“Even from the other omegas?”
“If that’s what you want, yes, of course.”
He took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Good. Now, why don’t you start by telling me why you decided to come here and shit all over the peaceful evening I had planned?”
He barked a nervous laugh and then chugged down his shot. “Okay, here goes … I broke up with Renee.”
No surprise there. The guy was a serial dater. He treated women with respect, showered them with gifts, and lavished them with attention. But as soon as a hint of emotion came into play, he severed the relationship without hesitation.
“I didn’t want to, but I did it anyway,” he went on, setting his glass back on the island. “We had a huge row, and she said some stuff that … well, it hurt, you know? And now her father is gunning for me, and it’s possible I’ll lose my job, since I work for her grandmother. Look, I can agree that I’m a bastard, but she’s wrong in saying that I’m scared of commitment. I’m not. Am I?” He didn’t sound so sure.
It really didn’t take a psychologist to work out his problem, but it was so easy to be blind to one’s own issues. “I can give you my opinion, but if your thoughts aren’t straight, you might not be able to see where I’m coming from. You might just get defensive and walk out.”
“So do your thing. Give me that clarity of mind you were talking about before.”
Bree reached out and rested her hand on his. “You sure?” At his nod, she lowered her shields. Instantly, the varying emotional energies zapped her.
Confusion. Despondency. Self-pity. Agitation.
She gritted her teeth as they punched their way inside her, giving her sharp stabbing pains in the left side of her chest, a burning sensation in her throat, and the sour taste of acid on her tongue. Worst of all was the feel of words being scrawled in her mind as snippets of his thoughts drifted to her.
… hate having to do this …
… need another drink …
… think this is working …
Her heartburn-like pain faded, and she slammed her shields back up, not daring to read more than his surface emotions. Delving further into the “emotional heart” of a person could be dangerous, because it would mean she’d feel the energy of every single emotion at their most vivid. The vibrations of the energies would be like a shock of electricity to her core. A shock so powerful it could even lead to cardiac arrest. No, thank you.
The lines that had furrowed Benny’s brow smoothed out. He rolled back his shoulders and took a long breath, centering himself.
“Feel better?” she asked.
He nodded. “My mind feels less crowded.”
Good, because he’d be more open to her opinion. “You want to know what I really think, or do you want a ‘there, there’ pat on the back while I tell you everything will work itself out in time? Be sure.”
“I want an honest opinion. That’s why I came to you.”
“Okay.” She poured more tequila into both their glasses. “I believe you’re right; I believe you’re not scared of commitment. I think you’re scared of committing to the wrong person. Scared of making the same mistake as your uncle. He almost imprinted on someone who betrayed him and then broke his heart. It ate at him, hardened him, gave him trust issues.
“Other women came along, but he always pushed them away. He’s with someone now, sure, but they haven’t imprinted on each other. And it’s easy for anyone to see that he ‘settled’ for what he could get. His relationship is one of convenience. Both he and the woman he’s seeing would rather be in a half-assed relationship than be alone. You don’t want to suffer that same fate, right?”
Benny nodded. “Right. The woman he almost imprinted on … what she did fucked up his life.”
“Not quite. She hurt him, but she didn’t make him choose to pull back from everyone. In that sense, he fucked up his life. She just fucked up. There’s a difference. But, back to you. I can understand why you wouldn’t want to let women close when you’re worried about committing to the wrong one. But if you go on as you are and don’t take the risk of letting someone in, you’ll grow old alone. Or you’ll do the very thing you seem so desperate to avoid—you’ll ‘settle’ for someone you don’t love just so that you don’t have to be alone.”
He lapsed into a thoughtful silence. “Huh.”
“In other words, pull your head out of your ass and get your shit together.” She winced. “That didn’t come out right. What I meant to say—”
“No, you’re right.” He knocked back the second shot of tequila and slipped off his stool. “You’re absolutely right.” The side of his mouth curled slightly. “Thanks for that, Bree.” He walked out.
She sighed, feeling like slapping herself. “Pull your head out of your ass and get your shit together?” She shook her head. “God, I suck at this.” She downed her second shot and then poured herself another. Why not?
The bell above the door chimed as his paternal grandmother pulled it open. The antique store had closed twenty minutes ago, but Alex had known she’d still be hanging around. As he stepped inside, dozens of scents slithered over him. Wood polish. Rich leather. Old, musty cloth. Lemongrass air freshener.
His beast shook his fur, his nose twitching in irritation. Like Alex, the animal was still smarting from Bree’s departing comment.
He’d no doubt hurt her pride when he declared she wasn’t ready for the kind of relationship he’d want, but it was true. She was only twenty-four. She’d had a string of short, casual relationships, but nothing that would come close to what he’d demand of her. In a few years, though—
She might have mated with someone else.
He shut down that train of thought fast.
Ingrid beamed at him. “Well if it isn’t my favorite grandson,” she said as the door closed behind him, blocking out the street noise and replacing it with that of old music, a phone ringing, and several clocks ticking out of sync. “Give your Grams a hug.”
Alex wasn’t a hugger—he wasn’t a tactile person at all really, which was unusual for a shifter—but he obliged her. With her vintage clothes, antique jewelry, and her hair styled into an old-fashioned updo, she fit right in with the store. She managed it for Vinnie, choosing to ignore that her son often smuggled money via the antiques.
“You call all your grandsons your favorite,” Alex pointed out as he broke the hug.
“Well, you all are. But I do have a soft spot for you.”
“That’s something else you say to us all.”
Cackling, Ingrid patted his upper arm. “I take it you’re here to see my Vinnie. He’s upstairs with Tate and Luke,” she added, referring to the Alpha’s oldest sons. “Go on up.”
Alex stalked down the slim aisle, passing antique furnishings, oil paintings, gilded mirrors, and a grandfather clock. There were also smaller items—many of which sat on table displays—such as china dishware, porcelain dolls, old lamps, and cigar boxes.
A quick jog up a narrow staircase took him into Vinnie’s apartment. Vinnie’s mate and four children had lived there with him at one time. But the Alpha female died a long time ago. Surviving the breaking of the mating bond was no small thing, but Vinnie had gotten through it—something Alex would always respect him for.