My inner alpha does not approve. He has no long-term memory. He lives in the present.
Or is that all me?
There are several schools of thoughts about the tendency of alphas and omegas to refer to ‘their’ alpha or omega, asthough they’re separate entities within us. One school holds that there are no inner alphas or omegas, that those of us with these designations simply develop an oversized, overactive, overimaginative id in our late teens or early twenties, with occasional earlier or later presentations. That school—not coincidentally including many betas—argues young, rational waking minds cannot easily deal with the biochemical cocktails that morph otherwise beta bodies into abnormal proportions, and therefore attribute differences to a fictional inner entity.
A different theory holds that, in the moments of presentation, alpha and omega minds literally fracture into separate psyches, one based in instinct and the other carrying the weight of years of development, which enable it to mostly rule. In the fortunate, these two eventually reunite, while the less lucky self-medicate with alcohol, drugs, and violence unless they manage to get decent help and hormonal adjustment.
Then, there are the scientists who posit a preternatural mating between proto-humans and some extinct branch of ancient pre-canine or feline humanoid lineages, resulting in genetic inheritances that spontaneously manifest and change otherwise-normal beta humans into alphas and omegas. This school of thought argues that alphas and omegas inherit genetic material from these non-human lineages in different proportions—these also being present in betas, just unexpressed—and the competing genetic inheritances effectively make alphas and omegas battlegrounds of human versus animal natures.
I’ve read these and dozens of other explanations, and none of them satisfy. That said, if anything, I favor those who agree that some, if not all, alphas and omegas have interior psychological divisions or additional selves centered around instincts rather than rational thought, and it’s never guaranteed which side will dominate.
Fortunately, modern medicine has developed workable tools. Over-the-counter rut suppressors are little better than placebos, but the prescription stuff helps balance my alpha’s instincts with my need to survive in modern society.
The calm surroundings and lack of odors soothe my alpha. Without anything obvious to indicate the others’ designations, he’s curious but indifferent. One may be an alpha, given the interactions between the three, but without strong signals to that effect my alpha feels no need to establish dominance.
I’m less sanguine. I spend the minutes-long wait identifying signs of stress in myself—twitching toes, fingers tugging at an ear lobe or drumming against a leg—and suppressing them.
Finally, the receptionist tells me I can go on back. A straight path down a hall to the end, a walk through a door into a smaller suite of offices. An assistant at a desk to the side gives me a nod. A knock on another door. Then, I’m ushered into an office with only one occupant.
Johanna.
Meeting her alone wasn’t what I expected, but neither is it a surprise. Ensconced behind her desk, computer monitor off to one side, she doesn’t rise at my arrival. No smile, or open handshake, nor invitation to settle into one of the relatively comfortable-looking armchairs facing the desk.
I don’t presume to seat myself without the offer, so I hang back several feet from the desk rather than striding up and forcing her to choose between being seated but having to look up at me and rising to a more level playing field.
It’s for her sake, but not the way she might think, if she even considers the matter. Rather, I prefer to keep well out of arm’s reach because my alpha appreciates being close to her again. He always has. When I was young and stupid and in over my head, one of the few things we agreed on was that Johanna was worth every minute spent in her company, even when it involved heryelling at me. The angry warnings changed nothing, only time and the hard lessons time offers made a difference.
That, and luck smiling on me.
Despite the air purifier at work in the corner, a hint of cranberry sweetness, faintly tinged with must, clings to the room. It’shers, with her stamp all over it—not a hint of Max’s orange and rum anywhere, and only the vaguest hints of any other fragrances.
Her face holds more color than it did at the memorial service, a becoming blush despite her solemn expression. Sleek, silky fabric covers her upper body, shimmering with her every movement.
Gray glints in her hair as she looks up at me, still seated, but she’s as lovely now as ever.
Am I supposed to feel like a schoolboy called before the principal? If so, the intention fails, not by design, but because my inner alpha perks up at seeing her, drinking in the aura of calm we both remember from before.
Johanna sets her hands on the desk, one half-covering a pen, an attitude of control undermined by the faint but constant twitching of her little fingers. She realizes quickly that sitting while I loom tall before her, despite the distance, does not equate to a position of power and waves for me to take a seat.
The chair is well-cushioned, though it creaks under me.
She remains silent, just looking at me. Her elbows press tightly against her sides as she starts rolling the pen back and forth.
Max’s cousin sent the invite. His daughter confirmed my attendance.
If Johanna’s waiting here without them, it’s by her choice and their assent.
I’m fine with waiting, letting her set the terms of our encounter. But she’s uncomfortable, based on her old tells—twitchy fingers, stiff arms, and playing with things like pens—which unsettles my alpha. He wants to wrap her in our arms, purring and rocking her until she eases.
For his sake, I speak first. “Ask me anything.”
She jerks, letting go of the pen which rolls my way. “What?”
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll answer as best I can.” I’m no lawyer, but I know better than to offer more than I can promise. I catch the pen, still warm from her hands and smelling of her, and set it on the desk, although my alpha wants to tuck it into my pocket as a keepsake.
Her lips tighten; then, she nods. A bargain struck.
“Why did you demand I choose between you and Max?”
