The Male Omega

Chapter 13: Rowan’s Anger

I woke with a bruise on my wrist.

For a few stupid seconds, I only stared at it.

Morning light had crept through the curtains in a pale stripe across the bed, catching the faint purple mark just below the heel of my palm. I touched it carefully with my thumb and flinched.

I didn’t remember hitting anything.

Then I did.

The dining chair.

My own clumsy grip.

The way I had caught myself too fast after nearly losing my balance.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

It was small.

Barely anything.

But I lay there looking at it far too long, and something in my chest ached in that old, quiet way I hated most. Not because of pain. Because the mark looked like proof of something I had been trying very hard not to think about.

I was becoming the sort of person things left marks on.

The room was still. Rowan had not returned yet. He had gone downstairs earlier to argue with a servant over hot water and breakfast, though he’d tried not to let me hear the arguing part.

I sat up slowly.

Everything in me felt heavy. My limbs. My head. Even my breathing. The bond rite, the dinner, the endless strain of trying not to be seen too clearly—it had all settled into my body like winter damp. I was so tired I could have slept another day and still woken worn thin.

When the door opened, I dropped my hand from my wrist too late.

Rowan saw.

Of course he saw.

He set the tray down harder than he meant to. Cups rattled. “What happened?”

I shook my head too fast. “Nothing.”

“Kyle.”

“It’s nothing,” I repeated, softer this time.

He crossed the room in three steps and caught my wrist before I could tuck it away.

I sucked in a breath.

Not because he was rough.

Because I was tired and ashamed and suddenly felt twelve years old again, caught hiding some small hurt I didn’t think worth troubling anyone over.

Rowan turned my hand gently, eyes fixed on the bruise.

His face changed.

Not to surprise.

To fury.

“Who did this?”

“No one.”

That was true.

Mostly.

I tried to pull my hand back. He didn’t let go.

“It’s just from last night,” I said quickly. “I almost slipped, that’s all.”

His jaw worked once. “How?”

I looked down. “The chair.”

“The chair,” he repeated flatly.

I nodded.

He was still angry.

Still unconvinced.

And suddenly I hated this more than I could explain. Hated making him look like that. Hated being one more thing in his life he had to watch for damage.

“I’m fine,” I whispered.

Rowan let go of my wrist so abruptly it felt worse than if he had held on.

He stood and turned away, one hand braced on the mantle above the weak little fire. For a moment he said nothing at all. I could see the muscles in his back tense under his coat.

Then, without looking at me, “Did anyone touch you?”

My throat tightened.

“No.”

“Did anyone corner you after dinner?”

“No.”

“Did Xylie say anything to you when I wasn’t there?”

“No.”

Each answer came smaller than the last.

Not because I was lying.

Because every question made me feel guiltier for not having a bigger injury to justify his anger.

Rowan turned then.

His eyes were dark and sharp and tired all at once. “Stop saying no like that.”

I blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you’re apologizing for it.”

Heat climbed into my face.

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

I looked away at once.

The tray still sat untouched where he had left it. Tea. Bread. Fruit. A soft-boiled egg that already smelled too strong if I thought about it too hard.

Rowan came back and sat on the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped too tightly.

“You’re getting thinner,” he said quietly.

The words sank into me like cold water.

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

That should have been kind.

Instead it made my eyes sting.

“I know,” he said again, voice roughening slightly. “But trying isn’t enough if this place is making you sick.”

I stared at the blanket over my knees.

He was right.

I knew he was right.

The estate had become a place where every corridor made me brace, every meal left me hollow, every knock at the door sent fear through me before thought. Even when no one was in the room, I felt watched by the shape of things around me—the wrong room, the cold courtesy, the knowledge that I was being kept, not welcomed.

But saying that out loud felt too close to making trouble.

So I said the smallest thing instead.

“It’ll get easier.”

Rowan laughed once.

There was no humor in it at all.

“No,” he said. “It won’t. Not if he lets this continue.”

I froze.

He.

We both knew who he meant.

“Rowan…”

“He’s alpha.” The words came clipped now, years of hunter’s discipline keeping his fury quiet but not less dangerous. “This is his estate. His family. His silence. If they’re treating you like this, it’s because he’s allowing it.”

I wanted to say that wasn’t fair.

That Xervic had told Lucan to stop.

That he had let Rowan stay.

That he hadn’t been openly cruel.

But those scraps sounded weak even in my own head.

And Rowan looked at me the way he did when he already knew I was about to defend someone at my own expense.

“Kyle.”

Just my name.

Sharp with warning.

My mouth closed.

He leaned forward slightly. “I need the truth. Not the version you think hurts less.”

The room felt too quiet.

I looked at the bruise on my wrist instead of his face.

What was the truth?

That no one had struck me.

That no one needed to.

That every room in this house seemed arranged to remind me I did not belong in it.

That Amanda smiled when she cut.

That Xylie never raised her voice because she didn’t have to.

That Xervic’s displeasure had hurt worse than open insult because some foolish part of me had wanted—what? Mercy? Warmth? Impossible things.

My throat worked once before the words finally came.

“I think…” I stopped.

Rowan waited.

I tried again, voice thin. “I think they don’t know what to do with me.”

His expression did not soften.

“And him?”

I knew better than to pretend I didn’t understand.

I twisted the blanket in my hands until the fabric strained. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not true.”

No.

It wasn’t.

I closed my eyes briefly.

“When he looks at me,” I whispered, “it feels like he wishes I were easier.”

Silence.

Then Rowan stood so fast the chair legs scraped against the floor.

I flinched.

He caught it.

Went still at once.

Something raw crossed his face—anger turning inward, guilt, helplessness, all of it sharp enough to cut. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped.

“I’m sorry.”

That almost undid me.

I shook my head quickly. “No, I just—”

“You flinched.”

I couldn’t answer.

Because I had.

Because everything was too much lately—voices, footsteps, attention, disappointment, the shape of my own shame. Even quick movement from someone I loved could catch against my nerves before reason had time to soothe it down.

Rowan dragged a hand over his face.

Then he knelt in front of me, slower this time, like approaching something frightened.

“Kyle.” His voice had gentled completely now. “Look at me.”

It took effort.

I managed it.

None of the anger was gone. It lived in him still, bright and dangerous. But he had locked it away from me, leaving only the brother who had held me together half my life.

“You are not weak for feeling this,” he said.

I wanted to believe him.

Instead I heard myself ask, too softly, “Then why does it feel like everything hurts me more than it should?”

His expression changed.

That question had landed somewhere deep.

Because the answer was obvious.

Because the answer was me.

Because I had always been soft in a world that respected hardness. Quiet in a place that rewarded teeth. Easy to bruise in a pack that pretended endurance was the same thing as worth.

Rowan took my uninjured hand in both of his.

“Listen to me,” he said. “None of this is happening because you deserve it.”

My mouth shook before my voice did.

I looked down and whispered the worst thought in me, the one that had been growing heavier with each day in this estate.

“If I’d stayed ordinary, everyone would be happier.”

Rowan’s grip tightened.

For a second, I thought he might shout.

Instead he said, with terrible steadiness, “Don’t ever say that again.”

I stared at our hands.

He was trembling now too.

Just slightly.

I wondered how long he had been holding himself together this way for me. How much anger a body could carry before it turned into something else.

After a long silence, he rose and moved to the hearth again.

When he spoke, his voice had gone flat in the dangerous way I was beginning to dread.

“If Xervic lets one more thing happen to you, I’ll say what needs saying to his face.”

My head came up. “Rowan, don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“Please.” The word slipped out too fast, too frightened. “Please don’t make this worse.”

He turned and looked at me.

Something in his face broke a little then—not anger, not exactly. Something sadder.

“Kyle,” he said quietly, “you keep thinking it can’t get worse if you stay small enough.”

I could not deny it.

Because it was true.

Because staying small was the only thing I had ever known how to do.

And because some broken part of me still believed that if I were quieter, easier, less wrong—then maybe people would stop looking at me like this.

Rowan came back, set the breakfast tray in my lap, and said, with tired gentleness that hurt more than fury ever could:

“Eat a little. Then we’ll survive the rest of the day.”