Page 32 of Secret Heart
I pull the worn ball cap lower over my eyes and ease out of the SUV, shoving the keys into the same pocket as my wallet, then quickly head to the Haven’s sedate Omega entrance. Awoman laughs farther down the block, and my breath catches as my muscles tense even as I cross the threshold into the warm, soft furnishings typical of all Havens.
An older woman sits behind a large desk that dominates the relatively small room. She glances up from a computer screen at the sound of the doors opening, and her eyes widen just a bit. Then her professional facade drops into place. Of course the employees working at a Haven in the middle of cowboy country will recognize me. Fuck, I’m glad the Havens have strict NDAs for everyone involved. Having some gossip site find out about this would be horrific.
My boots echo on the hard tiles as I cross the space. The sound grates on my already worn nerves. There must be a good reason why they’ve replaced the carpet with the tiles since the last time I was here, but I’m resenting that decision at the moment. My headache pulses behind my eyes, and I swallow a groan as my vision blurs just a bit.
“Are you scheduled?” she asks. Her voice, at least, is soft, and her gaze isn’t defensive or judgmental at all now that her initial shocked recognition has faded. When I nod and offer my ID, she sorts through something on the computer. Then she sets a tablet on the counter between us. “We’ll need a consent form as always, and then since you’ve never had this type of service, we’ll need the information on pages two and three filled out as well.”
I don’t bother sitting down, quickly signing the first document and then filling out the preference lists. It’s significantly shorter than the information they keep on file for heats, but I suppose that makes sense. They don’t need to keep track of how many pillows I’ll need to sleep or if I have any food allergies if I’m only here for a few hours. When I slide the tablet back to her, she gestures to the plush chairs just behind her.
“Give us a few minutes to arrange the room, and then an escort will be with you, Mr. Harding.”
The minute I drop into one of the chairs, I rest my elbows on my knees and close my eyes, burying my face in my hands. The need to claw off my skin is so extreme, I want to scream. No wonder the Council has done so many panels and summits and studies about touch-starvation in Omegas. This is way worse than any heat haze I’ve experienced, both suppressed and not. I can’t even pinpoint exactly why since the symptoms are so similar.
But,fuck me, this is enough to make any Omega lose their mind.
By the time the escort comes, a middle-aged man in the standard black scrubs of the Haven medical staff, my hands are shaking and my vision is blurred enough I can’t read the number of the room he wordlessly directs me into after scanning past the locked double doors.
The bed is smaller than the ones used during heats, the bedding a soft blue. There’s a small chest of drawers stained a dark walnut. The right wall is taken by a large, plush sofa that’s a similar shade of blue as the bedding. None of the overhead lights are on, only the simple lamp beside the bed giving any light. It’s still enough that I want to shield my eyes.
An Alpha’s already here, perched on the sofa, his legs crossed at the knee and a small book in his hands. He has short black hair and hazel eyes and a pair of dark green glasses. He’s dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and a black knit shirt that clings to his arms. The escort doesn’t say anything as he closes the door. The latch rings through the room, and I can’t help but grimace. The Alpha makes a low crooning sound, and my skin tightens even more.
Without a word, I set both my wallet and keys on the chest of drawers. I silence my phone and place it screen down so I won’t know if someone tries to call me then step out of my boots and unbutton all three buttons on the henley I’m wearing. Forno real reason, I leave the ball cap on, still low over my eyes like outside. And then I cross the room, settling on the ground beside him while not quite touching him.
Blowing out a breath a bit too forceful to be a sigh, I rest my head on the sofa’s cushion. The Alpha uncrosses his legs and sets a bookmark between the pages, dropping the book onto the table beside the sofa. I swallow heavily and cautiously rest my head against his knee, letting my torso press against his leg. His fingers are delicate whispers of sensation as they run down my neck and across my shoulder in a long, unhurried loop. The smell of whiskey slowly surrounds us, and I breathe in the scent, trying to let it soothe the ache in my bones.
“May I take this off?” he asks, touching the edge of the ball cap.
When I nod, he carefully eases it off and sets it on top of the book. Then he combs his fingers through my hair before letting his touch fall to the shell of my ear and the line of my jaw. I cover my face with my hands even as I relax into his touch.
“It’s all right, Omega. I’ve read your wants and your limits. I’m comfortable with all of them.”
I nod, my cheek brushing against his sweats. He pushes the henley off my shoulder and traces my collarbone. My breath hitches as a cramp rolls through my stomach, and he croons again.
“Take whatever you need from me for the next couple hours.”
I close my eyes and soak up the whiskey scent until the vanilla that haunts me is barely a memory and my hands no longer shake. And then I let myself do exactly what he said: I take until the agitation tightening my skin and plaguing my mind is nearly gone for the first time since Oakland.
Chapter Eighteen
BEAU
The porch stairs creak under my weight as I cautiously sit beside Emily. I press a kiss to her temple and the sensitive spot just behind her ear, and she shivers. I offer her the large mug of coffee sweetened with her preferred white chocolate raspberry creamer from Mom’s coffee shop in town and then drape one of my heavy flannels across her shoulders to cut the worst of the morning’s cool breeze. Her hair is pulled back, revealing the dark bruise I’d left at the juncture of her shoulder and neck last night. I gently trace the dark spot with my lips, and her breath hitches for a heartbeat. Vanilla surrounds us in a wave.
“You did it, Mamma,” I whisper against her shoulder.
The vanilla pulses.
“Wedid it,” she amends. “You did the hard nights, too.”
I shrug the comment away. “You spent nine months sacrificing your body and another six months sharing it with her while you exclusively nursed. The least I could do was the overnights and diapers.”
She takes a long drink of the coffee and hums in happy satisfaction. I can’t help but chuckle and wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her close. The birdsong filling the meadow overtakes our quiet conversation and the low drone of the bubble machine’s motor.
It might seem anticlimactic to some that we’re spending the morning of our daughter’s first birthday sitting on the porch watching her play with the gift we’d gotten her, but none of us are particularly unhappy. My phone vibrates with a text. As I pull my phone from my back pocket, Penny shrieks.
My eyes flash up to where she’s playing farther down the driveway, fear holding my heart in its fist. The whale-shaped bubble machine whirs, but no bubbles come out of the top. She smacks her hand on it and shrieks again. When she looks back at us, I kiss the crown of Emily’s head and ease to my feet.
“That lasted longer than I expected,” I admit.
