“I’m sorry.”
Fifth time I’ve said that? Sixth?
True, I usually offer apologies easily, but this time, there’s more at work. No matter how many times uttered, the words remain true, yet incapable of encompassing the whole of my regrets.
Reassurance warms the bond tying me to Dan, alternating between a trickle and a flood because he’s still figuring out how our connection works. Only three or four hours—I’m a bit blurry on time—have passed since I bit him. The bleeding has stopped, but the mark remains red and swollen.
The cold doesn’t help. We’re side by side in his zipzap, rattling through the streets between my home and Corin and Johanna’s. The plan is for the four of us to spend the weekend together figuring out what to make of the situation. The backseat now holds Dan’s overnight bag by virtue of a side trip to his home while I was packing mine, which sits next to his—along with an additional bag containing cat food and medications, anunopened bag of litter, and a clean litter box in the footwell below.
In their crates, my cats share the remainder of the backseat, making their unhappiness known with pitiful meows.
A few assorted snowflakes dust the bushes and yards we pass, but have yet to accumulate on the street. They dance about thanks to wind gusts that whine through cracks along the windows, filling the vehicle with a bitter chill. The street lamps blink on as twilight combines with snow to make a magical scene straight out of a movie.
I huddle in my coat and hat. Dan does likewise, but his coat only covers his left side and right shoulder, sleeve loose behind him. His right shirt sleeve is rolled up to let the mark breathe.
I touch the skin just below. “I need to tend that.” Need to lick the marks, nurse them, share the healing properties of alpha saliva so the bite will heal into a clean, glowing scar.
In return for his reassurance, I send care and concern through our bond as best I can. It’s been ages since I had a new bond. The previous were slightly different from each other, as this is from them, yet this feels already strong and resilient.
For now.
Half of my work deals with the aftermath of bonding—not the happy kind.
Most of the differences between alpha, beta, and omega physiology make a certain degree of scientific sense. Bonds don’t. They’re one of the few things nearly everyone agrees on as magic.
Mating bonds connect disparate people, allowing them to share emotions and read their mates better, but with certain caveats: when one tunes into another through a bond, one can learn what they’re feeling—share in it—yet it lacks context, leading to assumptions about the source of the emotion, usually with high odds of being wrong. Further, with practice, matescanlearn to block the bond wholly or in part—and to hide their emotions.
After all, why else would my law practice see so many clients seeking to dissolve them?
Yet that undersells bonds’ power. The mere existence of the new connection between Dan and me is electrifying. It changes all manner of things. I’m a remade man with a mate, however temporary. Bonding with Dan has grounded me, forcing me to face how untethered I’ve been these last weeks and months.
That’s why I keep apologizing.
To Johanna, for my alpha taking over and trying to bond her.
Corin, for the same.
A different apology goes to my assistant Zan, who now has the onerous job of clearing my calendar for the remainder of the day, which basically means apologizing profusely to the one client on my schedule—who is, unfortunately, easily offended. I’ll add a bonus to Zan’s next paycheck, yet it’s only proper to extend my regrets for their having to deal with burden.
Most of all, I apologize to Dan.
Thing is, I’m not actually sorry. I regret my alpha taking over and setting everything in motion, but we’re in agreement about wanting Johanna as a mate. Of course, that now extends to Corin, if not quite as readily—and, more importantly, to Dan.
If anything, I’m happy with this bond and its timing. My connection with Dan serves as a revelation, a comfort, an anchor beating next to my heart, regularly flooding me with reassurance that, where there’s life, there’s room for mistakes, apologies, and connection.
No wonder a forest composes the base notes of his scent. He’s a tree, grown straight and strong, capable of withstanding the winds of fate. Every breath brings that to me, overriding the lingering funk in the zipzap.
“It’s not permanent,” I say as we turn onto Johanna and Corin’s street, as much to remind myself as him. “The bond will fade within a month or two.”
“Unless I bite you back. I understand.” We stop at a corner while a tram crosses. He reaches back to pat the cat carriers, earning a hiss from Fluffy. “Why do you keep reminding yourself?”
“Guilt.” I like the look of my mark on his arm too much, and the fact that his scent now carries a faint hint of mine—probably likewise. Any alpha who comes near enough will know he has a mate.
That part of the bond is familiar and welcome—I carried traces of my mates wherever I went.
“Is that all?” he asks as we start up again.
“Isn’t it enough?” I can’t tell if he senses my relief at having a bond again.
