I disfigured someone.
Not just anyone—but him. The omega I swore I'd leave alone, the one I promised I'd stay out of the way of. And now look.
I didn't even mean to do it, but I did. He didn't deserve it. He didn't even do anything to me. So there was absolutely no justification. Not one I could spin or reason my way through. And worst of all, I couldn't refute a single accusation my aunt threw out. Not after this.
She makes those creams. Sells them. Everyone swears by them—hell, I've watched people beg her for more. They've never had issues before.
So why was this jar the one that was fucked up?
I kept seeing his face in my mind—red and swollen where I'd rubbed it in with my own hands. Even after he'd said he didn't want the stuff, I went ahead and smeared it across his skin like some kind of joke.
I broke our original deal.
I broke it.
