My phone buzzed again. Then again.
This time I walked over and snatched it up, ready to tell Catalina I was managing just fine, when I saw the notifications weren't from our beloved Beta at all.
Had the clinic staff sensed my weakness across the miles?
Creepy as fuck, like when an advertisement for a product you’d mentioned out loud in passing pops up the second you get on social media.
I swiped to open the message, dread pooling in my stomach somehow making me feel both hot and cold simultaneously.
Mister Masters, your next treatment is coming up!
The exclamation point felt too cheery. I could almost imagine the staff member wearing a simpering smile as they typed. The second message was fucking worse.
Emergency appointments are available 24/7. Don’t wait until it’s too late!
Please call the clinic at 555-904-3110 to schedule. Delaying treatment increases risk of rapid deterioration.
They could drag me back there when I was dead, body gone cold, and ready for a dirt nap.
As a reminder, do not respond to these automated messages.
I stared at the screen, my jaw clenching involuntarily. They knew. Somehow, they always knew when an Alpha was sliding closer to the edge. Whether it was some kind of database tracking system or just medical intuition honed by years of treating desperate, feral-adjacent patients, the damn clinic had impeccable timing.
The scent of browning eggplant snapped me back to the present. I quickly removed the slices that were now nearly past edible, too charred even for Tessa. Shit. I should have stuck with more tea sandwiches. Something simple. Absentmindedly, I took two more pieces of the prepped, coated eggplant and dropped them into the oil. It snapped, crackled, sending oil spattering higher than the sides of the pan. The scorching oil hit my right hand, searing across my knuckles. I hissed out a garbled ‘fuck’, then jerked my hand back. The damaged skin was turning a startling crimson already. I moved to the sink, slamming on the tap and pushing my hand under the cold stream of water. It blasted against the heated injury in a jarring, life-affirming way.
I let my head loll forward, eyes half closing. The kitchen around me was still swimming with white noise. Vent fan. Sizzling food. Running water. I couldn’t hear Josie anymore; she must have left the kitchen. My hand throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I tried to shake off the pain, but it wouldn’t let go.
My mind began to wander, needing distraction for a different reason now. What came to mind then—as if summoned because she was the cure for all my ailments—was Tessa after a shower. Hair still soaking wet, though the curls were already tightening up. She never used a hairdryer, said she’d gotten out of the habit while homeless. What had she been wearing after her last shower? A button-down shirt left open at the neckline to reveal the top of her bralette. Loose linen pants. She’d quietly walked into the living room, smiling softly. We’d locked eyes andher smile had faltered, but only for a heartbeat before it had bloomed miraculously again.
In that moment, I’d thought she was too beautiful. Seeing her had sent an ache through my chest.
As soon as the pulsing discomfort subsided enough, I turned the water off, dried my hand, and stomped back to my cell phone. I deleted the clinic messages without responding.
Being burned solidified that I’d rather endure what was happening to my body versus submit to another round of brutal scent stripping. I still felt hollow and broken from the last time.
I let myself get lost in the meal prep now, moving mechanically, wincing here and there as the burn reminded me it still existed.
When the bread was in the oven and all that was left was to boil the gnocchi for a few moments, I began to reset the kitchen, erasing the way I’d blown through it like a culinary hurricane. I’d already prepped the dining space, fresh flowers at the center, dinnerware artfully arranged on the round table. I was running out of things to do.
Was Tessa still sleeping? She looked so small when on the oversized bed in the pack suite, her petite body nearly hidden as it sunk into the plush mattress. Maybe she was awake and reading. Lying on her side, a paperback held in one hand, looking like a literary goddess. God, I wanted to touch her.
What else could I do? How else could I keep busy?
I poured myself a glass of merlot and then went into the pantry, mind set on rearranging everything inside until the ache in my heart subsided to the background to join the pain of the burn.
A meow ten minutes later announced that Josie had returned. Pitching my voice into the silly cat one, I greeted her. Well, I greeted myself.
“Mac, I’m back. Meow, meow.” I took a sip of wine, then set the glass back on the pantry shelf.
“Hello again, silly cat,” I quipped, shifting a jar of whole wheat flour.
“Flour, Mac? Do I need to make a mess again?” I asked in ‘Josie’s’ voice.
“Only if you’ve learned to work a broom,” I countered as myself.
“She can’t work a broom, but I can.” This… wasn’t my voice. This washervoice.
I startled, stumbling back and knocking over boxes of cereal I’d momentarily placed on the floor. “Tessa, sorry. I didn’t realize you were there.” I ran a hand over my head, trying to tame my disheveled hairdo, before snagging the wine glass and bumbling my way out of the pantry closet. I found her leaning against the island, face amused, bright eyes sparkling.
