He shrugs, the motion weighted with all his doubts. She looks to me for answers, so I explain Manny disappeared the morning the heat broke. “We’re going to reach out to him in a few days. See if the interest is still there.”
“If that’s okay with you,” Foster tacks on. He gives Hannah a firm look as he captures her hand on his jaw. “You are part of our pack, too. If you aren’t comfortable with us adding another Beta, then we won’t.”
That wasn’t something we had discussed post-heat. We’d both been eager to get home, and were distracted by Manny leaving. I push appreciation down our bond, grateful for his ability to cement her role in our pack.
Hannah swipes her lips across his, thumb brushing across his cheek. “I’d never deny you expanding your pack. Unless they were jerks or hated children.”
Our Omega melts, hearts filling his eyes as he twists his head to kiss her palm. “You’ll get to meet him before we bring up joining the pack. He has to accept all four of us, not just me or Shep.”
Their whispers continue, soft in the still apartment. My body is heavy with exhaustion from Foster’s heat, and I quickly drift into a dreamless sleep, wrapped in my mate’s scents and with hope for the future in my heart. We may not be free of the threats the Montgomery cult poses, but they seem more like an inconvenience when I imagine a life of joy with my pack.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I’m a coward.When I realized Foster’s heat broke, I threw my stuff into a bag and fled before either he or his Alpha woke up. No note, no message waiting on their phones, just an empty suite.
“Hado me ayudas.” I let my head thump against the back of the couch in my studio and stare up at the paneled ceiling. What mess have I created in my heart? The chemistry was there, clearly expressed in every interaction. And I ran from it.
Why am I like this?
Glancing at my watch, I push the self-deprecating thoughts aside. The work day is over, and I promised Mamá I would visit for dinner tonight. Traffic between here and my childhood home could take hours, so I need to move my ass. If I’m late, she’s going to kick my ass. Stepping into the elevator, I fight to keep my face neutral when I see Bea leaning against the corner. She’s a manager-in-training at the label, and worked in the production department for an internship before that. Weariness leaks from her body, mellowing her pineapple-coconut scent. “You good, Chica? Looks like you need a nap.”
Dark blue eyes flicker to me, and her lips twist into a scowl. “Fate fucking sucks.”
The aggression in her tone surprises me. She’s sassy and loud as fuck, but this maliciousness is new. “Oh?”
“Discovered I have another mate somewhere in the world,” she explains as we step into the parking garage. “Something I realized when the shared pain from their being tortured started.”
Well, shit, I have to agree. A Fated connection like that would be awful to live with. Shared pain is one of the many types of connections, and one of the rarest. They literally share any major pain they experience, from broken limbs to giving birth. Studies have been done on the limits of their connection, but there doesn’t seem to be an upward cap. I cannot imagine being plagued by someone else’s pain.
Talk of Fated connections pulls my thoughts back to the Wilsons. They are Fate-matched, too. Blessed with matching birthmarks, one of the simpler types. And one I do not share. My worries over not fitting into a pack that shares a soul-deep connection are part of what drove me away after Foster’s heat.
“Sounds like you’ve been dealt a shitty hand,” I tell Bea when she stops behind my car.
“Right!” She trudges off, passing her empty parking spot. I lean against my trunk and watch her, wondering where she’s going. Surprise parts my lips when she climbs into the passenger seat of a sleek, black Lexus. Behind the wheel sits one of the label execs, Shiloh Acherley.
“Damn, Chica, get it,” I smother a grin as they drive past me and climb into the driver’s seat of my beat-up Subaru. She might not be a luxury, but she runs great and can hold me and all five of my siblings.
My childhood home is a white picket fence dream. Flower beds overflow around the exterior, and crawling vines creep up the edges, bringing spots of color to the faded white paint. Light spills from the large bay window, and the sage green front doorswings open as soon as I open the gate. “Mijo! Welcome home!” Mamá calls, waving me inside.
Marisol Alfaro is an Omega standing at five-foot-two with the aura of an Alpha. She’s terrifying if you don’t know how soft she is beneath the rough exterior. I wrap her in a tight hug, absorbing notes of her marigold and anise scent. “Hola, mamá. What’s for dinner?”
“Pambazos. I made extra to send back. You need to eat properly, not survive on takeout.” She pats my cheek, heading into the kitchen.
We pass the living room where two of my Alpha fathers are engrossed in old soccer footage. Their obsession with the sport inspired my older brother’s career. Lorenzo was a soccer prodigy in New York, gaining enough attention to be picked up by a professional team. Now, he plays for the Peruvian national team. He’s the pride of our family, though my parents do not favor one of us over the others.
I leave them be, not wanting to join their bickering. Even with games they’ve watched hundreds of times, they will spend the evening arguing over them.
“What eats at your heart, Mijo?” Mamá asks when I join her at the kitchen island. She’s donned a pale blue apron covered in tiny white flowers. A gift from my Omega father before he passed two years ago.
“I’m fine.”
She doesn’t buy my lie, aiming a wooden spoon at me and glaring. “Conozco tu corazón hijo. I can tell when something is bothering you. Tell me while you help prepare the filling.”
A plate of cooked potatoes and chorizo slides across the counter, and a masher is pressed into my hand. This is where I spent my childhood. Working in the kitchen alongside Mamá and my abuela. Laughter and love filled the kitchen. Musicplayed in the background. It’s what I’ve always wanted for myself.
“I helped another Omega through his heat last week,” I tell her, eyes trained on the plate. The steady motion of breaking apart the potatoes and mixing them with the meat helps steady my thoughts. “Being with them—him and his Alpha—was like… this.” I wave my hand around, careful to use the onenotholding the masher.
Mamá hums. “They felt like home.”
