“911, what’s your emergency?” The dispatcher says from the other end of the line.
“I have an omega here, she’s in heat, but there’s something wrong. She just had a seizure and—and we need help.”
“Understood. Where are you located?”
I give them the address to the hotel. “We can come down and meet you outside or something.”
“No. We will come to you,” The dispatcher says. “I’ve sent a team your way. They’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“O—okay,” I stutter. I give them our room number.
“How is she positioned right now?” The dispatcher asks, clicking away on their keyboard.
“On her back on the bed, is—is that bad?”
“Turn her on her side, in case she vomits.”
Rage starts moving her, along with the Dispatcher’s instructions. She doesn’t wake up, despite us moving her.
If it weren’t for the slight rise and fall of her chest, I honestly would think she’s dead.
“Stay on the line with me,” The dispatcher instructs. “What is the omega’s name?”
I stiffen. It’s a natural question. Especially given the circumstances and the fact we’re asking for help with a medical emergency. But I’m going to say her name and they’re going to realize they don’t have her in their system.
And that means we’re fucked.
I put the phone on mute.
“Rage, you’ve gotta get out of here,” I hiss. “You still have time. They’re not here yet?—“
“No,” Rage growls, baring his teeth at me in a snarl. “Not leaving.”
“You have to, they’re gonna realize that she’s unregistered and we’re gonna get arrested or some shit! Just—just let me take the fall, okay? I’m trying to help you here!”
“No!” Rage snarls again. “She is my mate. You are my pack mate. I’m staying.”
“Sir?” The dispatcher says, a note of concern in her voice from our silence. “It’s important we get this information.”
“Her name is Mirabelle,” I say, unmuting the phone.
“Last name?”
“I—I don’t know.”
The silence that meets me on the other end of the line is thick.
“Are you the only one with the omega?”
“No... I’m not,” I say, my shoulders slumping forward. There’s no point in lying here. “There’s one other person with me.”
More typing. More silence.
“We’re—we’re her bondmates,” I say, desperatelyhoping that information does something.
Even more fucking silence.
Maybe that was the wrong thing to say.
