Discomfort faded. The bile sunk back into my belly. I opened my eyes just as we entered the hallway and hung a right, walking past the pack suite entrance.
“So…” Tray let the word hang in the air, as if hoping I’d offer an explanation. When I didn’t, he continued. “Piano lessons must be really rough these days. Teacher beat the shit out of you if you miss a note?” His tone was joking, but beneath the forced humor still threaded worry. I could tell his smile wasn’t genuine. His dimples were shallow.
“You’ve no idea, man,” I chuckled out weakly, “they’ve got an entire wall of medieval weaponry there. They chose the mace today. I’m going to have some epic scars for our next tour. Groupies will go ham."
“Seriously, Mac. You look like death warmed over.” The joking tone was gone, replaced with something that made my chest tighten. I hated when he got like this—all serious, boyish youth fraying. It meant something was honestly wrong, and right now apparently that something was me.
“Save the freak out for yourself,” I teased him, “You’re the one who decided to tackle college. Absolute madness if you ask me.”
“You’re changing the subject, Mac.” He pulled us to a stop outside my bedroom door. It was weathered, gone gray with age the way wood didon the coast after years of saltwater damage. I’d rescued it from an old, abandoned house in Washington State.
We’d all added little touches to the mansion, things that felt like us. Thanks to me, all the doors in our home sported vintage knobs with various designs that I felt were little surprises if you only looked closely enough. Tray insisted we keep that God awful bench, as well as selected the tobacco stain when we’d refinished the hardwoods. Dixon had outfitted the entire gym, no surprise, but he’d also insisted on picking out the curtains—going for a French provincial pattern that didn’t scream big ass Alpha at all. Ryder didn’t let us get a word in edgewise when the recording studio downstairs was designed. Honestly, the mansion was a hodgepodge of personalities. Probably strange to outsiders, but it was home to us.
“Did I change the subject?” I finally quipped, twisting the knob and pushing my door inward. “What were we even talking about?”
“You were going to tell me why you look like shit,” he said bluntly.
“I would, if in fact I looked like shit,” I countered, trying to put a silliness in my tone.
That uncharacteristic, serious expression stayed plastered on his face. I clapped a hand on my youngest pack brother’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“I’m fine, man. We’re all struggling in our own ways. Today’s just a… hard one.” I didn’t seem to convince him with my words, but there was nothing else to say.
Leaving Tray in the hallway, I moved into the sanctuary of my room. I reached behind me to close the door, pushing it back into place and not looking at him again. If I saw his face, still probably flooded with worry, I might tell him the truth.
My body carried me halfway to the bathroom before it fully gave out. I slumped to my knees; arms going limp against my thighs. Leaning forward, I dropped my head until my chin grazed my upper chest. The weariness and nausea came in waves now, receding before crashing back with greater force. It wasn’t just my knees abandoning me now; it wasmy entire fucking body. Every inch of me had taken an early trip six feet under, leaving my soul behind in a broken shell.
“Fuck,” I whispered to the empty room, words directed at the rug beneath me. I was grateful for the leopard print softness. It was a Tray pick. He’d said my bedroom was too sterile. I’d balked at the sight of the faux fur rug initially, but the gaudy thing had grown on me... unlike that horrid bench.
The second I didn’t feel like I’d throw up, I tilted over, collapsing fully against the floor. Stretching my legs out with great mental effort, I rested my boneless arms next to me, and I stared at the ceiling. It was boring, flat white. The whole room was like that, except for Tray’s animal rug. My bed was modern lines with zero pizazz. The comforter was fluffy down and millennial gray. The pillows matched. A few a shade darker than the comforter.Wait, I weakly smiled at the ceiling,that throw blanket appeared the other day, stretched out over the end of my bed. That wasn’t totally monotonous.The throw was a jarring, obnoxious splash of cardinal red. I hated it, and knew it was probably a Tray addition like the rug.
My bedroom was the one place in this mansion where I didn't have to pretend these days. No smiles, no reassurances, no ‘I'm fine’ bullshit. I didn’t have to be reliable, mature Mac. This room might be mundane central, but it was the singular haven keeping my descent into madness a secret.
I lifted an arm, testing my body.
The limb very clearly communicated that I shouldn’t move yet.
The treatments were getting worse. They’d warned me they might, but what choice did I have? Without them, I couldn’t keep ferality at bay. With them, I was able to function. I was able to hide the truth from the guys. The thread of sanity I still had left kept yelling at me to just come clean. There was an easier, less painful solution.
I needed to bond. My Alpha needed its scent match.
Fuck, we all did, but my biological clock was ticking loudly. Sometimes, I hated being the oldest of us. Ryder, Dixon and Tray could probably hold out longer for a good match if I wasn’t part of the equation. Yeah, Dix had it bad, but he was still dealing with things au naturel. If hestarted treatments, his results would probably keep the next ferality stages completely at bay. All they did in my case, at my age, was dampen the agony for a while.
It took about half an hour of complete stillness for my body to cooperate enough, allowing me to crawl into the bathroom. I crossed the cool, glossy tile to the tub and hoisted myself up to turn on the tap. Hot only. My skin was raw, sensitive, painful to touch, but I’d found in the past that the hotter the water, the quicker my body stopped acting out of whack.
Every bit of my energy went into undressing and pulling myself over the rim of the tub to sink into the volcanic water. It hurt like hell but was part of the post-treatment protocol. I’d been surprised at first, worried it would wash away the procedure’s effects. Doctor Moorehead had laughed, saying regular water couldn’t cleanse away the implanted blockers or the stripping agents pulsed into my pores.
It was only after my head submerged that I realized I’d left on my vintage watch. The face was already filling with liquid. That made me want to cry, even though it was just a material belonging. And the least of my worries these days. I stayed beneath the water, refusing to breathe.Was I punishing myself? For lying to the guys. For breaking the watch. For being too goddamn weak to overcome my inner Alpha needs?I didn’t know. Maybe I was disciplining myself for everything I’d ever done wrong. The laundry list of sin I’d written the minute I left my parent’s home and turned my back on their teachings to pursue fame.
When I pushed back up gasping for air, I slowly, deliberately, undid the watch’s band and gently placed the now-flooded timepiece on the small table near the tub which held soaking salts and bubble bath. I adjusted myself in the water, pushing my back against the supporting curve of the pale porcelain. I ignored the fact that I’d sloshed water all over the bathroom, an occurrence that would normally cause me to spiral into a cleaning frenzy.
Tomorrow would be better. Days two and three I always felt like a new man. The days after that... had just become a countdown until the next torturous trip to the clinic.
12
TESSA
4 DAYS AGO... SEATTLE SAINTS’ SHELTER
