The little mouse’s face falls, his eyes growing big and swimming with sympathy.
I’m not quite sure what’s happening to me tonight, but I seem to be comfortable talking about things I’m not usually comfortable talking about. No, comfortable isn’t the best way to put it. It’s more an urge, a need to hear myself talk about these things.
“Never, not once out of all the times I heard her say it, did my father deny it.” When I say the words, I find that the pain they usually deliver, while still there, has softened. Perhaps enough time has finally passed for me to tell the rest of their story. It’s a story I’ve never told anyone. Words I’ve never said aloud for fear they’d wake old memories that can’t be put back to sleep. “It broke my mother’s heart, as you can imagine.” Jensen nods and presses his shoulder against mine. “Day by day, the sickly bond that bound her to my father corroded pieces of her.”
Telling my parents’ story hurts, but in a different way than I imagined it would. It’s not the reality of them that hurts most. It’s the relief that, for the first time in my life, I have someone I can talk to about things like this.
Jensen is silent, spreading his gaze evenly between me and the wall in front of us. Keeping close, but not crowding me. Making me feel seen as well as heard.
I find myself wanting to tell him the rest of the story, looking forward to it rather than dreading it. I want to tell him my parents’ story because I want him to know why I am the way I am. “Over the years, my mother’s love for my father turned bitter and twisted, and when I was nine years old”—I inhale andtry to steady my breath, as a sharp pang bruises my lungs—“she died by suicide.”
The hand on my arm clenches tight, and a lovely face tilts up to face me. Jensen doesn’t push or rush me. He simply stands beside me and lets me take all the time I need to finish the story. I breathe through the pain for as long as I need to, and then say, “My father didn’t survive the death of the bond. Our kind seldom does.”
The hand on my arm moves, leaving me, and for a second, I feel cold, but he quickly wraps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me tightly. “Oh God. Alfie, I’m sorry. How awful.”
“It was, but it was a stark and necessary lesson for me,” I tell him, sniffing as I lean in to his embrace. “It took me a long, long time to see it that way, but eventually, I did. I learned firsthand the worst this cursed gene can do, and I learned it in the hardest way possible. As I stood at the graveside at my parents’ funeral, I made a vow to myself that I would never,everbite for anything but love.
“It’s a vow I live by, and one I’d rather die than break. Because of it, I spent many years searching for love. When I was a young man, I was wildly optimistic. I used to come in here, look at all the frames on the wall, and feel certain a love match would find me. I lived every day as though it were the day something amazing would happen. I was hopeful, my head chock-full of stories like Grandfather and Poppy’s.
“It never occurred to me that love wouldn’t happen for me. I traipsed through life looking for my mate without a care in the world, and as a result, I affected many omegas. I dreaded hurting people, of course I did, but I truly believed that it was only a matter of time before I found my mate. I comforted myself by thinking that as soon as I did, everyone I’d affected would be released from their obsession with me. But years passed, and the dread grew. I became painfully aware that the odds of me findingmy mate were fading. That the damage I was causing could no longer be justified.” I clutch my hand to my chest and press hard at the endless ache that still lives there. “But I had this awful spark of hope, this awful knowing that my person was out there, that just wouldn’t dim.
“I waited for as long as I could. Longer than I should have. I waited until an omega who crossed my path was so badly hurt by my selfish, naive romantic notions that he tried to harm himself because of the despair I caused him. His name was Edgar, and for me, that was it. Hearing what he’d tried to do was the day hope died and I accepted my fate.
“I’d known about suppressants for years by then, of course. I’d discussed the possibility of going on them with my doctor many times. But until then, I’d fought going on them for all I was worth.”
Jensen looks up at me, eyes honey-brown and notably clear of judgment. “Because of how terrible the side effects are?”
I smile sadly at him and shake my head. “No. Not because of that. Because I knew that without my sense of smell, I wouldn’t be able to recognize my mate, even if, by some miracle, we were to meet. For years, that was the worst, most tragic thing I could possibly imagine. Then, what happened with Edgar happened, and I finally understood that there are worse things than that. So, I began treatment.”
“Was it very hard, taking the medication?”
“Yes, it was hard.”
Despite being fully informed about the side effects, going on the suppressant was harder than I thought it would be. Though my doctor tried, nothing could have prepared me for a world without scent. It was like a dimension of life had ceased to exist. I found myself on a narrow, barren plane where the absence of joy was the only constant. Many nights, I sat on the edge of my bed holding a blister pack that contained a single tablet in myhands. The antidote. My doctor had given it to me, explaining that it was for emergencies only, though he didn’t go into detail about what kind of emergency would necessitate taking it. I’d always presumed it would involve aiding a surprise heat, or something like that. He warned me that if I took it, going back on my suppressant would be even harder because the side effects are worsened by going on and off treatment. In the early years, it was the thought of feeling worse than I already did that, despite the desperate allure of respite from how awful I felt, had me putting the blister pack into my top drawer every night, unopened.
“When you think about it, it’s for the best, really,” I say to lighten the mood. “My line will die with me, and no one else will need to suffer.”
He nods thoughtfully, making me think he’s in agreement, and then says, “If you knot early, you’re likely to have girls.” I snort and look at him incredulously. He raises his shoulders and brows in faux innocence. “What can I say, my lord? Ihateseeing handsome men upset.”
The little mite. He’s incorrigible. I snort and give him a firm swat on the rear. “Do you flirt this much with all alphas, little mouse? Are you sure that’s wise? I’m sure most of them aren’t as gentlemanly as I am.”
“Pfft, as if you’d be a gentleman if you weren’t on a suppressant.”
“How very dare you! I’ll have you know I’m—”
“And I’ll haveyouknow,” he interrupts, holding a hand up to silence me, “that I flirt withallhandsome men, regardless of their designation, so please don’t feel too complimented.”
Despite how ridiculous he’s being, his expression remains so solemn that I can’t help but burst out laughing. While I’m doubled over, he takes the opportunity to shove me out of the way and runs like a bat out of hell out of the room.
It takes me a moment to recover, so by the time I’m upright enough to give chase, he has quite a lead. When I get him in my sights, he’s racing down the stairs.
He takes the stairs two at a time.
I take them four at a time.
20
Jensen
