I park crooked in a visitor spot and leave the car there. Let them ticket it. Let them tow it. They can set it on fire for all I care.
Inside, the antiseptic tang of the hospital hits my nose. Under it is a faint thread of tonka bean and sweet plum. My chest tightens.
I follow that scent, praying to anyone listening as I rush through the hallway, past doctors and nurses who do their best to dodge out of my way before I plow them over.
I find Alex first, pacing a groove into the linoleum near the emergency intake doors. His hair is a mess, his hoodie half unzipped over a rumpled T-shirt. Des is in a plastic chair, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tight his knuckles are white.
They both look up at the same time, the bond between us snapping taut. Fear, thick and metallic, slams into me from both sides.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“Back there.” Alex jerks his chin toward a closed curtain area. “They took him in right away because of the pregnancy. His blood pressure crashed. The EMT said he was barely responsive when they loaded him.”
For a second, the world narrows. All the sound in the waiting room drops into a muffled hum. A woman arguing at the desk. A child crying somewhere down the hall. A monitor beeping. All of it barely more than white noise.
Or maybe that’s the blood rushing to my ears.
I walk toward the curtain, but a nurse steps in front of me. She’s a sturdy beta with tired eyes and a no-nonsense expression.
“Family only,” she says.
“He’s my omega.” My voice doesn’t rise. It simply leaves no room for argument. “Our omega.”
Her gaze flicks over her shoulder, then to where Alex and Des wait. Then she looks into my eyes, searching for something. Whatever she sees must satisfy her. She nods toward the curtain.
“One at a time,” she says. “For now.”
I rush in first.
The room is too bright. Hudson’s on the bed, the thin hospital blanket pulled up over his hips. Electrodes dot his chest. A blood pressure cuff sits on his arm. His skin is pale, the undertones ashy, but his eyes are open.
His heart monitor shows a steady rhythm, but his scent is weaker than I like, yet still there, threaded with the sharper tang of fear.
“Hey,” he whispers when he sees me.
My knees nearly give out. I move to the side of the bed and take his hand in both of mine. It feels too cold.
“What did they say?” My voice is rough.
“They’re running tests.” He tries to smile, then gives up. “The doctor thinks it is a combination of low blood pressure and my body being overwhelmed by the pregnancy. Triplets are… a lot.”
“Triplets are too much,” I say, and my throat tightens, “for us to be this careless.”
His brows pinch together. “You havenotbeen careless.”
I think of the folder on my desk. The hours I’ve spent at the office while he sits alone with his nausea and his cravings and his fear. The way I slammed the bond shut instead of giving him the comfort he needed because I was terrified of what it meant to feel him so clearly.
I swallow.
“Yes,” I say. “We have.Ihave.”
He blinks, as if the admission physically surprises him.
“I heard you,” Hudson murmurs. His voice is weak, a little hoarse, but his eyes hold mine. “That night. When you told them we would dissolve it. When you said I didn’t want a pack and you didn’t want an omega.”
Shame burns hot through my veins.
“I know.” I curl my fingers more firmly around his. “I was wrong.”
