after all.”
I bit down on my tongue even harder, tasting the coppery tinge of blood. I held it all in—that Father had cheated on her my entire life, that he had mistresses on the side, that he fucked his assistants, that Mother was so miserable in her marriage that she took pills to cope with her depression and anxiety, to disassociate from the real world.
I didn’t say a word.
Father sighed, long-sufferingly. “At least go on a few dates,” he said. “I have my eye on quite a few nice young women who are well-off and well-bred. At least take them out and meet them.”
“We’ll see,” I replied. “No promises.”
“Adam.”
“I still have two years,” I barked, rising to my full height to tower over him in his high-backed executive chair. “We agreed. Twenty five. I’m too young to get married. Are we done here?”
Father growled, his fangs showing, but he relented. “Fine. Are you at least going to take one of your mother’s sandwiches? She worked hard on those for you.”
Without a word, I grabbed two and stormed out of the study. I swung past the kitchen on my way out. Mother was wiping down the counters with a damp cloth, her motions slow and mechanical. I didn’t miss her glassy stare or her vacant smile as I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
“Thank you for the sandwiches,” I told her, squeezing her hand. She turned her head to one side, almost like she couldn’t remember, but she smiled nonetheless. “I need to get going, but I love you.”
“Love you,” she parroted.
By the time I got out to my car, I was angry, and by the time I made it home, my hands gripped the wheel so hard my knuckles bled white and my heart was pounding heavy in my chest.
I went inside, slamming the door so hard behind me that the pictures rattled in their frames. I paused in the doorway—don’t be like him—and took a deep breath.Don’t take your bad mood out on Fletcher.
I found the Omega where I’d left him, on the couch cuddled up in blankets like a cozy little raccoon. I flopped down beside him with a loud, frustrated groan.
“Family sucks,” I announced.
“You wanna talk about it?” Fletcher’s green eyes were gentle and soft, like he truly cared about making me feel better, but I really didn’t think rehashing my father’s plans to marry me off to my “illegal” boyfriend would make either of us feel too great.
“No.” I sighed. “Just Father being Father. Same shit, different day. Sometimes I wish I could just run away from everything and start my life all over again. Brand new state, brand new name. You know?”
Fletcher smiled. “I get it.”
“Ugh.” I let my head fall back against the cushions and rubbed at my temple with one hand. I looked up again whenI felt Fletcher stand. At first, I thought maybe he was going to fetch a drink or something.
That’s when he gently placed his hands on my knees and spread my thighs, kneeling between them. Heat prickled across my cheeks at the small but cheeky smile that spread over his face as he gazed up at me through thick lashes.
“You know what would make your day a little bit better, though?” he mused, biting down on his bottom lip.
I raised my brow and he let out a soft laugh, then cupped me through my slacks. His hand was warm against my body, and I was pretty sure he was right.
Fletcher was exactly the balm I needed to soothe my bad afternoon.
“Please, show me,” I murmured, reaching down to trail fingers through his hair.
So he did.
27
FLETCHER
