Page 31 of Omega’s Fold

How the fuck did he know that? I rack my brain trying to find a lie that isn’t a lie.

“Mr. Duffield.”

“Not yet,” I say honestly. “But soon.”

“Ah, right on schedule then. Good. With a match of this quality, the omega’s cycle will pull forward to meet the alpha. Wonderful. Sounds like things are going well.”

A sudden fury envelops me. “No, it is fucking not.”

He barely reacts. He’s probably used to people swearing at him. “Mr. Duffield. It’s two weeks. That’s not onerous.”

“Yes. It is. I am packed,” I say. “I have my case by the door. I cannot stay in a house where there is an omega in heat when he has made it very clear that he does not want me.”

“You have the right to do that,” Sun says, evenly. “But if you leave the residence for the duration of a cycle I will have to report non-compliance and the penalty clauses will apply to both of you.”

I close my eyes.

“David, he pushed me off him.”

“Then don’t touch him.” The voice has gone quieter. “You do not need to be anywhere near him. You can stay in the house and keep to your room. You can work from the kitchen while he is upstairs. Omegas in heat are not, contrary to the mythology, incapable of looking after themselves. He will have been through this dozens of times. If you are genuinely not a match, then it will be difficult, not impossible.”

I do not answer. The penalty clauses will apply to both of you. I wonder what the penalties for Wyatt will be. They’re always worse for omegas. It’ll probably be something financial that I know he won’t be able to afford.

“Are you still there, Mr. Duffield?”

“Yes.”

“Stay in the house.”

“Okay.”

He hangs up.

Through the kitchen window, I can see that the sun has come up over the ridge. Out past the barn, in the gray-gold light on the pasture, I can just see a dark figure against the fence line, still walking.

Damn it.

I carry the suitcase back upstairs, then I go out to meet him again.

I go out to meet him.

I stop at the gate and I wait. He sees me when he is still fifty yards off. He does not change his pace. He does not look away. He comes on, his hands in his pockets now, his jaw set, and when he is ten feet from the gate he stops.

“Briggs.”

He doesn’t answer, or look me in the eye.

“The Bureau has called. I can’t leave.”

His jaw tightens.

He looks at me. He looks a long time, then he looks away.

“Okay,” he says.

“I will stay in my room,” I say. “I will not come down unless you ask. I can work from upstairs for as long as it takes. I can have groceries delivered to the porch. You will not see me.”

“Right.”