“I’ve called and texted. He’s not responding.”
“Try. Again.” It’s a growl, not a bark, but I quickly hit the call button. No point in pissing him off any more than he already is.
The phone rings once through our Land Rover’s speakers before switching to voicemail.
“You’ve reached Saint. You know what to do.”
“I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing, but when I finally see you, you better have some fucking answers.” This time he does bark, sharp but useless over the phone.
I end the call. I hope he’s listening to his voicemails.
“I don’t understand. Why would Saint walk out on his mate?”
Silas exhales slowly before responding. “He’s depressed. I should have talked to him about it. Just thought it would pass.”
Yeah. Me too. I‘m not always good at knowing what to say. But I knew Saint was suffering. His mom’s passing was sudden and they were close. And then there was the accident at work. That’s when he really fell away from our pack.
We failed him. Both of us. I've read enough about grief and trauma response to have recognized the signs earlier. I did recognize them. I just didn't know what to do with what I saw. But one look at Silas’s face tells me he is taking all the blame.
“I should have talked to him. Forced him to see a counselor.” His voice is all gravel and pain.
“Still can… when we finally get in touch with him. But now, we need to worry about our omega.”
Silas flexes his right hand. His left still has a chokehold on the wheel. We’re parked now. Every alpha instinct I have is screaming at me to get out of this car. I’m barely holding myself back.
“She may not be ours,” he warns.
I nod. It’s possible. My instinct says she is, though.
“Promise me you’ll becool.”
Me? Cool?
I run a mental checklist. Don’t talk about research. Don’t mention statistics. Don’t purr. Or do? I have no idea what I’m walking into.
“I’ll be good. I promise.”
“Mr. Caron, thank you for coming.” A small omega steps forward and grasps Silas’ hand. “I’m Alice. We spoke on the phone.” She turns to me and extends her hand. “And you must be another packmate.”
“I’m Graham Wiley,” I say. “Is she doing okay?”
Her eyes dart to the door to my right before looking back at me. “She’s… hurting. I’ve never witnessed a spike like this. She may require medical attention.”
A muscle ticks in Silas’ jaw. “Can we see her?”
Alice hurries ahead. “Of course. We’ve moved her to a nesting room. This way.”
We follow behind, Silas taking the lead, as is his right as the pack alpha. I force myself to remember that when I get the first hint of her. Warm caramel, thick with something deeper underneath, sweet enough to make my mouth water. My alpha urges me to push ahead.
Mate!
Every paper I’ve ever read on scent recognition describes it as unmistakable. They weren’t wrong.
Silas’ body jerks forward. He feels it too.
Our omega.
Alice opens the door. My mate’s sticky caramel scent floods my nose. So thick I can taste it. My own chocolate and hazelnut scent spikes in answer. Embarrassingly thick, even to my own nose.
