Page 105 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

But tonight I just sit there. I meet her eyes and try to summon something—interest, attraction, the basic biological response that should be happening when a beautiful omega presents herself to an unmated alpha—and I come up empty. She’s gorgeous and exactly the kind of woman I would have spent the rest of the evening getting to know six months ago.

And all I can think is there’s a fire that’s missing in her eyes.

Ethan, beside me, isn’t even looking at her. He’s staring blankly into his whiskey glass, his mind completely somewhere else.

She reads the room and then she nods, says something gracious about enjoying our evening, and moves on to the next booth seamlessly, like someone who’s been doing this long enough to know when a table is a dead loss.

I watch her go and can’t help but feel guilty.

“Well,” I say. “That went well.”

Neither of them says anything, and I’m starting to feel like this was a terrible idea.

I lean forward and set my glass on the table. “Right. Since we’re all here, and since none of us is having any fun anyway.” My heart picks up, knowing that this conversation will be impossible to take back. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

They both look at me. Max puts the menu down and Ethan lifts his head from the whiskey glass, his gray eyes sharp behind the glasses.

“The night of the break-in,” I say. “When Sophie got cut. Something happened after that I didn’t tell you about.”

Finally, for the first time all evening, I have their full attention. I know I’m about to say something that’s going to change things, but I don’t care anymore.

“Her hoodie was soaked with blood. And when she took it off...” I clear my throat. “She was standing there in her sports bra and we had this moment.”

“Moment?” Max asks, an eyebrow raised.

I swallow, the memory coming back immediately. “Yeah. She’d just finished stitching herself up and I was close to her, really close, and there was this... tension. I thought it was just me but I know she felt it too—I could literally see it. The way her breath changed. The way she was leaning in.”

I take a drink because I need it. “It felt like we were going to kiss.”

“But you didn’t?” Max asks. He’s leaning forward now, his eyes intense.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I remember touching her shoulder and...”

The memory still burns.

“And?” Max says impatiently.

“When she removed her hoodie, I noticed this scar on her shoulder. It seems really old, but it was really deep. And I’d bet anything that someone gave her that scar.” My throat tightens. “The moment I grazed it, she had me against the wall in under a second, her forearm across my throat, and her eyes were—” I exhale. “She wasn’t seeing me. She was seeing whoever gave her that scar. And I’m pretty sure she was going to kill him.”

They’re both silent after that, both lost in thought. Ethan puts his drink down. Max is staring at a point on the table.

“She eventually came back to herself,” I say, quieter now. “She nearly ran out of the room. The worst part is, she seemed embarrassed.” I swallow again, trying to keep my voice steady.

I lean back in the booth and the leather creaks under me. I take a swig of my whiskey, feeling it burn down my throat. “I don’t know. I have a feeling that whatever happened to her, it’s worse than anything any of us can imagine.”

Max picks up his glass and drains half of it in one go, his throat working as he swallows. Ethan follows, tipping his own glass back with the quiet desperation of a man who just heard something he can’t unhear.

“Jesus Christ, Finn,” Max says, closing his eyes, leaning back on the couch.

“I suppose it makes sense now,” Ethan says quietly. “Why she’s so guarded and why she does what she does and why she’s so good at it.”

“The scar,” Max says, his eyes still closed. “How bad was it?”

“Bad.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t need to.

“And she stitched her own arm,” Ethan says, almost to himself. “In the kitchen. Like it was no big deal.”

“Because it probably isn’t,” I say. “For her.”