Confusion settles into my bones as we stand at the curb and then slide into the back seat of his nondescript sedan. It grows talons so deep they hurt as he tells the driver the restaurant we’d intended to go to before I have another bloodwork draw. By the time we’re being guided to a table in the back corner,separated from the main dining area by a frosted glass door, I’m not entirely sure how I’m even walking, my mind is so twisted up over the packet held in a death grip against my stomach.
I’m… matched?
All at once, those nerves settle in my stomach as heavy as concrete, and bile rushes up my throat. What if it’s not Marcus? What if he was already in the process of being matched with someone else? The urge to puke gets stronger, but I swallow it down. Now isnotthe time. Papa and Father are already at the table, and they surround me without a word spoken between the four of us, easing me into a chair even as Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders and kisses my temple.
“I wonder what happened to make them change their mind,” Papa says, seemingly unaffected by my quiet panic and Dad’s tension.
It takes another count to ten before I’m able to pull the packet away from my stomach and rip open the top. And then I just stare at it, unable to actually pull the information hidden inside.
What if it isn’t Marcus? Will they be okay with me having an accidental bond with someone else? God, what if itisMarcus? The OBS has been getting consistently worse despite our best efforts. Can I really ask him to take me on when I might not ever be who I was when we bonded? My heart pulses in my ears, and I sway a bit in my seat.
“Breathe, son,” Dad commands, an Alpha bark laced in the words for all of their gentle delivery. “Take all the time you need, but you have to breathe.”
Right. Breathing is good. My chest shudders with my forced inhale and too quick exhale.
Just like a bandage. Just pull it and find out what the Council has decided for my fate. One quick pull, and then at least it’s not sitting over my head like I’m some deranged, modern version ofDamocles. Maybe sitting under a literal sword would be better than all of this, honestly. The thought frees up just enough of my mind that the anxiety fades a bit.
Before I can lose my nerve again, I pull the packet of information and set it on the table. Rather than read through the official notice from the Council printed on their watermarked letterhead, I dig through the papers and find the included photo.
His eyes are the first thing I see, just like at the gala itself—just like every single dream I’ve had of him. They’re a shining bright blue that see through me, seeintome, even through the photo. Without any kind of explanation, I collapse against the table and let every overwhelming sensation of the last two weeks spill out, sobbing hysterically as my dads do what they can to comfort me.
“Marcus Harper?” Father asks. “That’s him, right?”
I manage a nod without actually lifting my head.
My dads laugh and celebrate around me. Their happiness is a balm, easing away some of the permanent unease I’ve carried since Marcus’s teeth bit into my skin that summer three years ago.
“Harper,” Dad murmurs. “That’s a good pack name. And it looks like they’re in New York City. That’s one of the best OBS specialists in the nation.”
It is. My doctor out here has consulted with the specialists at the Gallagher Clinic in Brooklyn.
Papa grunts an agreement. “Good job, son.”
Ten
MEGAN
“Hey, Megs, there’s someone from the Council here to see you,” Riley says as he passes the desk.
I finish documenting the medication I just dispensed and administered for my patient in room nine before looking up with a frown.
“The Council?” I double check.
“Yep. He’s at check-in. Looked like he had some paperwork, too.” He turns back toward me, walking backward without a misstep. His eyebrow raises in question. “Thought you said you didn’t get shortlisted?”
“We didn’t,” I agree. “Must be an OAD.”
Omega Abuse Detectives are employed directly with the Unified Council to handle cases of abuse and neglect alongside local law enforcement. I’d treated a pretty rough Omega last week after we’d gotten the shitty news of our banning and lack of making it onto the Omega’s shortlist. A detective wanting to follow-up would make sense. Honestly, I’m a bit surprised it’staken this long for one of the Council’s specialty detectives to show up.
“Well, someone’s here,” Riley says, then heads deeper into the department, probably grabbing something for one of his rooms. Mornings are always hectic. Normally I love the pace, the uncertainty of the emergency department. No two days are the same, especially in the heart of Manhattan. But the last week has been harder to dredge up any kind of positive energy.
“Harper, you have a bed?” one of the triage nurses asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her, shoving to my feet. “Just need to deal with a Council staff, and then I can take whatever you have.”
“All right, I’ll get him prepped. Trauma to the hand, definitely needing stitches. I’ll let Peterson know, too. They might want ortho paged.”
Hand trauma this early in the morning? Shitty way to start the day. For them, not me. Stitches is one of my favorites.
