The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 270

I wake before dawn with my heart already racing.

The room is dark and close, the air thick with the kind of heat that only shows up after a night of bad sleep. The sheets are twisted around my legs, damp where sweat has soaked through. I lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, listening to my own breathing like it belongs to someone else.

My wolf is unsettled.

Not panicked. Not aggressive. Just pacing under my skin, restless in that tight, circular way that means she doesn’t trust the quiet. She keeps brushing against my ribs, my spine, like she’s checking the walls of a cage that shouldn’t be there.

I swing my legs out of bed and stand before the thoughts can catch up.

Routine first. Thinking later.

The shower goes on too hot. I step under it without flinching, letting the water beat down on my shoulders until my skin protests. Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror, blurring my reflection until I’m just a shape instead of a person with a name that’s been dragged through too many documents lately.

I scrub like I’m trying to erase something. Shampoo. Rinse. Soap again. I tilt my head back and let the water run over my face until my thoughts thin out.

When I brush my teeth, I do it too hard. The mint burns. My gums sting. A thin line of red blooms when I spit. I stare at it for half a second, then rinse again and turn away from the sink.

Grounding. I need grounding.

I dress in clean clothes that feel wrong against my skin anyway. Pull my hair back. Tie it tighter than necessary. If I make myself sharp enough on the outside, maybe it’ll match what’s buzzing inside.

Ben is already up.

I can tell before I see him. The room feels different when he’s awake. Quieter somehow, even when he’s not trying to be.

He looks up from the counter when I come in. One glance is all it takes. His jaw tightens just a little, eyes tracking the way I’m holding myself like I’m braced for impact.

“You want coffee?” he asks.

I nod.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong.

He doesn’t ask if I slept.

He just pours the coffee and sets the mug in front of me, close enough that my fingers brush the warmth when I sit down. He stays near, leaning against the counter, presence steady and solid. It’s the kind of closeness that doesn’t demand anything.

That makes it harder.

We haven’t even taken two sips when the tablet on the table lights up.

Political briefing.

I close my eyes for a second before opening it.

The coalition is demanding escalation. Language sharpened. Deadlines imposed. They want stronger enforcement, broader authority, fewer checks. The same pressure dressed up as urgency again.

Another message follows before I finish reading the first.

A pack threatening to withdraw from the reform accords entirely. Claiming they’re being targeted. Claiming the process has become unstable. Claiming they won’t be collateral damage for someone else’s vision.

I feel the split immediately.

My mind snaps into focus, sharp and precise, already categorizing risks and responses. The body part of me, the wolf-heavy part, wants something simpler. Wants contact. Wants weight. Wants to be pulled back into something real and physical that doesn’t come with consequences attached.

I take another sip of coffee and don’t taste it at all.

“They’re pushing,” Ben says quietly, reading over my shoulder without crowding me.

“Yes.”

“How hard?”

“Hard enough to fracture things if I don’t respond carefully.”

He nods once. “You will.”

It’s not a compliment. It’s an observation.

The day stretches on like that. Meetings. Messages. Carefully worded replies that don’t give anyone enough to use against me but still keep the line intact. By the time night falls, it feels heavy and close, like the dark is pressing in instead of settling.

I don’t realize how far I’ve pulled away until Ben says my name.

I felt myself getting closer to my orgasm at the same time I could see that Ben was also getting closer.

We both came at the same time. Moaning and Ben let out a growl while we were both trying to catch our breath after that and I waited for the extreme spasms to calm down.

Afterward, the room is quiet again.

Too quiet.

The kind of silence that presses instead of soothes. I lie there staring at the ceiling, the sheets tangled around us again, my breathing finally even but my mind already ticking back on.

Ben shifts beside me. An arm settles around my waist, warm and familiar.

“You still with me?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” I say. And mean it.

But there’s something else there too, something sharp and clear that I can’t ignore.

The intimacy didn’t quiet the leadership.

It sharpened it.

The awareness. The responsibility. The sense of what’s at stake. Instead of dulling the edges, it brought them into focus, like I’ve just been reminded exactly how much there is to protect and how much I stand to lose.

I turn onto my side, facing him. His eyes are open, watching me.

“I don’t get to be just one thing anymore,” I say.

He studies me for a moment, then nods. “No. But you don’t have to be alone in all of them.”

I rest my forehead against his shoulder and let myself breathe.

Morning will come too soon.

And when it does, I’ll be ready.