“He said…” She scrubs the blanket over her splotchy face. “He said if I didn’t come back, he’d hurt you. I didn’t know what to do. B-but, I can take care of it.”
“Shush. Don’t talk like that.” My vision narrows to a pinpoint. “Did he say when you’re supposed to come back?”
“On Friday. He told me I’d better show up, or he’d send someone to fetch me.”
Four days. The timetable shifts, urgency replacing deliberation.
I stand and go to the kitchen, pouring her a glass of water to keep my hands occupied. I return and place it on her nightstand, not trusting myself to hand it to her without my fingers trembling.
“Drink.”
She obeys, her throat working as she swallows.
“You did nothing wrong,” I tell her again, projecting calm past the inferno building inside. “I’ll handle it.”
Fear flickers across her face, not of me, but of what I might do. “What do you mean?”
I consider lying, offering platitudes aboutreporting and restraining orders that won’t work. Once, I’d been forced to leave my baby sister in a dangerous environment, and I’d almost lost her. When I brought her home with me years later, I promised to always tell her the truth.
“It means he won’t touch you again.” I lean forward, my fingers light on her shoulder. “Not Friday. Not ever.”
Relief breaks across her features, followed by worry. “Ash, no. He’s an Alpha, and he’s big. You can’t?—”
“I’ll handle it,” I repeat in a tone that closes the subject. “Now drink your water and dress. We’ll take the eight-fifteen bus to the clinic.”
“Okay,” she says shakily and drains the glass in obedient sips while I go out to the living room.
There, I pull out my phone and send a message to Ironclad, cancelling my shift.
It takes an hour by bus to reach the Omega Outreach Clinic in Rockhaven. Its office is located on top of a luxury shopping mall, situated between a dentist’s and a therapist’s office.
There have been rumors we’re getting one inBrickwell, but that’s still more than a year away, as they rebuild the apartment complex they tore down in our shitty area to build affordable housing.
The waiting room is clean, with comfortable chairs lining the walls on either side of the door, and a glass partition separating the waiting patients from the woman behind the desk who takes Lena’s name and hands us a form to fill out.
Lena shrinks into the chair beside me, her shoulders hunched forward, the collar of her sweater pulled high to cover the Mark. Her fingertips drum a nervous pattern on her knees, and I place my hand over hers, stilling the motion without comment.
Posters line the walls, advocating for Omega rights, Heat safety, bonding laws, and Tuesday night support groups.
Other Omegas wait with us, each sitting alone. None make eye contact. A young man with bruises on his wrists stares at his phone. A middle-aged woman fills out forms with shaking hands. A teenager not much older than Lena flips through a magazine without reading it, her collar pulled as high as my sister’s.
The forms on my clipboard ask for insurance we don’t have and payment methods we can’t provide. I check the box for financial assistance and write “emergency services” in the reason for our visit section.
Lena leans closer to whisper, “What if they call the police?”
I squeeze her hand in reassurance. “They won’t unless we ask them to.”
It’s not entirely true. The clinic has a legal obligation to report unauthorized Markings of minors, but they can only do that if Lena reports the Alpha, and that’s not why we’re here.
A nurse in blue scrubs calls Lena’s name, and we follow her through a door that the lady behind the counter has to buzz us through.
She deposits us in an examination room with a paper-covered table, a rolling stool, a sink with a pump soap dispenser, and a cabinet secured with a combination lock. A computer monitor displays a screensaver of floating medical symbols, casting a blue glow across the sterile surfaces.
“The doctor will be in soon,” the nurse says, closing the door behind her.
Lena perches on the table, the paper crinkling beneath her.
I count the ceiling tiles, the floor tiles, calculate the square footage of the room, and the number of steps to the door. Numbers keep me groundedwhen everything else threatens to spin out of control.
