The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
"Come on," I muttered.
The match was still going. Etienne was on the field, tackling, driving forward, completely unaware that our omega was about to go into heat in a room full of strangers.
The call went to voicemail.
"Leon, it's Fritz. Call me back immediately. It's an emergency."
I hung up and looked at Hastings.
His face was stone, but his eyes were dark with something I rarely saw in him.
Fear.
"How long until we land?" I asked.
"Just over an hour."
"Tell the pilot we need to turn around."
On screen, Presley stood abruptly. She swayed slightly, catching herself on the back of the chair. Caron said something to her, but Presley shook her head, moving toward the door.
"She's leaving," I said. "That's good. She's leaving."
But the camera angle didn't follow her into the hallway. We couldn't see where she went.
Hastings leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles went white.
"She'll be fine," I said, trying to convince myself as much as him. "Etienne will take care of her."
"He better."
The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a threat.
Ilooked back at the screen, at the empty chair where Presley had been sitting, and felt the same pull I'd been trying to ignore for days.
She felt like ours. No longer our surrogate. Certainly not a transaction.
Ours.
And we were thirty thousand feet in the air, closer to New York than London. Fear coiled in my gut.
The match continued on the tablet. The commentators talked about possession and tactics and the brilliant try Etienne had scored.
But neither of us was listening anymore.
We were both watching the security feed, waiting for Presley to come back into frame.
Waiting to see if our omega was okay.
16
Presley
The bathroom tiles werecold against my palms as I leaned over the sink, water running over my wrists in a desperate attempt to cool down.
It wasn't working.
