Page 52

LIV

My stomach drops. Who in the actual fuck is LIV?

Piers turns back to me with his intense black eyes and asks, “I hope you like gouda and cheddar. Those are the only sandwich cheeses we had in the house.”

I barely hear him. My scent-matched mate, the one whose dark amber and sea salt scent makes my omega purr and my body light up, has another woman’s name tattooed on his skin. A sharp, ugly twist of something that feels dangerously like jealousy curls in my chest. My omega, who was just purring thirty seconds ago, has gone hostile. Both responses would be a lot easier to maintain if his scent wasn't sitting in the room like something I want to wrap around myself.

I know it’s irrational. I barely know Piers. We haven’t even held hands. But the thought of another woman’s name permanently marked on him sparks a terrifying pain behind my sternum. I tighten my hands into fists and use my knuckles to rub the ache.

“Cammie?” Piers’ words pull me back. He’s watching me with a slightly concerned frown now. “Are you okay?”

I blink, forcing my gaze up from his ribs to his face. “Yeah,” I say, a little too quickly. “I’m fine.” But I’m not. Because the question is now burning in my brain on repeat: Who the hell is LIV? Who the hell is LIV? Who the hell is LIV?

Piers gently settles on the edge of the bed and picks up the bowl of soup like he’s planning to feed me himself. Oh, hell no.

I reach out and take the spoon from his hand. “I’ve got it.”

He doesn’t argue, but those nearly black eyes watch me closely as I take my first bite. Chicken noodle. Homemade and tasty.

Beck lingers near the foot of the bed, arms crossed. “You need anything else right now?” Before I can answer, he adds, “It’s time for your meds.”

“I’m done with those,” I say.

“Babe, you have to keep up with them,” Beck says patiently.

“Fine. I’ll take the antibiotics.”

“Pain meds too,” he insists. “You couldn’t even get yourself off the toilet earlier.”

My face flames. Piers notices immediately, those sharp eyes narrowing with interest.

“Omega,” Piers says, his voice full of command. “You will do as your alpha says and take your pain meds.”

Something in me snaps. “Don’t fucking omega me, alpha,” I bite back.

Piers actually sits back a little, like no one’s ever talked to him like that before. Good. Get used to it, mister high-and-mighty-alpha-sir. If you wanted docile, you should’ve stuck with Liv.

Still, I take the pills Beck holds out in his palm and swallow them with a sip of soda because, yeah, I really couldn’t get myself off the damn toilet. That’s humiliating enough without adding stubborn idiot who refuses pain relief to the list.

Piers looks quietly pleased when I swallow them, like he personally won that round. He even smirks. I squint at him.

After a few more bites of soup, he asks, “Belinda wants to know if you have any requests for lunch or dinner tomorrow.”

Beck pops in immediately, “I’ve got breakfast covered. You’re going to love my pancakes, sugar.”

I beam at him. At least one scent match is doing things right. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Then I turn my squinty, slightly murderous eyes back on Piers and the mystery tattoo I can still see peeking out on his ribs. “I’m sure whatever Belinda makes will be lovely,” I say with patently false sweetness.

Piers studies me for a long second, like he knows something’s up but can’t quite put his finger on it. “Is there anything else you need? To keep you comfortable?”

I’m tempted to tell him that I want absolutely nothing from him, but then good sense takes over. Since he’s Mr. Rich-as-a-fucking-robber-baron with a car that costs more than most people’s houses, he could maybe hire a nurse or something. The last thing I want is to keep calling Beck every time I need to pee.

I clear my throat and say with significantly less contempt, “I think I may need someone to help me… with things. Until I’m moving a little better.”

Beck catches on instantly and barks out a laugh. “Hire her a nurse aide to help her bathe and go to the restroom until she’s feeling stronger. My pretty omega didn’t like me helping.”

My face burns hotter. I hate that I’m blushing. Cammie Fucking James does not blush. But having your scent match offer to wipe your ass is justifiably peak mortification.