Oh, no, no,no.
Even though every muscle protests, I force my body upright, sliding a hand through my damp hair and bracing my elbows against my knees.
Christine pushes up next to me, concern knitting her brow. “Mylo, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”
I raise a hand, cutting her off as I rub my forehead with the other. Sitting up left my head pounding.
“Don’t,” I say. The last thing I want or need is some noble declaration of dubious authenticity. The idea of being treated as some precious little omega incapable of making my own choices is nauseating. “I’m equally responsible for this…terribledecision.”
Christine is quiet for a long moment. Then she slides around me and stands. “Let me get you some water.”
I don’t reject the gesture becausefuck,I’m thirsty. When she hands me a glass, I gulp it down. She reaches out to take it, presumably to refill it, but I shake my head. Even if my throat still burns with thirst, I don’t really want to overdo it and throw up in Christine Evansworth’s trailer.
There’s a throb where my neck meets my shoulder, and I wince as I lift my injured arm to rub it. At least I’m not bleeding. As long as nobody sees the bite mark tonight, it should be nearly invisible tomorrow.
Christine edges nearer, quiet and watchful, a possessive edge in her gaze.
I reach for the closest pillow and throw it at her, humorless. “Knock it off,” I snap. “I don’t care what you think you bit, but I’m on suppressants. You missed, anyway. I’m not magically obsessed with you now; hate to disappoint.” The venom in my words masks the fear. Fuck, that was a close call.
Biology lessons I haven’t thought about in years flicker through my mind. Every omega has glands at the base of their neck. If an alpha bites an omega there and the gland bursts, it sends a cascade of hormones through the omega’s body, permanently bonding them to the alpha.
Game fucking over.
At least for a normal omega. Since I’ve never gone into heat and basically skipped the omega part of puberty, my glands are underdeveloped, unable to release enough hormones for a full bond.
In theory, anyway.
But theory seems to be holding. I still hate Christine’s guts.
God, how embarrassing. I always used to give my horny friends a hard time, but if this is how good it feels, no wonder they make such terrible choices.
“I’ll… get you some sweats,” Christine says.
“Why—”
I follow her gaze to my lap, where the fabric of my shorts is soaked from both sides.
“Oh, goddammit…”
My headache throbs.
Christine reaches into a cabinet in the hall and hands me a pair of grey sweatpants.
I snatch them out of her grasp, then slam the bedroom’s pocket door shut between us.
Christine doesn’t protest.
My shaking hands slip on the drawstring of my shorts, but I eventually get it untied and slide them down.
Cum coats my softening cock and the inside of my boxers, and I sigh as I lean over and grab a box of tissues from the headboard. It takes half the box before I’m dry, and I try to wipe out my shorts so I don’t have to accept Christine’s help, but it’s no use.
I amnotabout to ask for a pair of Christine’s underwear, so I slide the grey sweatpants on over my bare ass and cock. They’re sized for Christine, so I have to cinch the waistband tight and roll up the cuffs a few times. It’s not exactly subtle.
I ball up the tissues and my shorts, then shove them in the mini trash can.
The pocket door hisses as I slink out of the bedroom. I ignore Christine where she sits at the table and sink onto the couch with a sigh.
“I thought you’d run out of here,” Christine says. She changed into wide-leg pants and a sports bra.
