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But, more importantly? I honest-to-God could not face being in the room where I made her hate me.
Eventually, I didn’t have a choice. I had to come in and deal with the place—whether that means selling it to another investor, ripping it down to rubble, or something else entirely.
Despite all of my mistakes, all of the shit I buried myself under… I somehow managed to keep it all together.
Until I walked in here this morning.
And found Remi behind the counter. Working.
In a surreal moment of horror, I realized—I haven’t been sneaking out of the house before she wakes up. She has been sneaking out of the house before I wake up.
The reason the manager never called me to bitch about being short-handed?
We weren’t.
Because Remi found some way to haul herself down here without a car every morning.
And after working her shift? She went back to my pack house and spent hours doing more work. Cleaning, renovations, gardening, cooking and grocery shopping and decorating. And catering to three alphas intent on having their way with her.
How on earth has she managed all of that?
The guys likely have no idea. If she made some excuse for why she isn’t there when they wake up, they probably think she’s out shopping or exercising most of the day. They have morning skate, anyway, followed by conditioning. I bet they arrive home right after she does, thinking she’s been there relaxing all morning.
Fucking hell.
This is the first time I’ve seen her in days. She looks as lovely as ever, her light brown skin flawless, and her curls styled into an elegant bun. She has on one of her sundresses, I note. It’s very different from the way she used to dress for work, and I wonder why until I catch her glance over at me and tug the neckline of her dress up.
It’s for me.
She’s dressed up for me. In case I came in here and saw her.
Does she do this every day? At home, too?
Holy fucking shit. I didn’t know I could hate myself any more than I already did.
While I watch, a middle-aged beta woman with two kids orders. The manager—who I suddenly have the violent urge to strangle—lazily types the drinks in…
…and the little omega I can’t stop staring at scrambles into motion.
For all her poise, she’s jumpy. Rushing.
After weeks of standing over every latte, drawing cutesy shit in the foam, now she’s decided to be efficient?
Or was I just not paying attention before? Maybe I saw what I wanted to see. All of the moments she allowed herself to slow down… I tallied those against her because I couldn’t figure out the insistent, insane urgency pulsing in my blood.
Now I know why she made me feel so agitated. It was my Alpha, trying to help me recognize our mate. But I’ve been using my instincts to conduct business for years. When they tried to direct me for more personal reasons, I couldn’t understand them.
If I’m honest with myself, I’ve spent months dreading this stop on my daily schedule, hating the way something about the shop twisted my stomach into knots. There didn’t seem to be any reason why, but every time I came in the door, every aggressive, impatient urge inside of me would lunge forward, trying to rip the reins away.
It made me more agitated than usual. Ruder, I’m sure. And I’m not a particularly forgiving person on a good day. Now, I flinch every time a new memory comes to me.
Fucking hell. Did I really call her incompetent?
And pathetic.
Guilt. That must be the reason I can’t get up and leave. Why I can’t look away.
I watch Remi work, remembering all of the things Cassian ever told me about her when he was in the group home. It wasn’t much.
