Chapter Six
Ciel
The black cotton T-shirt he gave me is a little big—soft, worn, and smelling faintly of him.
That scent again.
I hate the way my body eases into it. Hate how easily his pheromones wrap around me like a warm blanket. Calm. Steady. Lavender threaded with something earthy, sun-warmed it's comforting, I hate it.
It makes my chest ache.
That's the curse of being an omega. No matter how much I try to stay alert, to stay guarded, my body betrays me the moment a scent like that lingers in the air. Instinct whispers safe while memory screams don'ttrust it.
Because I've trusted before.
And every time, it left me broken, bleeding, crawling away.
Yet here I am again. Wrapped in a stranger's shirt, eating food he made, inch by inch letting down walls because his voice is gentle and his hands have never touched without permission.
Fool. I'm such a fool.
The soup is simple. Chicken broth. Salty. Warm. But it's the best thing I've tasted in weeks. My throat burns a little with each swallow, but I keep eating, curling into myself on the edge of the bed.
He sits across from me, not watching. Pretending to scroll through his phone, study the curtains, admire the ceiling. But the pretense only makes me more aware of him. Every breath. Every shift.
What does he want?
No one helps omegas without wanting something. Not alphas. Never alphas.
He said he only wants me healthy. That's all. No leering. No possessive scent. No reaching hands.
So maybe… maybe he just doesn't find me attractive.
It shouldn't sting. But it does.
I know what I used to look like. Before the bruises. Before the hunger carved lines into me. Maybe that's good. If he isn't drawn to me, maybe I can stay here. Just long enough to heal. Regain strength. Plan what comes next.
***
Jack
When he's done—quiet, careful spoonfuls as though he's rationing every bite—I take the bowl from his hands.
"Thanks," he murmurs, not quite looking at me.
"You're welcome."
He looks so small in my shirt. Knees drawn up. Arms looped around them. Like he's bracing for a blow even while holding onto warmth.
I set the bowl on the tray outside, then rummage through my closet. Something loose. Comfortable. No way I'm letting him wander around half-naked and waiting for disaster.
I settle on a pair of drawstring lounge shorts—soft grey cotton, adjustable waist. Plain. Harmless.
I knock gently, then slip back into the guest room. He's still perched on the bed, hands knotted in his lap.
"Hey," I murmur, holding the shorts out like I'm offering a skittish rabbit a carrot. "These should fit."
His fingers brush mine as he takes them, and he flinches. Like even that brief contact comes with a price tag.
I don't push. Just step back, easy smile, hands tucked into my pockets.
"You'll have to make do," I say quietly. Then add, "We're leaving."
His head snaps up. Eyes wide. Panic flashing.
"Relax," I say quickly, palms up in surrender. "No one's chasing you. I promise."
He studies me—searching, wary. Like he wants to believe but doesn't know how.
"We're just getting you some clothes," I explain. Then—"and to the hospital. To check on your child."
The change is immediate. His entire face softens. A spark flickers in those red eyes, fragile but real.
He nods. Fast. Firm. Almost smiling. "Okay."
I wait outside while he dresses. A few minutes later, we're walking side by side to the garage. He's quiet again, arms wrapped around himself, bare feet whispering across tile.
The truck blinks awake as I hit the fob. Headlights flare.
He stops dead. Stares.
Like full-on slack-jawed, staring.
The RAM TRX crouches in the glow of the garage lights—jet black, matte finish, tires like they were built for war. Hood scoop, crimson accents, twin exhausts purring low. A beast.
"You drive… that?" he asks, blinking.
"Yeah," I say, suddenly sheepish. "Bit much, huh?"
He shakes his head, muttering so quietly I almost miss it.
"No… it suits you."
And damn it, I don't know what to do with that.