Nathan’s not in any better condition, but seemingly has more control.
“Renee led, I followed, but I don’t know if I have it in me to yield that much power to anyone else.” He lifts his chin high, looking down at me from eyes with little more than a thin line of brown around his pupils. “If I’m not the primary alpha in our pack, I won’t be the last or least, either. I must have some control over my fate, over when and how I bond.”
My alpha snarls again, although not clear whether he’s agitated over Nathan’s need for dominance rank or not getting to fuck or fight him.
“Are you a stronger dominant than Corin?” I ask. There’s not just the two of us in the mix, after all.
“I don’t know. We haven’t figured that out. In any case, it’s not just alpha dominance that matters, but also human will—at least for those of us who make it past fifty.” Nathan rolls his shoulders and adjusts his pants over his groin. “But Corin isn’t here at the moment, so the question instead becomes ‘which ofusrules?’”
“I don’t fight.” I step backward. The more space between us, the more a cool breeze passes around me, wicking away my sweat. Half of the heat warming me came from him. That, I miss, but not the dominance fights of my youth, or the risk of rut. “Too much of that when I first presented. Without medication I’d have been one of those alphas who didn’t make fifty.”
“You don’t fight, but neither do you truly submit. We’re going to have to choose, if we want Johanna and a pack.” Nathan crosses his arms, a curious choice of stance because it can assert strengthorbetray defensiveness. “Otherwise, one of us will have to walk away.”
That sounds like a threat, but directed at whom?
“Nathan.” As I say his name, I realize it’s the first time I’ve spoken it aloud. A chuckle escapes me, and as I continue, even I can hear the husky, teasing note in my voice. “Since weareover fifty, don’t you think we’re old enough to take turns?”
He stares at me, gaping, then throws his head back and laughs. “Lawrence and Renee would’ve loved you for that.” He cups my cheek, thumb stroking close to my lips. There’s a prickle of challenge there, an edge of dominance, but I’ve earned a smile from him at last. “Maybe. Just maybe. We’ll see.”
Then, he leans in for another kiss.
My alpha and I choose to let him.
Chapter 32
Different Ways of Grieving
CORIN
Last night was just Johanna and me. Tonight is all about Max.
Industrial filters cycle air from one end of the long room to the other, sucking out most of the personal scents, but nothing can completely remove the tangs of sweat and tears—or leather and paper. Johanna and I, along with assorted others of various genders, designations, and cultures, sit in a lightly cushioned chairs arranged around a table at a branch of the city library. The collections lodged in the room’s glass-fronted bookshelves are old, their bindings gilded, but no one in our group ever scans the titles, even on occasions where one of us gets up and turns away, pretending to examine at them.
We’re here to share our grief and support each other in finding ways forward without those we’ve lost or are in the process of losing. Most of us come straight from work, so outfits range from uniforms to suits and dresses to jeans and t-shirts. Business casual for myself, though my collar always feels too tight when I arrive, and my slacks and shoes heavy.
Johanna and I started attending the first Thursday after we realized Max was dying—at his request, though Johanna picked the specific group.
Over the past weeks, only once has more than one of the dozen chairs been left vacant. So much sorrow is shared in this room, it should drip. The hint of bitterness and salt always hits me the instant I walk in, as it does the few other alphas and occasional omega who come. Most regular attendees are betas and don’t notice, though even they often pause in the doorway and steel themselves before entering.
There’s a full crowd tonight, a whopping dozen of us. The group’s facilitator settles into the last empty chair, on the other side of Johanna and starts the meeting in the usual way: introductions.
We share however much or little we feel comfortable with, such as our names, what brings us here, and what, if anything, we wish to discuss. Everyone here has been before, in the months since Johanna and I first attended. We know each other but go around the circle, introducing ourselves, anyway. Nothing particularly new; mostly people sharing good memories, or sniffing as they admit to finding it hard to get up in the morning, or other things.
Until the cycle reaches Johanna.
“It’s been about three months since we started coming here, right?” Her voice is calm, thoughtful. She glances at me, and I nod. Close enough. Faint whiffs of tangy but sour cranberry roll off her, hinting at mixed emotions. “Maybe two months since Max died. When is it still too early to start a new life?”
Cold fills me. I sit, unmoving, barely breathing, as her words echo in my head, each repetition bringing a touch more dread.
Too early? Was she not ready? Did I push her too hard, too fast?
“The thing is,” she continues, sniffing and rubbing her nose as a few tears slip down her face, “I spent years building the company with Max and Corin, and I don’t regret any of it, but it’s not the same without Max. He was the zest. I don’t know what I want to do next—though I’ve got some ideas—but I also don’t want Corin and me keeping on keeping on at the company just because that’s what we might’ve done if Max were still alive.”
Her words split me, shred me. So many emotions pour through that I’m left unable to speak or respond, though I note her eyes darting my way time and again.
Relief—that she’s not alluding to regret over loving me, sleeping with me, fucking me. Worry—that she does regret, and she’s merely not addressing it before others. Uncertainty—she wants to leave our company? It’s not just Max’s, butours—all three of us.
And on and on; my head throbs with a myriad of fears and problems that hadn’t previous occurred to me previously. A roaring in my ears drowns out whatever discussion occurs in the aftermath of her words.
