TWENTY-TWO
I love when the boys are home, and I can just be in their vicinity without any motive other than wanting the company of my pack. We’re all in the kitchen now as Sam looks through his calendar and Thatcher makes himself lunch, the new shiner he said he got from practice seeming darker under the bar top lights. I watch as they co-exist, which is one of my favorite things to do. When Thatcher has all the ingredients out for his sandwich, he leans over to get a knife, but Sam already has one out, anticipating his need before he’s even asked. And it’s that exact reason I love to observe them in this casual habitat, taking in the things that they’re not even realizing they’re doing.
Like arealpack. The actuality of it never seems to make me any less giddy.
Thatcher looks at me for the first time and gives me the smallest smile. It catches me off guard, and the next thing I know, my body tingles in an almost forbidden way. I tilt my head at him, curious about why his mood seems to be lifted today.
When he notices how his smile affected me, he clears his throat and says, “So, Opal may not be down today.”
Sam looks up at him. “Why not?”
Our pack mate scratches his chin and maneuvers his head in a weird movement before saying, “She was pretty sick yesterday.”
My brow rises. “Sick how?”
“She was in her bed, really weak. She was burning up, but she said she couldn’t take anything to help it. It was hard to see her like that.”
“Couldn’t take anything?” I vocalize. “So, what? She had to just suffer through it?”
For some reason, that seems odd to me, but the side of me that sat through all of those biology lectures knows there could be an explanation. Many people are allergic to pain meds, even though it’s not discussed very much. There are a number of things that could explain it. Still, something about it makes my omega feel jumpy.
“Yeah, basically,” Thatcher replies with a sigh.
Before I can ask any more questions, our leader jumps in. “Well, did you take care of her?” Sam gives Thatcher a serious look, his prime cap immediately on his head. It’s subtle, but I can tell that the inquiry is laced with protectiveness for our newest omega, which makes me hide a smile behind my hand.
Our grumpy pack mate looks at him with surprise, his face flushing at the innocent question.
“Thatcher, you’re blushing,” I tease, but leave no surprise out of my tone. What could possibly have him up in arms like this? I’ve never seen him so bothered.
Obviously still embarrassed, he scoffs at us. “Look, all I’m saying is that she was under the weather. So maybe we should give her space or let her take some time to get better.”
“Give who space?” Opal walks in the room then, and I can’t keep myself from admiring the way she looks in her babydoll dress. The ruffles at the hem are playful and pretty against her legs that are garbed in colorful tights. Despite what Thatcher just told us, she looks spectacular. Like she’s glowing in the light of whatever illness she just had.
The sensation of seeing her look so good hits me right in the chest and makes me sputter. For a lovely moment, I am distracted by the pretty omega and her whimsical nature. Nothing else matters but her well-being.
“It’s nothing,” Thatcher repeats as he continues to slice a tomato into small pieces. When she looks at him, she lets out a surprised shriek.
“Oh my god, did I do that to you?” she asks as she steps closer to look at his eye. Her fingers skim underneath it, and I’m surprised he doesn’t flinch at the touch.
“It’s fine, Curly,” he says waveringly. He reaches up and gently lowers her hand. “It doesn’t hurt.”
Curly?
Sam and I lock eyes for a moment, suspicion running rampant between us. We don’t have to have a bond to know what the other one is thinking. “I thought you got hit in practice?” my alpha says, calling out our pack mate on his already shaky lie.
Their wide eyes turn to us, like a couple of caribou getting caught eating vegetables out of the garden. Thatcher makes a grunting noise of frustration but supplies no further explanation. Opal looks between us, her mouth opening and closing like she’s trying to decide what to tell us, but she ultimately shuts her mouth. She turns to get something from the fridge, attempting to hide the blush that’s blooming over her pretty cheeks.
Interesting.Something definitely happened between them.
“Anyway,” I say, changing the subject since they clearly don’t want to talk about it. “Thatcher said you were sick, but you’re looking better. How are you feeling?”
She pauses, a tell of hers that she’s been caught off guard, I’ve realized. The fridge slides closed as she moves a carton of juice to the counter. “I’m feeling great,” she replies and tries to beam a convincing smile. “You guys should know, I get like that sometimes. And medication doesn’t help, so don’t offer it. I’m used to it by now. It always passes.”
It always passes? Meds don’t work? Something tingles in my brain as it processes those words, and I can’t stop myself from prying further. “So, it happens a lot? Is everything okay?”
“I get migraines. It’s not a big deal,” she shrugs and puts the juice back as she avoids my gaze, which is unlike her. She’s usually so present and attentive. Now, she looks like she wants to be anywhere but here, having this conversation.
I look over at Sam, but he’s already checked out of the conversation as he makes himself a midday cup of coffee. If Thatcher thinks anything Opal just said is weird, he doesn’t show it as he starts to eat his sandwich. When he sees me looking at him, he raises his eyebrows and points down at his plate.
