Darren's entire body tenses. The woodsmoke scent sharpens with anger.
"Don't call me that," he growls.
Zayn holds up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk playing at his lips. "What? Omega? It's not like it's an insult, it's just reality." He drops his keys on the sideboard with a clatter. "Though I have to say, you're looking a little rough around the edges."
I stand up quickly, trying to head off the disaster barreling toward us. "Zayn, not now, okay? We were just eating."
"I can see that." Zayn saunters closer, his gaze flicking to the pizza box. "Gino's. Solid choice." He reaches for a slice, but Darren slams the lid shut, nearly catching his fingers.
"Get your own damn food," Darren snarls.
Zayn raises an eyebrow. "Touchy, touchy. Is this an omega thing? Being territorial about food now?"
I wince. Wrong thing to say. So, so wrong.
Darren rises to his feet, the pizza already forgotten. He's taller than Zayn by an inch or two, broader through the shoulders, but Zayn doesn't back down. If anything, his smirk widens.
"Say that again," Darren challenges, his voice low and dangerous.
"For fuck's sake, Zayn," I hiss. "Can you not be an asshole for five minutes?"
Zayn ignores me, his focus entirely on Darren. "What part? The omega part? Or the territorial part? Because both seem to be hitting a nerve."
"And my fist is gonna be hitting the back of your fucking throat if you keep talking shit," Darren takes a step closer, invading Zayn's space. "So shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you."
I move to place myself between them, but Zayn waves me off.
"Relax, Darren. I'm just trying to help you adjust to your new reality." His tone is light, almost friendly, but there's an edge underneath. "After all, we're going to be packmates forever, even if we're not teammates. And that makes you our omega. Might as well get comfortable with the terminology."
I may be the rookie, but he'san absolute fucking idiot.
"I am not," Darren enunciates each word carefully, "your fucking omega."
One step forward, ten steps back.
Zayn tilts his head, an expression of exaggerated confusion crossing his features. "Really? Because your scent says otherwise. And so do your test results. And that little nest I'm sure you've been building in your room?—"
Darren moves so fast I barely see it, a blur of motion as he grabs Zayn by the front of his expensive shirt and slams him against the wall. Pictures rattle. A framed team photo crashes to the floor, glass shattering.
"Fight back," Darren demands, echoing the words he said to Jax in the hospital. "Come on, knothead. Show me how tough you are."
But Zayn doesn't resist. He just hangs there in Darren's grip, that infuriating smirk still in place. "I don't fight omegas. It's not sporting."
Something breaks in Darren's expression, a flash of raw hurt quickly masked by fury. Just when I think he's about to turn Zayn into a new coat of paint on the walls—and I'm not exactly inclined to stop him—he releases Zayn with a shove and steps back, fists clenched at his sides.
"Fuck you," he says, voice flat and cold.
He turns and stalks out of the room. Seconds later, the sound of the front door slamming reverberates through the house, followed by a crash that might be an object being thrown against a wall outside. Probably one of the lawn sculptures of dogs Dmitri likes so much.
Great. Back to square one.
I round on Zayn, who's straightening his shirt like nothing happened. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Zayn shrugs, unrepentant. "He needs to accept what he is. Coddling him isn't helping."
"And antagonizing him is?" I shove into his chest hard enough that he staggers back. "He was finally starting to openup. To talk. And you ruined it because you can't keep your mouth shut for two seconds."
"Open up? Please." Zayn moves to the kitchen, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge. "He was eating pizza and pretending nothing's changed. That's denial, not progress."
