Omega’s Hope

by Harris, Noah

  Besides, he knows what he'll see if he looks at the alpha. He knows he'll see disgust and revulsion. Perhaps even pity. He knows what Christopher is thinking, that he's an irresponsible, depraved omega with no morals, willing to bed anyone with a cock.

  It makes Timothy bristle, his own frustration and anger simmering, so instead he turns his thoughts elsewhere.

  He mentally runs through the events of the days again, over and over. He still feels frazzled, and he definitely knows he was in the moment, but with every repeat, he feels calmer. He specifically tries to focus on his memory of the kidnapper's faces as they slid on their ski masks. There was one in particular that Timothy got a decent look at, and he tries to memorize those thin traits and narrow blue eyes.

  Everyone is saying it was the farmers who kidnapped them, but Timothy is having a hard time believing it. He's met with several of them over the past four months. He's helping defend them against the company that’s threatening to take them out of business. He knows their case seems farfetched, but he has a really good feeling about it. From what he's seen, they've been pretty level headed. Miserable, tired and angry, but not violent. He has a hard time believing they’d go to such lengths, even in a fit of desperation. Besides, what would be the point of including him in the hostage taking? He's been helping them.

  He tries to rationalize it, but his mind just ends up going in circles. The shock and adrenaline are wearing off, leaving him exhausted and shaky. Not to mention Christopher's heavy presence and powerful scent are leaving him frazzled far more than he'd like to admit. In the close confines of the cab, he feels trapped.

  He doesn't want to admit it, but Christopher is even more handsome than he remembers. Maybe it's merely time that has blurred his memories, or maybe time has just solidified the firm cut of his features as he's matured. Either way, Timothy can't deny the way his heart leaps whenever he looks at him, or the heat that simmers deep in his gut when he looks for too long.

  It's purely physical, he tells himself. It doesn't mean he has to give into it, and it definitely doesn't mean he forgives Christopher.

  Even if he does think he catches sight of a shadow in those piercing green eyes, intense and full of sorrow, that almost reminds him of guilt.

  No, even then, he hasn't forgiven him.

  When they arrive at his building, Timothy's door is open before the cab even pulls to a complete stop. He stumbles out, gathering himself on shaky legs and making his way stiffly up the sidewalk, leaving Christopher to pay. He moves toward his apartment, hoping Christopher will just drive away, but he's never been lucky.

  The cab door closes, and he hears footsteps, quick and heavy, following after him. He sighs through his nose, jaw clenched. He's about to turn on his heel, gathering up his courage and steeling himself, preparing that formal and sturdy tone he uses in the court, to tell Christopher he can handle it from here, thank you very much.

  But the words get caught in his throat, letting out a strangled sound of distress as he sees his apartment door is ajar and the room beyond is a mess.

  He stumbles, but Christopher grabs his shoulder, steadying him and moving him aside as he pushes forward. He doesn't say anything, merely stalks toward Timothy's apartment with purposeful strides that turn cautious and calculated as he pushes the door open and moves inside. There's a readiness in his shoulders and a sharpness to his eyes, and Timothy is reminded of seeing him in action, even if it had only been a training camp.

  He turns, leaning back against the outside wall of his apartment, trying to take in deep breaths to steady himself. In, two, three, four. Hold. Out, two three, four, five, six, seven, eight. He squeezes his eyes shut, arms automatically wrapping around himself, though whether it's to keep himself steady or to protect his child, he's not sure. Perhaps both.

  "Clear!" Christopher's voice barks out. Then, softer, as if realizing Timothy isn't one of his soldiers. "It's safe to come in now."

  Timothy lets out one final breath, pushing himself off the wall. He walks carefully into his apartment, slowly closing the door behind him as he takes in the mess. The place is completely ransacked and torn apart.

  It takes a moment for him to process it, and in that time Christopher moves to his side, gently laying a hand on his shoulder to ground him. "Take stock of everything. Figure out what they took." It's strangely soft, with just enough firmness to spur him out of his stupor.

  Timothy clenches his jaw, nodding. "Right." He exhales, long and slow. "Right, okay."

  He moves through his apartment slowly, combing through everything. He picks up the small things that he can and tries to organize the bigger things so it's not a complete mess. Nearly every drawer in the apartment is open, things scattered and dropped and thrown to the ground. Framed pictures lie carelessly shattered on the floor. Knickknacks and decorations are knocked over. The whole time, Christopher shadows him, watching him closely and picking up a few things Timothy leaves behind.

  His office is, by far, the worst. It takes him a while to organize all the scattered papers.

  "The only things missing are some documents from the lawsuit with the farmers," he mutters to himself, sitting on the floor with newly organized files all around him. His brow furrows, shifting through a box once more. "I can't imagine the farmers would do this. They took critical evidence. I wonder if it was the company? Or maybe the firm is hazing me. I know there are a lot of people who were mad I got this job instead of them."

  "You can't stay here."

  Timothy looks up. Christopher leans against the doorframe to his office, brows furrowed and lips curled down into a frown. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, muscles tense and bulging with whatever restraint he's exercising.

  Timothy frowns. "Yes, I can. And I will."

  His hands are curled into fists, and there's definitely a tick in his temple from clenching his jaw. "As a witness to a hostage situation, and being at the center of this case, you're in danger here. They clearly broke in before, and they can again. They could come back."

  Timothy scoffs, looking down as he organizes his files and neatly puts them away in boxes and drawers. "They won't come back. They already got what they were looking for. I have to take care of my apartment, and besides, I have nowhere else to go."

  "Your parents…"

  The laugh that escapes Timothy is sharp and sudden, thick with bitter resentment. "No! Oh no, fuck no." He shakes his head frantically. He can't go to his parents. Not like this. They'd notice he's pregnant right away, and they'd be furious. He hasn't even told them Christopher is his mate. He's not about to show up, randomly pregnant, and become even more of a disgrace.

  "Then…" Christopher's lips purse, scowl heavy and eyes conflicted as he clearly thinks through his next words. Then he sighs, defeated and determined all at once. "You can stay at my place."

  Timothy turns to gape at him, eyes wide and mouth falling open as he lets out a strangled, "Wh-what?"

  Despite his shock, Christopher's stubbornness is unchanging. "I'm not leaving you unguarded. Not after being held hostage at gun point and having a break-in at your own home. You're clearly in danger, and I'm not leaving you alone."

  Frustration and irritation spike, curling hot and souring in Timothy's chest. Four years of unresolved anger bubble up, adding venom to his words as he snarls. "Oh, do you bring all the people you save to your bed? What a hero."

  There's fire in Christopher's green eyes, blazing and enraged as he pushes off the doorframe, stalking across the room to tower over him. But Timothy refuses to bend, no matter how much his wolf whimpers. Its cries are soft and distant anyway. Timothy stands his ground, lips pressed tight as he meets Christopher's glare with an upturned chin.

  "Out of the two of us, it's clearly not me who's been sleeping around," Christopher snaps.

  His anger rolls in his chest, hot and suffocating. He feels like pulling out his own hair. He steps into Christopher's space, jabbing him with a finger and forcing the alpha to step back in surpr
ise. "I would rather spend the night with my kidnappers than with a big, insensitive brute like you!"

  Christopher's face is red, darker where it creeps up his neck. Timothy's legs are shaking, but he refuses to back down, and he refuses to break eye contact. He watches as a series of emotions flicker over the alpha's face, too quick for him to pinpoint them individually. They wash over him, there and gone like waves on a beach, but despite the spice of anger in the air and the overwhelming bitterness in his scent, not all the emotions he sees are anger.

  And that's…surprising.

  After a moment, Christopher scoffs, huffing as he turns away. And that, too, is surprising. Timothy is left reeling, in yet another state of shock, hand still poised where he’d been jabbing the man's chest, watching as the alpha retreats. An alpha retreating from an omega.

  He pauses in the door way, half turning but not quite looking at Timothy. "I'm taking you with me," he says, voice strangely soft, pitched low and resolute. Timothy knows he won't be able to argue with him, let alone resist the order, but there's something almost…gentle in his voice. Something that almost sounds pained as he says, "And I won't touch you. I promise you that. I just…need to make sure you're safe."

  He walks away, and after a moment, Timothy's legs finally give out. He crumples to the floor, heart beating wildly and eyes wide.

  He has no idea what just happened, but there's something distinctly pleasing blooming in his chest, and he doesn't like it.

  Christopher

  Christopher sighs, leaning his hips against the counter as he waits for his coffee to brew. He hadn't got much sleep that night, tossing and turning and far too awake with the knowledge that Timothy, his mate for fucks sake, was sleeping just a couple of rooms over in his guest bedroom.

  Despite the terribly quality of his sleep, which had to have only been a couple hours in total, he got up at his normal early time to go for his daily run. The air outside was cold and crisp, grass wet with morning dew and the landscape hazy and gray from the rising sun. He ran hard and fast, pushing himself to the limit to distract himself from his thoughts with the burn of his body. But he hadn't been able to run far from home, instead running in tighter circles to stay close. It was annoying that he couldn't bear to put that much distance between himself and Timothy, but whenever he tried, his wolf howled in protest, needing to stay close, to protect.

  Not that Timothy wants his protection, or anything else to do with him. He's made that quite clear.

  After his shower, he retreats to the kitchen, finding that Timothy hasn't even woken yet. Christopher waits for his coffee, arms crossed tight over his chest. He doesn't know what he's going to do about the omega upstairs, but he knows he won't be able to let Timothy go until all this mess has been sorted. Not while he's vulnerable and in possible danger. Which means he's just going to have to deal with the proximity, and the chaos of emotions that come with it.

  The most prominent, right now, is rage. Now Timothy isn't in any immediate danger and they're safe within Christopher's own home, his simmering rage starts to burn hotter, bubbling over inside his chest and rolling through him. His rage is aimless, circling and swirling around both Timothy and this whole situation, but not quite having any one thing to focus on.

  He's furious that his mate is carrying another man's child, but he's also furious that the other man is nowhere to be seen while Timothy is clearly in danger. From his apartment, it's obvious Timothy lives alone. Is that by his choice, or the other man's? Is he even a constant in Timothy's life? Christopher hadn't been able to catch any lingering scents of someone other than Timothy and the fleeting scents of those who robbed him, so could it be that the other man isn't even present? He doesn't know if he's angrier at that man for leaving Timothy alone, at Timothy for going to another, or at the world that seems to be putting his vulnerable mate in danger in the first place.

  Aimless and roiling, his anger burns through him, leaving him tense and restless. He just finished his run, and yet he feels like he's still brimming with energy, burning without focus.

  The creak of a stair catches his attention, and his eyes snap up to find Timothy making his way down the stairs. One hand on the banister, the other lazily rubs at his eyes, pushing his glasses out of the way and askew.

  He's adorable, with that mop of curls messy from sleep and clothes rumpled. His eyes are lidded and still heavy with the same exhaustion that lingers in his limbs, making his movements slow and lethargic. He yawns, and Christopher tenses, putting a tight leash on the sudden and unbearable urge to rush across the room and gather the smaller man into his arms.

  He looks extremely kissable, and Christopher has a fleeting image of pressing gentle but insistent kisses to his lips and cheeks, hearing him giggle and playfully shove him away, grinning up at him with those big soft brown eyes.

  Is that what he looked like the morning after having sex all night with the man who fathered his child? How many men have gotten to see that side of him? Just as Christopher did four years ago, when Timothy had been all warm and pliable in his hands, sensitive to his touch and so responsive, soft and beautiful.

  The burning in his veins spikes, chest squeezing tight enough to hurt his lungs. His heart clenches, and he's never felt such a strange twisting pain like this before. It prickles beneath his skin, making it hard to breathe and tingeing his vision red.

  Timothy stops at the bottom of the stairs. One hand still on the banister, the other resting lightly on his belly. He glares at Christopher through glasses that sit askew on his nose, expression flat and annoyed. "Are you just going to stand there and growl at me, or are you going to be a good host and make me some breakfast? I'm starving, and you're the one who forced me to be here." His tone is petulant and sharp.

  Christopher's jaw snaps shut, and he stands up straighter. He hadn't realized he'd been snarling until Timothy had called him out on it. Fuck, no matter how angry he is, he should have more control than this. He usually does, but there's just something about Timothy that makes that control weaken.

  A grunt escapes his throat, a scoff in lieu of words as his eyes trail down Timothy's figure, settling on his belly. There's definitely a bump there. It's not overly obvious, but it's definitely noticeable. He won't be able to go out in public among humans very soon.

  He feels a mixed twisting in his gut. The sight of his mate's pregnancy makes his heart ache and his anger rumble, but there's something else. That gentle whining of his wolf. The need to stay close to him and protect him. Timothy needs more nutrition now, right? He must.

  He grudgingly pushes off the counter and sets to work moving about the kitchen. His actions are on autopilot, thoughts focusing on the task at hand rather than dwelling on the things that make his frustration burn. It helps regulate his simmering anger, pushing it down enough that the tight vice around his chest loosens.

  Pancakes. Scrambled eggs and bacon for protein. A bagel with cream cheese, that's healthy, right? Some fruit never hurt. Oatmeal is supposed to be good for you, so he heats up some of that. He grabs a cup of yogurt from the fridge at the last minute, just for good measure. He piles the plates on the table in front of where Timothy has taken a seat, along with a glass of water, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee.

  Then he steps back, waiting.

  Timothy's eyes are wide as he leans back in his chair, mouth agape. "What the…are you crazy? I can't eat all this!"

  "You're eating for two," Christopher says. He tries to sound matter-of-fact, but there's a clipped hissed quality to his words that gives away his frustration. He leans over, pushing the plate of pancakes closer to Timothy. "Eat."

  Timothy glares up at him, lips twisted into a defiant scowl.

  Christopher sighs. "You need to take proper care of yourself now. Not that you ever did. You always were too skinny."

  He sees Timothy's scowl deepen, a fire in his eyes as his hands clench the table. He looks like he's three seconds away from throwing a plate of food at him, and Christ
opher doesn't understand. What did he do wrong now? He made his mate food, a lot of food for him to choose from. He insisted he take care of himself, which means he cares about him!

  Timothy's eyes close then, and he drags in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he turns to glare at the food laid out in front of him. He pushes the pancakes away and pulls the plate of eggs toward him, grudgingly poking at them with his fork. "You always find a way to belittle me, no matter what the subject is," he grumbles under his breath. "I get enough of that from my father. I don't need it from you."

  Christopher bristles, but bites his tongue to keep from snapping back. Whatever words were building at the back of his throat, he's certain they won't help the situation. So instead he sits at the table, picking at some of the food himself as he watches Timothy intently.

  Timothy firmly ignores him. He sits with his back straight, eating bits and pieces with almost methodical precision. He picks at it, eating his fill but not quickly, almost primly. In a way, it's fascinating. His eating habits shouldn't be, but they are. It's nothing like how the rest of the pack eats, or his soldiers. Christopher's eyes follow every single one of Timothy's movements. From the curl of his fingers to the bend of his wrist, and from the stretch of his lips to the bob of his throat when he swallows.

  He's so lovely. So delicate and soft. Before Timothy, Christopher had never realized the beauty in someone so fragile. He can't help but wish Timothy was his mate in more than just words, in more than just a bond they barely formed four years ago.

  His hands clench the table, curling into fists to keep himself from reaching out and wiping the smudge of yogurt from the corner of the omega's lips. He wonders how many other men have done that same thing; perhaps with a substance that was most certainly not yogurt.

  "Stop staring at me," Timothy snaps, and it's only then Christopher realizes he's growling again.

  "Who is he?" he asks suddenly, feeling even more on edge when Timothy bristles, movements stilling.