Johanna’s whimpers wake me. High-pitched but soft, she utters a stream of “no-no-no-no.” Even in the dark, the tension in her body is obvious. Her head hangs back, spine arching and her hands clenching. Her arm brushes my bare chest as her lungs heave, fighting for breath. The air grows heavy with the pungent tang of souring cranberries.
“Shh, you’re safe, sweetheart.” I roll her into my arms and cradle her head against my chest. Her silky nightgown slithers under my fingers as I stroke her back. “Easy does—you’re safe.”
She shivers, but her whining eases, then vanishes into uneven panting. Her head turns back and forth, nosing my pecs. Scenting me, perhaps, or leaving her scent on me, a sign of instinctive possessiveness that warms me, despite her chilly nose. Even betas instinctively scent mark, whether or not they realize it, especially betas raised as she was, in large packs. Between us, her hands pressed between us are also cold.
The covers have fallen to our waists, so I yank the soft sheet and comforter back up and tuck them around her shoulders.
Suddenly, a stiffness betrays her waking. Her palms turn to press against my chest.
I pull back, putting a gap between us, which lets in a thin stream of cool air until the covers sag to block most of it. The sour edge to her scent remains, and this close, I can’t miss the glitter of tears trickling along her cheeks.
“Bad dream?” I ask, daring to brush moisture from her soft skin.
“Memories.”
I grimace, air whistling as I draw in a breath. I’ve lived my own nightmares in the dark so many times, though not for quite a while. “Want to talk about it? Might help.”
“Are you a therapist now?” She aims for a light tone, but her voice crackles.
“No, just the father of one, and someone who’s sat through hours of counseling to keep from falling to pieces.” Solo and joint counseling, before, during, and after the divorce to sort out the mess of regret over how everything went sour so fast—that, and deal with anger flares over how much damage my ex-wife did to my eldest daughter that I couldn’t prevent. She’d turned anger at me on our child, all because Anamaria presented as an omega and my beta ex-wife turned out to be a wanna-be omega. Not someone convinced she really was an omega—that I could have sympathized with—but a bitter person riddled with envy.
I also wanted to figure out how I’d wound up with a woman filled with resentment, so as to avoid repeating the mistake.
I try to hide my bitterness from my girls—the only good things to come from her—and not lay blame, no matter how tough. Caity still sometimes talks to her mother; she tells me up front before she does, and shares afterward how little her mother has changed. Bebe hints at calls on occasion, too.
Anamaria swings back and forth between blocking her mother and talking to her. None of us have in any doubt as towhy she’s pursuing counseling as a career: the better to heal herself and help avoid or mitigate similar hurts in others.
“Been there, done that.” Johanna sniffs and shivers at the same time, bringing me back to the present.
As I tuck the covers closer around her shoulders, vague memories pop up of seeing private meetings on her calendar off and on over the years—coinciding with the few instances she and Max had been at odds, and after her parents’ deaths.
“It’s not necessarily a one-and-done thing.” Which she knows as well as I, but the easy, trite words slip out rather than anything deeper.
“Yeah.”
Her body’s still tight next to mine, practically vibrating.
“Are you willing to share what you dreamed about?” I ask, stroking her arms. “Maybe I can shed some light.”
She doesn’t answer for long enough that I guess she won’t, but then, a shuddering breath escapes her.
“Max’s last heat.”
I hadn’t been around for that, of course. I always left the house to them. When my girls were younger, I turned the occasions into special trips, exploring different neighborhoods in the city if they were in school or going farther afield when they weren’t. Now that they’re grown, I get a short-term rental.
That last heat was not quite a year ago, maybe nine months? Thinking back, there was an odd tension in the house when I returned, but no one said anything. As so often happened, it was easier to not rock the boat, letting Max and Johanna decide whether or not to bring things up.
They usually didn’t.
After another long moment, she sniffs again. “I should have known something was wrong … it was so strange and awful.”
Her scent turns so sour that even she surely smells it. I breathe through my mouth, trying to parse out the underlyingemotions. Guilt, definitely, but I can’t figure out the rest except that the memory hurts.
Some injuries don’t heal easy, but others are better for being shared, opened so that bad emotions can drain out. I’m not a counselor, but I’m here in the moment. “Tell me about it?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you’re willing to share.” I stroke her back, her skin warmer under the slippery layer of silk. She shivers as she leans back into the caress. “Was it strange from the start?”
