her with Karl. I enjoy dominating them both.”
I suck a breath in. I’d like to dominate Brandon and put the cocky fucker in his place. Watching him rut Jessa? Not so much.
“Do you believe in the Goddess?” I ask.
“For certain,” Pete replies.
I wrestle with what happened in the woods when I was gravely wounded, possibly on the path toward death.
“I met her in the woods,” I say. “It was after I had battled with the Orc. My ribs were busted, and I was coughing up blood. My chest was black with bruises.”
There is a brief widening of Pete’s eyes before his brows tug together in a frown.
“Injuries like that take many weeks to recover from, if you recover at all. Jessa found me sitting on my ass by the river, pain near debilitating me. It makes no sense how it happened. But she healed me with nothing more than some mashed root and herbs. She healed me with a kiss. We agreed to keep the matter private. And who would believe us, either way? I asked her if it had happened before. She said it had not. She healed me from injuries enough to put a man in the ground. Why would the Goddess, through Jessa, heal me if we were not meant to be?”
“The work of the Goddess,” he agrees. “What will you do?”
He doesn’t question the truth of it nor dismiss what this means.
“I don’t want to start a fucking war,” I say.
“Aye, we are barely recovering from the last. Whatever comes next is by the Goddess’ design, and she is as cruel as she is gracious. I was surprised when you mentioned the invite. But in this new light, I cannot help but see the Her hand at play. You need to go and let whatever will be, play out.”
I nod. I have realized this myself the more we have talked. Impatient, I am ready to see Jessa, who is now with Brandon, even though it will be like a fucking knife in the chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jessa
TODAY IS THE day of the festival, and I should be feeling happy as I visit with my family. I sit at the old oak table where I have sat a thousand times, watching my mother fold washing. This is not my home anymore, but I still come here most days.
Not long ago, Hazel left to get ready for the feast. I should be doing the same.
I want to talk to my mother, yet I don’t know where to start.
Through the open door I can hear my siblings excited squeals of laughter. Finishing work early, my father has just chased all the brats outside.
For once, their laughter does not warm me, and the weight of melancholy comes crashing in.
“Are you okay, love?” my mother asks, pausing her work folding the last of the washing.
My eyes meet hers, and I see the caring there. But it is suddenly like there is a gulf between us as I remember the whispered conversation she had with my father late one evening.
“Brandon asked me when I last bled,” I blurt out.
Face softening, she puts the clothes aside and goes to the door. I experience a strange pang thinking she is about to leave. But she calls out to my father to watch the brats for a while in a no-nonsense way all mothers seem to have. Closing the door, she comes over and sits opposite me.
“I heard you talking about me late one night. Talking about how I hadn’t yet bled.” I want to say the other things, but they get stuck in my throat.
Her hand reaches across the table to take mine.
“You heard us talking about you being an Omega?”
My eyes widen, and for a stretched moment I forget to breathe. They did not use that word as they talked, and it never crossed my mind. I know very little about Omegas other than whispered conversations. They do not bleed monthly like a Beta lass might, and they also make nests. I don’t remember all the details of their late-night conversation. Still, I remember them talking about me changing and about me nesting.
How did I not realize?
Omega. Can I be an Omega? Is this why I am so strangely drawn to both men?
“I don’t know why you haven’t bled. I didn’t want to frighten you at first. Then after, when you didn’t reveal, I assumed you had started your monthlies but didn’t mention it. You have long done your own washing. You would not be