Lower than they’ve ever been, actually. Almost like my body decided to finally respond to treatment after the crisis.
“You’ll know if something happens.”
“I knew something was happening last time,” he admits, his heart in his eyes.
I grab his hand and press his palm to my cheek, breathing in his scent: salt from his skin and sandalwood from his cologne. And nutmeg, of course. Even now, it curls around me like it’s truly a blanket on its own.
“I love you.” The words are soft and fervent. He smiles, and softness wells in the bond.
“I know, Omega.” He leans across the counter and kisses me again. “Charlotte and I will be back in time for dinner.”
And then he’s gone, grabbing his bag from its silent perch beside the front door and quietly shutting the door behind him without a glance back. I slowly eat through the yogurt and then take the morning set of medications Megan’s organized for me again.
Inevitably, like every other day for the last week, I end up leaning against the threshold of the living room, my gaze taking in the way the sun touches each piece of furniture, every framed piece of art and small decorative item on the shelves. The piano blends into the room, almost like it’s been here the entire time the sofas have. Every day since coming home, I haven’t had the courage to step foot in the room.
Today, though, I manage to cross it and sit on the piano bench. My breath catches the moment I’m settled in front of it. I count back from sixty, grounding myself, reminding myself that heightened emotions make the tremors worse. Finally, I reach for the dustcover and ease it back. My hands shake worse than their new baseline as I display the untouched keys.
Nerves crowd up my throat, more complex than just being anxious about possibly playing again. I touch middle C, the ivory cold under my finger. A stair creaks behind me, and I glance over my shoulder.
Megan stands just inside the room, her hair spilling over one shoulder, her green eyes bright with unshed tears. She takes me in, seeing more than most, and then a soft understanding sweeps across her beautiful features. She rounds the sofa without a word, settling onto the bench beside me.
“I remember the first Christmas without them—my parents,” she says quietly, her voice blending with the sun-speckled room. “It was terrifying. My friends and extended family had put together a big party. Ugly sweaters, white elephant gifts, the whole thing. They wanted to make sure I wasn’t left alone.”
“That was thoughtful,” I murmur when she drifts off.
She nods and gives me a sad smile. “I almost didn’t even walk in the house because I knew once I did… it would be real again. I wouldn’t be able to go back and imagine how it might have been different. I’d have to face the reality that I was living in instead.” Her throat moves with her swallow. “Parts of it hurt. But most ofit was… good. Beautiful in its own way, though I didn’t see it that way at the time.”
“No one died this time,” I say, though I know that’s not really what she’s trying to say.
“You did, though,” she argues softly. “The vision you had for your life died the day you got sick on that sailboat, and the version of yourself that you saw in this life with us died in that ER when we were trying to get your pulse back.”
A wave of raspberry with a bitter edge emanates out from her as she relives those moments of me dying in her ER’s trauma bay. She blows out a breath and adjusts her hair.
“And now sitting here, you’re like I was standing on my aunt’s porch. You can go inside and realize just how different everything is, or you can run back to your car and stuff it all down and do it alone.”
Her eyes flick up to mine.
“We’re with you,” she says, her voice earnest in a way I’ve never heard before. “Even if you run back to the car, we’re with you.I’mwith you. Even if you never step through that door, if it’s always too painful, I won’t leave you.”
Emotion clogs my throat.
I know they won’t, that the match is permanent, and they have no interest in overturning it now. But Marcus and Charlotte, they’re bonded to me. Megan? She could find someone not damaged or sick. Someone she doesn’t have to take time away from the job she loves to help them navigate stairs or brush their hair or check their blood markers three times a day. She could be like the Alphas Scarlett had and leave when it gets hard.
“I’m here, Cole. I’ll always be here.”
Slowly, I press down on the ivory key. The note rings through the room, the piano tuned so acutely that harmonics layer over top of it. And then I slowly start working through my favoritepiece, the one from Swan Lake I first played for them when the piano arrived. It’s the one I would play when Sienna had been at her worst, when Scarlett was crying and Violet was angry and my dads were doing their best to keep the pieces of their children from shattering everywhere on the marble floor.
The chords shake, and I miss some of the notes, my fingers not always moving when I want them to. Megan leans her head against my shoulder as I work my way through the song. Her warmth seeps into me, another guiding ship on the water. I let my eyes fall closed and focus on her instead, the way her body nestles into mine and the way her raspberry scent slowly fills the air around us and the searing heat of her palm against my thigh.
No, she won’t leave. She… she loves me, too.
As I let the last note linger, I whisper, “Will you bond with me?”
She freezes, her breath catching for a heartbeat, then two. I open my eyes, unable to take the silence any longer. Her green eyes are full of tears again, a couple falling down her cheeks as she lifts her head and stares at me.
“Of course, Cole.”
She palms my cheek and pulls me into her, and I settle into the perfection that is her, that is us, that is this moment. With steady hands, she guides me from the piano bench and onto the plush rug. We haven’t done this since the crisis. None of us have. She’s slow and methodical as she strips us both of our clothes, dropping them onto the sofa behind her. Her hands are soft, warm slashes of heat as she traces them across my body. The sunlight starts to burn, but I don’t dare close my eyes, wanting to watch every moment of her exploration of my body. I want to see every kiss she lays, every scratch she leaves, every bruises she makes.
