Page 57 of Puck Your Charity

I watch him out of the corner of my eye, pretending to turn a page in my journal.

He pulls a thick paperback off the shelf. I catch a glimpse of the cover title.Trauma Recovery and the Rewiring Brain. He shoves it into his back pocket and grabs another one on anger management.

The cold, snobby hockey star spends his free time trying to fix his broken edges. He's unlearning the toxic habits that made him lash out at me. He works on his damage because he knows he fucked up, and he knows he lost control.

My body aches for even a glance from him. Even across the large room, his juniper scent drifts over to me, mixing with the baseline citrus of the pack. My skin prickles. My slick starts to pool between my thighs, an automatic response to his proximity. My inner Omega pulls toward him like a compass needle finding north, begging me to close the gap and demand his attention.

I want to stand up. I want to march over there, grab the front of his shirt, and tell him I see the work he's putting in. I want to shake him out of his miserable little self-imposed exile.

Then my pride takes over, locking my jaw.

I remember the way he stood in that parking lot and tried to bark a weak Command at me, expecting me to drop to my knees just because he flashed some Alpha authority. I remember the sting of his words in the hospital hallway, when he complained about the smell of bleach and treated a dying child like an inconvenience. I'm too stubborn and too scared to make the first move, waiting for him to cross the line because I refuse to get burned twice by someone who treats me like a threat.

Victor turns around, holding his stack of paperbacks against his thigh. He catches me staring right at him over the top of my journal.

The room goes dead silent.

We lock eyes. The air between us hums with the unspoken longing and frustration we keep burying under layers of pride and fear. His icy eyes dilate, swallowing the color as his chest heaves with a quick breath. He feels the pull just as intensely as I do. I can see the raw hunger burning in his gaze, fighting a losing battle against his self-control.

For one breathless second, I think he'll drop the books, cross the room, and pull me into his arms. I want him to. My body hums with anticipation of his weight pressing me down into the couch cushions.

Instead, Victor's jaw clenches so hard a muscle twitches in his cheek. He tears his gaze away from mine. He drops the books back onto the shelf, turns on his heel, and walks out of the room without saying a single word.

He's committing to his boundaries. He's punishing himself, believing he hasn't earned the right to touch me yet. He thinks his past sins make him unworthy of an Omega who fights back.

I sit frozen on the couch, gripping my medical journal so hard my fingers cramp and the pages wrinkle. Frustration boils in my blood, leaving me furious and unsatisfied. I toss the journal ontothe coffee table, letting it slide off the edge and hit the rug with a dull thud.

I glare at the empty doorway he just vanished through. "Coward."

Silence fills the room again. I sit on the couch, trying to catch my breath while my body fights my stubborn brain. Part of me wants to follow him and start an argument, while the other part wants to lock my bedroom door and hide. My muscles ache from the tension, leaving me stuck in a mess of my own making.

The silence in the living room fries my nerves. I need out. I need a break from the overwhelming luxury of this mansion and the constant reminder of what's missing. The walls feel like they're closing in, reminding me of arguments we haven't finished.

I retreat down the hallway to my bedroom in the east wing.

My perfectly unpacked belongings sit neatly on the shelves and hangers. The walk-in closet holds my scrubs, my casual clothes, and my shoes. Everything is in its exact place.

The stark contrast between my old, independent life and my new, messy reality hits me hard. Just over a week ago, I was a fiercely independent Beta with a predictable routine and zero complications. Now, I'm an Omega living in a millionaire athlete's mansion, sharing a bed with multiple men, and losing my mind over an arrogant center who refuses to touch me.

"Fuck this." I pace the length of the hardwood floor near the window. I run my hands through my hair, gripping the strands in frustration.

A soft knock rattles the solid oak door.

Malcolm pushes it open before I can answer. He steps into the room, his towering frame softening as he takes in my agitation. He doesn't rush across the room or crowd my space. He knows better than to trap a frustrated Omega.

He walks over to a sleek armchair near the window, sitting down and resting his forearms on his knees. His long dark braid falls over his chest, catching the afternoon light.

Malcolm watches me. "What's going on in that brilliant head of yours?"

I stop pacing, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. "I'm sick of the tension. I'm sick of the staring. I'm sick of feeling like I'm walking through a minefield in my home."

Malcolm tilts his head, tracking my flushed face with those dark, unblinking eyes. "You mean Victor."

"I mean Victor." My frustration pours out in a bitter wave. "He acts like a ghost. He lurks in the shadows, he reads self-help books, and he treats me like a bomb he's afraid will detonate. If he wants to apologize or make things right, he needs to use his words. I'm tired of guessing and waiting for him to grow a backbone."

Malcolm sits there, absorbing my anger with quiet patience. "Victor carries a lot of trauma from his past." Malcolm watches me. His tone stays devoid of judgment. "He hit rock bottom when you rejected him in the parking lot. He knows he acted like an asshole. He's punishing himself because he thinks he doesn't deserve you."

"That's his problem to fix, not mine." The anger in my voice softens a fraction as the truth of his words sinks in. "I have my own problems to deal with."