8. Amaya

8

AMAYA

“ A maya, darling!"

Would it be horribly rude of me if I ignored Paul's knock and just yelled through the door?

My brain is telling me it's fine, but my omega side doesn't want to upset the alpha on the other side of the wood. No matter how many times I try to scold the part of me that wants her father’s approval, it doesn't work.

Not only is my designation naturally submissive and horrifically prone to people pleasing, but my instincts are screaming at me that he's family. Although this alpha abandoned me to an alcoholic mother, I still crave his love and attention like any child would.

Except I'm not a child anymore and even if I can't shut off the little girl inside of me who needs her dad, I still have some backbone. When I'm not smothered by anxiety.

In rumpled sweatpants and a purple V-neck T-shirt that I found in the closet, I make my way to the door. It's been two and a half days of me huddled in the back of the closet in my sad little nest. Paul is lucky I opened the door to air it out a bit ago, otherwise I doubt I would have heard him knocking and yelling for me.

I wonder how many times he's come to get me. Or has he been relieved I made myself scarce in his home? For all I know, maybe the racks and racks of clothes in his closet are for lady friends or something.

Ew. It's that thought that snubs out the rest of my nervousness and brings forth a bit of the girl I used to be.

With a little fire blazing in my sternum, I wrench the door open. "What?" I snap, maybe just a little surprised at the venom in my tone. My omega flinches beneath the surface, waiting for the alpha to reprimand my tone and sheer disrespect, but he doesn't react beyond his own little jolt.

"Um." He clears his throat. "I was thinking we should have breakfast together and talk," he says, but the lilt at the end of his sentence makes it sound like a question.

His unsure tone fuels what little confidence I have. "What's there to talk about?"

Watching an alpha much bigger than me battle his emotions is something I never thought I would see. Everyone at the academy was so set in their feelings, behaviors, and beliefs about omegas.

Not Paul. He seems surprised by everything I do and say. It's only been three days since we met, but I find satisfaction in him not being able to pin my personality down.

Am I strong? Am I weak? Maybe I'm terrified, and maybe I'm angry. I'm a sad girl who wants a hug, but never wants to be touched again.

I am definitely not the happy girl I was. Now I'm a complicated fucking mess that might sadistically enjoy keeping this alpha on his toes. Maybe this is who I am now. I'll make everyone around me feel like they don't know which way is up or down because I have no actual personality left.

A mess. I'm a traumatized, angry mess in the shape of a sad five-foot-two omega who has no idea how to live in the real world.

"About us," Paul replies, adding some steel into his words. His eyes even lose some of the pity I've grown used to, hardening just a bit in response to my sass.

I huff and cross my arms, feeling mildly shaken by his change in demeanor. "There is no us ."

His eyes narrow, making my skin prickle with unease. Maybe I don't have the upper hand after all.

"The moment I got that phone call about my daughter , there became an us. And especially while you are living under my roof, there is an us." I open my mouth to argue that he's had twenty-two years to say this, but he cuts me off. "As long as I am living, Amaya, there is an us. You are my kid. Now come downstairs and eat because you haven't done so in days."

With that, he stomps away and down the stairs. A slight tremble rattles my teeth and confusion muddles my mind. I went from commanding the interaction to feeling adrift in my own brain.

I don't think I'm the only enigma in this house anymore.

I wouldn't say I have an eating disorder. I would suggest that being watched by people while I'm eating for the past five years is anxiety provoking as fuck. I love food, but the joy around eating bacon and eggs plummets when there are expectations. Not only has eating been a thing , but my eating has been on someone else's agenda.

Paul sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. "You should eat more."

See? This is what I'm talking about.

My shoulders curl inward, but annoyance bubbles up, making it hard for me to bite my tongue. Without saying anything, I set my fork down.

I want to look him in the eye when I share some hard truths, but vulnerability steals some of my strength. My eyes stay on my plate, but my voice is firm as I say, "Eat less. Don't eat that. Eat this. You're eating too fast. Why are you eating so slow? Don't pick at your food. You're too heavy. An omega must weigh this. You're malnourished. You decide what you want to eat. You eat what we tell you to eat."

With my next words, I do look him in the eye. "You should eat more." I allow my watery gaze to land in my lap in finality.

"Amaya—"

I shake my head and declare, "I'm done eating. I'd like to go back to the room. What did you want to talk to me about?"

I'm just so damn tired. If it's not one thing, it's always going to be another. I won't ever be the omega who can stand up for herself without crumbling a bit each time.

I want to lie down and drift away. When I opened the door a bit ago, I was filled with energy and confidence. Some firm words and a comment on my eating has drained me.

Weak.

"We can talk later," Paul murmurs dejectedly.

I don't wait for further dismissal. I've proven myself incapable of eating a damn meal. Of course he wouldn't want to have a conversation with me now. Maybe it's for the best. I don't want to hear about how much he didn't want to bring me here or the expectations he has while I'm living in his swanky apartment.

Maybe later I'll be up for rejection, but right now I have a date with a closet and dreams of a life that will never come true.