"Good. That gives Pedro time to get here and Carlos time to tell me why he looks like someone stole Christmas." Sergio turns to face me, and I see the pack leader surface behind his eyes. The one who takes care of all of us. "What happened?"
I take another drink of beer. "I waited outside the clinic. I know it was probably creepy. But I had to see her. Had to make sure she was real and not some dream I made up to torture myself."
"And?"
"And she came out looking like the world was ending. Pale. Shaky. Scared. Then she saw me and..." I stop. Swallow. "She looked terrified, Serg. Of me. I tried to apologize for the kiss, for everything, and she just... ran."
"Did you touch her?" Nacho asks.
"Just her elbow. Barely. Super gentle. I swear I was careful." I set down the beer before I crush the bottle. "She's an omega now. I could smell it. Her scent made my alpha go crazy. But I kept my distance. I was good. I tried so hard to be good."
Sergio and Nacho exchange one of their looks. The married couple telepathy thing they do.
"What? What aren't you telling me?"
"It's not my information to share alone." Sergio glances at Nacho. "We should wait for Pedro."
"Sergio." My voice comes out pleading. "Please. Something's wrong with her. Something medical. Pedro examined her. Just tell me. Is she sick? Is she okay? Did Callum hurt her?"
Another look. This time Nacho answers.
"She's an omega."
I blink. "I know. I could smell her. I just said that."
"Late-presenting omega. Thought she was a beta."
"Oh." The pieces click together. "Oh God. She didn't know?"
"No idea."
I sink onto one of the kitchen stools, legs suddenly unreliable. Jessica is an omega. Has always been an omega. Buried under medication and wrong diagnoses and a system that failed her. All those years I thought I was attracted to a beta, but my alpha knew. Some part of me always knew she was meant to be ours.
"How do you know this?" I ask.
"Patricia texted me the intake form," Nacho says.
"That's a HIPAA violation."
"I'm the sheriff. I get special privileges."
"I don't think that's how it works."
The front door opens again and Pedro walks in, still in his white coat, looking like death warmed over. His dark hair is messed up like he's been running his hands through it. His wire-rimmed glasses are slightly crooked. His scent is all wrong—sage and honey but sharp with stress hormones.
"I need a drink," he announces. "A very strong drink. Maybe several."
Nacho pulls whiskey from the cabinet and pours him three fingers. Pedro takes it and drains half in one swallow.
"Okay, now I'm really worried," I say, trying for humor. "Pedro only drinks like that when someone dies or when he has to tell someone bad news."
"Worse than death." Pedro sets the glass down and runs both hands through his hair, making it stand up in spikes. "She's going into heat. First real heat. Her body is playing catch-up for years of suppression, and it's happening all at once."
The room goes silent.
Heat.
Jessica is going into heat.
