“It’ll help.”Dixon shoved a protein bar and Alpha tonic in my face.
“Thank you.” I took the items reluctantly, not in the mood to eat anything. I never liked to eat when I felt unsettled.
He limped towards Ryder then Tray, offering the same, before collapsing back onto the sofa with two protein bars and three tonics for himself. He’d lumbered out after checking Tray’s ribs, determining that a few might be bruised, but not broken and returned with the nourishment. It was strange, after the endless months of watching Dixon deteriorate, to see him in a softer light as he checked over our injuries and got us something to eat. He took care of me, and the others, all while hobbling around on a bum leg after popping his own knee back into place.
The atmosphere after our fight to the death brawl—which obviously hadn’t ended in a ‘there can be only one’ resolution—was not unlike radio static. Something was there, a feeling that didn’t belong, but it wasn’t clear anymore. We had to decide whether to turn the dial left or right, tuning into either a channel filled with rage towards one another, or a channel filled with what had always played in the background of ourlives—brotherly affection and loyalty. I knew what my vote was, even though the tiniest sliver of my psyche still wanted Tessa for myself.
My face throbbed and my middle ached, but my arm had gotten the brunt of the battle damage, dislocating painfully. Dixon had popped it back into place earlier, playing the age-old trick of saying he’d count to three and then wrenching sharply when he hit two. I kept shaking my arm gently now, hoping the repetitive movement would chase away the tingling numbness. That tactic always worked when my hand fell asleep while endlessly jotting down music notes. Dislocation was a different story though it seemed, not so easily erased.
Dixon said it would probably suck for a while. The ligaments stretched too far, and the healing process, even with therapy, likely wouldn’t return them to their original position. He’d already given me stretching pointers to help the issue. I flicked a quick look at the gym-loving Alpha. He’d already downed the tonics—the evidence piled in his lap—and was working on his second protein bar. His coloring looked good. His posture was relaxed. His expression was even neutral bordering pleasant.
“I think I did good work on the mantle,” Dixon quipped out of the blue, no sign of anger in his voice or even the shame that usually followed a feral outburst. “Very postmodern destruction.”
“Should be in a museum, Dix. It’s got style.” Tray was leaning slightly to the left with one palm pressed against his side as he sipped the tonic.
Dixon chuckled. “I really do feel better. I feel...” He suddenly smiled—a wide, beaming, pre-feral Dixon smile. “Fuck, I feel like myself. I mean, would feel better without the busted knee, but still.”
“I’ll trade you for my shoulder.” I arched an eyebrow.
“Hell, no,” Dixon grunted, “Been down that road more than once already.” He started rambling. Dropping terms like Hill-Sachs legions and explaining rotator cuff complications. He segued into popliteal artery and compartment syndrome. His expression shifted between joy and thoughtfulness and enthusiasm over some type of injury he’d remembered.
After the biggest fight we’d ever had, the ‘brute’ of our pack was moreanimated and carefree than he had been in ages. He was smiling and chuckling. I tended to tune Dix out when he got too clinical, but this time I kept listening as he rambled on about tendons and post-dislocation care. He was acting like his old self. The gentle giant we’d all missed.
“If you keep saying things like anterior cruciate ligament, Dix, I’m going to get the best nap of my life, and not just because I’m pretty sure I’m concussed,” Tray finally broke into Dixon’s endless data download.
“You weren’t complaining when I saved you a trip to the ER,” Dixon responded good-naturedly.
“Won’t do me much good if a slip into a boredom-induced coma,” Tray vaults back. They launched into one of their never-ending banters.
Screwing off the tonic’s cap, I knocked it back quickly while enjoying the Alpha energy that typically filled our mansion. It beat the hell out of growling at one another.
The tonic’s taste was passable, sour and milky. Sour and milky didn’t sound passable actually, but it reminded me of these small probiotic drinks we’d had in Korea while on tour. An acquired taste. Drink finished, I capped the bottle and leaned over to set the empty container on the leaning, damaged coffee table. My eyes locked on Tessa’s gown and my inner Alpha stretched forward, desperately wanting to grab the item and race from the room. I took a deep, calming breath—though all that did was suck her scent deeper into my lungs—and leaned back against the cushions.
Deliberately, I stared at where the ceiling met the wall in front of me, fighting the urge to glance back down. Ripping open the protein bar, I nibbled purposefully. Chewing was something to distract me, so I’d make the bar last. Even though it was mint chocolate, a flavor that I loathed.
While I forced down the protein abomination, I checked on Ryder from the corner of my eye. He was still quiet, more subdued than the rest of us. Blood had dried on his forearms, the shallow grooves from his own nails looking painful but not deep enough to need stitches. Unlike Dixon's talkative, newfound lightness and Tray's trademark witticisms—though his quips weren’t paired with grins right now—Ryder seemed lost in thought, eyes repeatedly drifting to the medical gown on the table.
When there was a lull in Dixon and Tray’s banter, I wedged in my own voice.
“Ryder, what are you thinking about, man?" I didn’t try to probe quietly. We never used to have secrets. We’d only started keeping them as a mode to cope against our growing feral natures.
He startled slightly, as if he'd forgotten we were all in the room together. “Yeah. Just... processing.”
“The whole ‘it’s really the girl from Seattle’ thing," I said, not posing my words as a question.
"Almost two years," he murmured, gaze unfocused and voice thick. "So. Many. Damn. Months of desperately wanting to find her. Killing myself trying to convince you guys that I wasn’t crazy. Now, she’s just magically our Omega? It’s hard to swallow, even if it’s the best damn thing that could happen.”
“Fate can feel like magic. Sometimes we’ve just got to let it be inexplicable.” The protein bar was done, thank fuck, but its taint lingered on my tongue. I should have saved the Alpha tonic for last.
“Not magic,” Tray stood up, flourishing jazz hands and trying to grin despite the painful purple-hued bruise splashed across his face. “Science. Weird science. Course, maybe it’s not real. Maybe we’re all caught in a very strange, erotic dream. Fuck, maybe we have malaria.” He dropped his hands, frowning. “How the hell are you smiling, Dix? My face hurts like shit.”
“How the hell are you quoting that stupid movie at a time like this?” Dixon met his question with a new one. “Or what I should say is—how the hell are you poorly quoting that stupid movie?”
“Movie’s a classic,” Tray shrugged. “And I was close enough. Anyway, I’ve got to piss.” Without another word, he padded out of the living room and towards the entrance’s half bath.
The static was back.
The radio dial waiting for us to decide the direction we’d channel surf.
