Page 59 of The Boss Omega
As if.
He would make me lay like a dog by her feet if I so much as gave him an inch. I clear the thought quick. Not happening.
Having an omega is too fucking dangerous. I'd rather walk into a thousand fires than do that. At least fires I understand. At least fires follow rules. They take oxygen, they follow airflow, they don't look at you like you're the only solid thing in the room.
She looked at me like that. Once. For half a second in that clinic room before everything went sideways.
Coward. You won’t even walk into your own house.
I roll my eyes and get out of the car. “Are you happy now?” I grumble under my breath.
The house is quiet when I walk in. Silas is usually in the kitchen by now, chopping vegetables and scowling at me for sneaking peppers and carrots. The kitchen is empty. But the house smells different. Her salty caramel scent. Subtle, but still there
I pause just inside the doorway, listening. Nothing. For a second, I consider heading upstairs to my room. But that puts me one floor closer to the nest.
My alpha perks up at the thought. I shut that down immediately.
“Nope,” I mutter under my breath.
Instead, I turn and head toward the shop. Silas is there. Bent over a workbench, sanding the leg of a table, arms moving back and forth in an angry rhythm that can’t be sustainable. Sweat drips from his temple and leaves a pool on the concrete floor.
He gets into his work. Likes to do things the old-fashioned way as much as possible. For him it’s art, and the prices his stuff fetches prove that others feel the same.
Every piece of furniture we had growing up was second hand. I doubt my mom paid more than fifty bucks for anything. It took a while for me to understand how people could justify dropping a hundred thousand on a table and chairs. I still don’t get it. But I like the house we live in and the fancy Jeep I drive to work, so yeah, a big thanks to the fuck-you money some people spend on Silas’ work.
Silas grunts as he drags the sanding block back and forth over the table’s leg. Yeah. Something’s up.
“There are machines for that,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look at me. “Lines are too delicate to trust with a machine,” he says. “Besides, I like this part.”
I watch him for a second. He doesn’t slow his movements. Doesn’t bother looking at me. He’s worked up about something. I could ask, but, nah. Where’s the fun in that?
“We having supper?” I ask instead.
His jaw tightens but the sanding doesn’t stop. “I haven’t started anything.”
I push off the doorframe, stepping fully into the shop. “I’ll order something,” I say.
He nods once. I let the silence stretch for a second. “I’ll message when it gets here.”
He grunts.
“Don’t be late,” I continue, already turning toward the door. Then, because I’m a dick, and because he would absolutely do this to me, I add, “We eat as a pack.”
I don’t wait for a response. Just walk out, shoulders loose, a satisfied grin pulling at my mouth. Because I know exactly what’s eating at him. And for once, it’s not just me.
I order too much food. Not a little too much. A ridiculous amount.
Taste of Indiapops up in my recent orders, and I don’t even think about it, I just start adding things. Two types of naan. Lamb biryani. Chana masala and palak paneer because I have no idea if she’s anti-meat. Chicken tikka masala because people who don’t know Indian food always think that’s the best dish.
Pakoras. Samosas. Tandoori chicken. I pause, look at the total, and add another order of naan just to be safe.
The food gets here fast. Before I can second-guess the whole thing and eat it alone in my room, I carry the bags in and set everything out across the island. Containers stack up until it looks like I’m feeding a small army.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I use the fancy house monitor system to call everyone into the kitchen. “House,” I say, “announce dinner is ready.”
There’s a soft click. Then a voice echoes through the house, carried from room to room.
