13. REID

Chapter thirteen

REID

The oven timer beeps snapping me out of my fog. For a second, I stare at it like it’s personally offended me before dragging myself to my feet. I have no idea when I turned it on or what I put in there but that’s the least of my worries. I hobble back to the counter, grabbing the nearest dishtowel to pull the tray out of the oven.

Hailey expects nothing less than culinary perfection during her heat. Not that she’d bother saying thanks if I delivered a five-star meal plated by a Michelin chef. No, Hailey’s thanks come in the form of sniffy complaints and the occasional tossed object, including the food I’ve made if it isn’t to her standards. Very rewarding .

I start preparing the rest of dinner, pulling together what’s in the fridge. Anything to keep my brain from wandering where it shouldn’t. But the harder I try, the more my mind drifts. The smells, the heat, the motions—it all feels disconnected like my body’s doing one thing while my brain taps out to play existential crisis bingo.

A knock at the door pulls me out of it. I shuffle over, my ribs complaining the whole way, and open it to find the delivery guy standing there with an armful of paper bags. “Supplies,” he says with a tight smile, handing me the clipboard to sign.

I resist the urge to ask if he’s got a spare ribcage in one of those boxes. Instead, I take the packages, nod a quick thanks, and lug them into the kitchen.

First order of business—slather my upper lip in scent blocker that I managed to sneak into the order. The chemical smell is sharp and kind of gross, but it’s better than choking on the syrupy sweetness of Hailey’s heat that’s been clinging to the air. I take a deep breath and sigh in relief. Small mercies.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur of activity. Cooking. Cleaning. Setting up trays of food to leave outside the nest room like some kind of heat butler. The sounds from upstairs don’t help. Muffled voices, laughter, and… other noises filter down, making my stomach churn. I slam a cupboard shut harder than necessary and pretend it’s not bothering me.

By the time the evening rolls around, my body is ready to stage a mutiny. My side aches with every move and my head is swimming. I sink down onto the kitchen floor, leaning back against the cool cabinets. The cold seeps into my skin, and for a moment, it’s nice—almost grounding.

Then the heavy thud of footsteps on the stairs yanks me out of my daze. I barely have time to brace myself before Lyle storms into the kitchen, shirtless and radiating irritation as I instinctively shrink back against the counter.

“Why isn’t this finished?” he snaps, gesturing to the half-prepared tray of food on the counter. His voice cuts through the haze of exhaustion in my head.

“I was—” My voice catches, and I clear my throat, trying again. “I was about to—” That goddamn submissive version I put up returns but the snark is just beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to reveal itself. Because my body and mind have tasted our real mate giving me hope I shouldn’t cling to.

“Save it,” he growls, slamming a hand onto the counter hard enough to make me jump. He leans in close. “Do you think we have time for this, Beta? Do you think I have time for this?”

“I didn’t realize you had such a busy schedule of, what, existing and breathing?” I mutter before I can stop myself. Ah, there it is. Fuck, I’m going to die for that.

Lyle blinks, obviously unsure that’s what I just said. I haven’t once spoken out since I started. “What was that?” His voice drops, a dangerous edge to his tone, and before I can backpedal, he grabs my arm and yanks me forward. Pain flares in my side and I bite down hard on my lip to keep from crying out. “You’re pathetic,” he spits, dragging me out of the kitchen. “Can’t even do the one thing you’re here for. You think this is hard? You think you’re overworked? You have no idea how lucky you are.”

Lucky. Sure. That’s definitely what I’m feeling right now as he drags me down the hall, his grip bruising, his words a constant stream of venom. My feet barely keep up but I don’t bother responding. It’s not like he’s listening, anyway.

By the time we reach my room, I’m ready to collapse. Lyle shoves me through the door and I stumble, catching myself against the bed frame.

“After Hailey’s heat, we’re going to have a serious fucking conversation about your behavior,” he snarls, standing in the doorway like some kind of judge, jury, and executioner. “Until then, stay in here. Don’t come out unless we call for you. Got it?”

“Yes,” I mutter, my voice low.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir, ” I grit out, the words like acid on my tongue.

He slams the door shut and locks it, the sound of the bolt sliding into place like a nail in my coffin. I stare at the door for a long moment, the silence pressing down on me like a weight.

“What are we, children?” I mutter under my breath, too quiet for anyone to hear. The bitterness in my voice surprises even me, but I’m too tired to care. “He’s going to unlock this door anyway when Hailey needs something and he has no idea how to do it.”

I collapse onto the bed, the lumpy mattress creaking beneath me. The pain is unbearable and my eye is starting to swell shut, but I don’t have the energy to do anything about it. Instead, I grab my phone from the back pocket, the screen lighting up as I wake the screen.

Scrolling through Instagram is automatic, mindless. I barely register the news articles, memes, and random posts until his face appears on the screen.

The Omega from the diner.

My chest tightens, and for a second, it’s like I can’t breathe. His smile is wide and genuine, his eyes warm and bright, and it’s like everything I don’t have but wish I did.

I let myself stare, my thumb hovering over the first picture. Then I slam the phone down on the bed and bury my face in my hands.

“What the hell are you doing, Reid?” I whisper to myself. But I already know the answer.

Dreaming. Always dreaming.

Because his profile is like stepping into a parallel universe. I grab the phone again, unable to help myself. Bright, shiny, and full of life. His name is Ethan and every photo feels like it belongs in a life I wouldn’t even be allowed to window-shop. Smiling selfies, candids with friends on campus, and artsy coffee cups. It’s got that effortless look how happy I am vibe that makes my chest feel tight.

I tell myself I’ll stop scrolling. Just one more photo. Then another. It’s like picking at a scab. There’s one where he’s laughing, head thrown back, sunlight catching in his dark curls. His smile is so open it’s almost painful to look at, like staring directly at the sun. Another has him perched on a picnic blanket with the Blockstone University logo surrounded by friends and enough food to feed a small country. He’s holding up a slice of watermelon, his cheeks puffed like a chipmunk mid-bite. I should stop. I should .

But I don’t.

And then I see it. The photo that makes my stomach flip. Two months ago. Ethan’s looking up at a tall, gorgeous black woman in an orange crème suit, his expression screaming pure adoration. She’s got this air of elegance, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, her other arm loose at her side like she owns the world. The caption reads, “My Alpha. My everything.”

Ouch.

Jealousy hits me like a sucker punch, twisting in my chest. It’s a ridiculous feeling. Ethan isn’t mine. Hell, I’ve spoken exactly zero words to him unless I count that frantic “I’m sorry” before I bolted out of the diner. But knowing he already has an Alpha, someone who looks like they belong in his world? It hurts in a way I don’t have the words for.

My thumb hesitates over the screen and I just hover there, staring at that damn caption. My Alpha. My everything.

And then it happens. My stupid, twitchy thumb betrays me.

Double tap.

The heart icon flashes red, glaring at me like a neon sign that screams, You’ve fucked up!

“Oh, shit,” I whisper, my heart lurching. “No, no, no.”

I hit unlike so fast I nearly drop my phone. Did he get a notification? Is he staring at his phone right now, wondering why some random Beta with a profile picture of literally nothing liked a two-month-old photo? God, I’m an idiot.

I toss my phone onto the bed. “You’re such a fucking moron,” I mutter, dragging my hands over my face. My cheeks feel hot and I don’t know if it’s embarrassment or frustration or both. Probably both. Definitely both.

The ache in my side is worse now, spreading out like a dull, insistent throb. I press a hand against my ribs, wincing. The bruises from Jackson’s “lesson” are a nice shade of purple, probably bordering on black by now. Closing my eyes, I lean back on the mattress and try to block out everything—Ethan, his Alpha, this house, my whole damn life. But it’s impossible. His face is burned into my mind. That smile, that laugh, the way he looked like he belonged somewhere warm and safe. Like he was warm and safe.

And then there’s me. Bruised, exhausted, and stuck in a house that reeks of Hailey’s heat and her Alphas’ ego. It’s not a fair comparison and I hate myself for making it. But I can’t stop.

I let out a long breath, the sound shaky in the quiet room. Ethan is so far out of reach, not just physically but in every way that matters. Even if I somehow found the courage to speak to him—to explain who I am, what I am—what would it change? He’s got his Alpha, his life, his sunlight and smiles.

What do I have? A contract, a pile of bruises, and the looming threat of being dragged back into the Wilhelms’ orbit every time I step out of line.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. It always does. My eyes drift shut, the dull ache in my ribs fading to the background as the darkness pulls me under.

But even in sleep, I see him. Ethan, with his laugh and his summer scent, looking at me like I’m something worth noticing. And for just a moment, I let myself believe it.