“Only a couple days, Marcus. Just enough time for me to sort through moving to New York,” he whispers, feeling some amalgamation of it all despite the suppressor.
God, I want to throw out those damn suppressors. It’s so incredibly selfish. I’m not being asked to change anything, really. My job, my house, my routine. None of it is transforming into something entirely unknown because of this match. But Cole’s entire life is upended because of it. Demanding another thing of him, of my Omega, is borderline hostile right now.
And yet…
“Stop the bond suppressor,” I beg into his shoulder. “Let me feel you.”
His steady touch on my back falters before resuming.
“You’re sure?”
His voice is so quiet, so unsure, like it was in that bathroom at the gala. I pull away until he can see just how serious I am, how much I need to know what he’s feeling, need this bond to finally be what it was always intended to become.
“Omega,” I say, letting my voice grow rich with the Alpha’s bark. He shivers under me and then scents anew. Before I can finish the thought, he’s kissing me.
“Okay,” he whispers when he finally pulls away. I’m already hard again. “I… I need to double check how, but I’ll stop them.”
Twenty-Two
COLE
“Mr. Fallon?” a woman with a long black ponytail asks as if I’m not the only person sitting in the waiting area, a situation needed due to my last name. Just one more layer of secrecy so the reality of my sickness doesn’t become public knowledge—or Sienna’s. God help me if my mother ever finds out.
The woman smiles as I stand and approach her. I haven’t seen her around before. Maybe she’s new.
It takes all my effort to ignore the subtle, consistent pulsing of pain just behind my eyes. As far as headaches go, it’s not the worst I’ve had to manage. But along with the nearly constant nausea? It’s not the best combination.
“How are you today?” she asks as we walk down the long hall of my neurologist’s office, stopping only to get an updated weight and blood pressure for my file.
“Well enough,” I offer.
She holds out a hand, indicating one of the three rooms with an open door. The cabinets are a bland middle brown that standin stark contrast to the white walls. Large windows are covered in blinds, mostly shut. On the only open wall, a watercolor of a bouquet of flowers sits framed in nearly the same color wood as the cabinets. As I settle into one of the chairs rather than the exam table, she opens a small laptop and begins transferring her notes.
“Any new symptoms?” she asks.
Besides the worst state of need I’ve experienced in two years? I’ve never craved a knot so damn bad in mylifeand they only flew back to New York early yesterday morning. I shake my head, and she smiles again.
“Great. Dr. Wales should be with you in just a few minutes.”
The door closes with a heavy thud. My nerves rise in trained response, making it nearly impossible to breathe. I tilt my head back, trying to work through the grounding exercises for when the realities of being an Omega become too much to handle in public. I try to empty my mind, try to find some semblance of quiet center, but I can’t manage to quell all the thoughts.
What if she says I can’t come off the suppressor? What if the bloodwork from after the gala showed no improvement even after adding that awful new medication that still gives me dizzy spells if I move too fast or wait too long to eat?
God, I should probably bring up the heat suppressor, too. At least to know my options. They’ll expect me to go into heat eventually, right? Omegas have heats every six months unless a suppressant of some kind is used. They’d notice eventually that I was suppressing mine, even if just enough to give my dads time to get me to a Haven and sedated.
I’ve never actually gone through a heat in its entirety. The first two I sedated through, taking time off the sailing vessel to be treated in a nearby hospital. And the last two years? I haven’t been allowed to have a true heat emerge, only the beginning stages of them so that the cumulative effect of the suppressantmedication stays minimal. Will I actually get to have one with them? The thought has my stomach clenching with anticipation.
There’s a brisk knock on the door before it opens, tearing me out of the thought spiral.
Dr. Emilia Wales is a petite woman with pin straight gray hair cut blunt to her chin. When in her office and clinic, she wears scrub bottoms and a sweater no matter the season. Today, the pants are a dark blue and the sweater a soft pink. Her deep set eyes are a warm brown that always feel like they’re seeing too much of me. Her smile is soft and, this time at least, not so guarded. She has her own laptop tucked under an arm as she holds out her hand to me.
“It’s nice to see you again, Cole,” she says in a happy alto.
“You, too, Emilia,” I offer as I gently shake her hand and then tuck mine back under my legs.
She settles onto the cushioned stool and opens her laptop, reviewing my file. I don’t rush her despite my own nerves. She’s one of the best in the country, the first one to realize the specific version of OBS I had and got me onto the cocktail of medications that has kept it from getting to the absolute worst state.
“Have you gotten your match yet?” she asks without looking away from the screen.
