The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 297

I wake up later than I should, not because I’m tired, but because nothing pulled me out of sleep.

That’s the first thing that feels wrong.

The light in the room is already established, not creeping or tentative, but settled, the kind of morning that’s been going on without waiting for me to notice it. I lie there for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring at the ceiling and listening, and there’s no sharp intake of breath, no instinctive scan for threat, no internal list of what needs to be handled immediately.

My wolf is quiet.

Not calm exactly, just… unoccupied.

I sit up slowly and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the floor with a dull thud that feels heavier than it should, and for a moment I just sit there, elbows on my knees, staring at nothing, trying to locate the tension I’ve lived inside for so long that I don’t know what my body feels like without it.

Bathroom first. Always.

The light clicks on and the mirror shows me someone who looks rested and slightly unsettled by it, hair flattened on one side, eyes clear but wary, like I don’t quite trust the version of myself staring back. I brush my teeth slowly, mint sharp and familiar, foam gathering as usual, and I spit and rinse and watch the water swirl down the drain while my thoughts circle something they haven’t landed on yet.

The shower is warm, not scalding, and I don’t turn it hotter even though the urge flickers briefly. I stand under the spray and let it hit my shoulders, my spine, my neck, and I wait for the usual release, the moment where heat helps burn off excess adrenaline.

It doesn’t come.

My body feels loose in a way that makes me uneasy, like a rope that’s been holding weight for too long and suddenly isn’t, and I wash my hair and condition it out of habit, not needing to think about it, just moving through the motions while something restless paces behind my ribs without quite taking shape.

When I get dressed, I hesitate longer than normal.

Not because I don’t know what to wear, but because none of it feels required. No uniform. No signal. No need to project anything beyond being present, and that should feel like relief, but instead it leaves me oddly exposed, like I’ve stepped out without armor and only realized it after the door closed behind me.

In the kitchen, the coffee machine is already on.

Ben is there, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hands, posture relaxed in a way that still catches me off guard, because I spent so long watching him exist in readiness that seeing him like this feels unfamiliar, even now.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” I reply, and my voice sounds normal, which shouldn’t matter, but it does.

I pour myself coffee and add milk without thinking about it, then stop halfway through the motion like the choice itself has surprised me, and I let out a quiet breath through my nose before taking the first sip.

It tastes fine.

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