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I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. We told her she was pack. We promised her she’d be with us no matter what she presented as. She was ours and we were hers and then we took that away from her without explanation days before she presented.”
“She didn’t give us a chance to explain,” Jackson mutters, eyes focused on the pages in front of him. He’s still stuck on that. On how she left without giving us a chance to explain. But I can’t fucking blame her. We didn’t try hard enough to find her after she left. So sure that she just needed a chance to cool down, to think things through, to remember that we love her.
But she was dealing with so much more than we thought.
Of course, she never would have come back given the choice.
I tap the stack of papers in his hand, and then move to sit at the island, snagging Asher’s glass of wine and downing it in a couple of gulps. He gives me a look then asks, softly, “So what does this mean?”
“It means for the last seven years, ever since she presented, she’s been sick, slowly dying.” No need to sugarcoat it for them. It’s the fucking truth, and we did it to her. “The suppressants she’s on mitigates a lot of the pain that she would feel if she wasn’t on them. Most people who have this affliction get physically ill if they try to have a relationship with anyone outside of the pack that rejected them. They feel exhausted, depressed, and have a lack of appetite.” I think of the dark circles under her eyes, the weight she’s lost, literally wasting away.
“Then why the fuck is she staying away from us?” Jackson growls out. “If she’s sick all the time and being with us can heal her, why the fuck isn’t she here? Why didn’t she come back the second she was diagnosed?”
I take another deep breath. “She thought we bonded Yasmin. She thought we wouldn’t want her because we already had an omega.”
Asher nods. “It makes sense that she would try to avoid news of us. Especially if she was sick. Seeing the wrong news article could have made her sicker, her symptoms worse.”
Jackson runs a hand down his face. “She wouldn’t have seen when the agreement fell apart, or that Yasmin bonded with Pack Padlow. All this time she’s thought we were a complete pack, likely popping out babies, and happily bonded to another omega.”
“Fuck this,” Ford mutters, tossing the papers on the counter and heading toward the door.
“You can’t,” I say, sliding in front of him with one hand up. He bristles, his chest swelling and his pheromones soak into the air. Anger and frustration, but also a fair amount of fear. He’s afraid for Vee. “I get it, Ford,” I say, gripping his shoulder, not backing down. “Fucking believe that I get it. But you can’t force this. She needs to make the choice to come back to us, and we need to have a plan to make that happen.”
Asher nods, his dark eyes running over the information in the packet I made for them. “If you try to force it, she’ll run away again. And she won’t get any better.”
I point at him and nod. “Exactly.”
I can tell Ford wants to fight me on this, but he eventually gives me a tight nod. “Fine. Then what do we do?”
Rule 16: Accidents happen
The presents start arriving the next morning, with a delivery of sweaters, t-shirts and sweatshirts that smell like my guys. When I open the box, the overwhelming scent of my favorite breakfast hits me. Sweet Irish coffee. Maple Bacon. Eggy French Toast. Sweet, crisp cinnamon apples. Refreshing lemon and mint.
My stomach literally growls at the delicious mixture, and then slick floods my panties.
So not fucking fair.
It doesn’t stop me from fishing out a hoodie that smells like apples and tugging it over my head, burying my nose in the collar.
If one or more of those articles of clothing make it into my bed, blending in with the pillows and blankets, I’m not telling. Even if I sleep better than I have in ages with all of their scents around me.
The next day, while I’m curled on the couch in Ford’s t-shirt and a pair of leggings, a selection of pastries from Bonheur is dropped on my doorstep. Stacks of books, binding supplies, bottles of wine that probably cost more than a monthly mortgage payment, flowers, a variety of foods that I adored when I was a teenager. The softest, coziest blankets, pillows and clothing. Everything from leggings to sweaters, to soft knit thigh-high stockings, robes, slippers and socks.
There’s other clothing too. Designer labels that make my eyes bulge. Lingerie, dresses, shoes, jeans that fit like a glove and feel like leggings. Vintage band tees. An entire box of them, including a very rare 1979 tour shirt for The Hidden Rails, I’ve been drooling over since I was a teen and I know cost more than a new car payment.
It’s a week of deliveries before I see them again. Not surprising because I’ve spent most of the time either hiding in my little bungalow or with Cody, going over plans for the renovation. I’m half tempted to tell him to do the bare minimum to get it up to code and in selling condition, but he seems to want my input on everything, from layout to cabinet design in the kitchen, tile and paint colors.
And through it all, in the back of my mind, is this awareness, this buzzing that reminds me they’re close. That they’re in the same city as me, in the same neighborhood even. I swear I’ve seen flashes of their faces in the windows of the cars that drive by, sometimes on the sidewalk outside my house.
I don’t know if they’re handling some of the deliveries or if they’re just checking up on me periodically.
After telling Davis about my condition, I’d thought for sure they would be pounding down my door, demanding that I move in with them, that I let them take care of me. They aren’t, and that makes me feel torn. My omega is sure it means they don’t want us, is feeling that sting of rejection, even as she revels in every single gift they send to us. My other, more rational side is so grateful they’re giving me space.
Of course, I should know it wouldn’t last long.
I’m knee deep in receipts and spreadsheets, wishing I was working on designing book covers for a new series I just finished, when my phone buzzes with a text from Bethany.
Bethy:
