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The fact that this isn’t hurting Serena the same way is the only reason I manage to stay calm. According to Archer, she’ll feel the loose bond, but it won’t harm her because she isn’t the one being rejected.
Her emotions swirl somewhere below all of the pain, dull but readable. She’s still scared and overwhelmed, but she seems to be able to think now.
Avery must be keeping her comfortable because her anxiety is much more manageable—but every time she experiences my small bursts of relief, she seems distinctly surprised. As if she doesn’t quite believe I could be comforted by her comfort.
Clearly, no one has ever been kind to her. And I’m no better than any of them.
I’m worse.
Beside me, Jonah distracts himself by looking up omega courting techniques. Dates, dinners, nesting, and gifts. All of the things Serena should have gotten before someone tried to claim her.
He still wants to do those things for her now, and I’m not even surprised—under all the menacing muscle, Jonah is easily the softest of us all.
And tonight? I made sure he’ll never get to properly court anyone.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp, pressing my hand to the pain in my abdomen and forcing words out.
Jonah looks over at me, his wide features reflecting the blue light from his phone. “Tris, you didn’t do it on purpose. And you know we ruled out an omega years ago. I wasn’t sitting around wishing and hoping I’d get to pick one or anything…”
I hear a “but” in his tone. Which is news to me.
We did decide against an omega. Ages ago. With my work representing the interests of omegas in the workplace, it seemed almost like a conflict of interest for us to court one. Not to mention all of Spencer’s intimacy issues. And Avery’s rage.
… Dear God. What have I done?
My gut clenches, full of guilt-ridden misery. A second later, there’s an answering pulse of dismay. I’ve scared her again, shoving pain at her without any context.
I hate myself for it.
I’m sorry, sweet one.
I don’t know if I’m relieved or devastated that she can’t hear me.
By some twist of fate, cruel or fortuitous, our Bentley SUV rolls into the garage two seconds before the throaty rumble of Avery’s Mustang echoes down our driveway.
He takes the ramp to our underground garage without slowing much, whipping into his usual spot between Jonah’s fully-loaded Bronco and Spencer’s spotless Volvo.
Typical Avery. I’ll have to have a talk with him about keeping the omega safe.
Or maybe not.
Because instead of slamming his car door and loping off, Avery rounds the vintage Mustang and opens Serena’s door for her. Then, he stoops low to fuss over her seatbelt, unclicking it carefully. He silently offers a hand to help her out of the low-riding vehicle.
And she takes it.
The rest of us exchange confounded glances while Avery tucks her hand against his bare chest and drops his face to kiss her small fingers.
His pale blue gaze snaps up to us, immediately filling with cool rage. “She’s cold.”
He says it like I’m personally responsible for the chill in the concrete garage. I suppose that’s fair—I may not control the temperature, but Serena wouldn’t be suffering for it if I had controlled myself.
It makes sense that she’s uncomfortable. It’s been raining for most of the evening, cooling the summer heat and leaving Orlando wet and gusty.
Not to mention her clothes. Or lack thereof.
My eyes skim down her bedraggled body, noting the tears in her stockings, the tangles in her hair.
I’ve dated some of the most beautiful women in the world. Supermodels, actresses, pageant queens. That’s always been my type—the high-achieving, glossy sort of good looks that land magazine covers.
