That’s slightly more tempting than dragging myself back to the kitchen, but when I pull out my phone, I find four missedcalls and a bunch of unread texts. Most are from Glory and Patch, but I linger over the single, stark message from Ark:TRUST ME TO FIX IT.
My first instinct is to shoot him a rude emoji, especially because my heart squeezes with remembered longing. Once upon a time, all I ever wanted was for someone to fix the world for me. To free me from a situation I was too young and helpless to escape on my own. But I found my escape in the end, and maybe it wasn’t perfect, but I got to watch my demons burn to ash at my own hand.
A hand that now shakes so hard, I have to toss the phone aside. Ark is persistent, but my resentment is ironclad. It’s going to take more than a sprinkle of promises to sweeten me up.
He doesn’t want me.
He wants to start over.
Yeah, well, you can’t always get what you want, can you?
I try to escape back to sleep, but the ghosts have burrowed under my skin, and I move restlessly against the sheets. It helps to bury my face in the lingering pockets of Pitt’s scent, but as the hours crawl by, they grow fainter. Or maybe my own stench just grows stronger, drowning them out. The itch under my skin is definitely harder to ignore, and I eventually roll onto my belly, pressing my thumbs into the scar tissue on my back. There’s hardly any sensation there anymore, but it still makes me shudder. I also can’t stop my thoughts from looping back to the alpha in the gym. How did he get the scar on his face? Were those scars on his chest the reason he works out in an empty gym? But why doesn’t he just cover them up? Or does he feel like I do, that he’s a stranger in his own skin?
A stranger who commanded me to stay away, becausehe doesn’t want me.
Plain and simple.
I groan and roll onto my back, wishing I could rewind the clock and avoid the club at all costs. Or maybe I just need to avoidmyselffor a little while.
The way I’m whining and obsessing, anyone would think I’m bond sick...
I freeze, staring blindly at a spiderweb in the corner of my ceiling.
I run the clinical definition of bond sickness through my mind, but stutter to a stop. Why am I even thinking about this? I’m bondless. Bite-free. I might have some of the symptoms, but so does a ninety-year-old beta with a bad case of the flu…
But there is that weird ache in my chest.
The skin sensitivity that feels like a persistent itch.
The lack of appetite and lethargy.
The mood swings, the tears, the need to cling to the nearest alpha…
I roll and grab my phone, scrolling until I come to Janice’s number. If anyone can tell me it’s all in my head, it’s her.
She’s on shift, so we arrange to grab a coffee at the clinic’s cafeteria in an hour. I manage a quick shower, wincing at the way my clothes scrape over my damp skin. I can barely stand my softest brush, so I let my hair dry on my shoulders and shrug into my brother’s jacket. Instead of grabbing my bike keys, I call a cab and wait down by the curb. Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking into the cafeteria, grimacing at the glare of the hospital-strength lights and the squeak of rubber soles on tired linoleum.
“Lord, I heard you were sick, but you look terrible!” Janice scrambles up from her chair and gives me a quick hug. “Are you sure we shouldn't be getting you a bed upstairs?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” I admit as I slide into the seat opposite her. The cafeteria smells like burned toast, tuna salad, and floor polish, and while it’s usually comforting, it makes me press a hand to my nose. “Is there anything like bondsickness when there's no claiming mark? Can an omega still get sick if an alpha she’s not bonded to rejects her?”
I’ve been over it in my head again and again. Omega’s emotions are often tied to their heat cycle, and while mine is still a month away, early spikes can happen. But this doesn’t feel like an ordinary hormonal fluctuation. This feels bone deep, like something is wrong at a more fundamental level.
“I don't see why not,” Janice says slowly, “although it would be rare. As you know, when a compatible pair meets for the first time, they tend to connect immediately. It’s not in their nature to reject each other, but if they do, some part of that potential bond might still be there, causing a certain amount of pain.”
I wince, imagining a damaged thread connecting me to the runaway alpha. “What if it was a scent match?”
Her eyes widen with surprise. “Resisting a scent match is almost impossible. It’s our most primal instinct.” She studies me for a moment, then leans over to squeeze my hand. “It would fit, though. We rarely see it, because of the type of bond, but if something forced them apart, bond sickness is highly likely.”
Something like a command to stay away, even though I can still taste his scent in the back of my throat.
I mull over that as Janice goes to the counter to get us coffee. Like she said, scent matching is biology at its most primal. It’s one hindbrain talking to the other, scent receptors firing off electrical impulses like it’s the Fourth of July. And as in the case of any explosion, the impact is both powerful and irreversible.
Did we have even a glimmer of that? I was attracted to the alpha, obviously, and it was intense enough to make my heart skip. But if our biology was going on a rampage, then why did he run away? Shouldn’t he have been drawn to me, the same way I was drawn to him?
When Janice comes back, she pushes a peppermint tea my way and I take a tentative sip. It’s been laced with honey, and I sigh in relief.
“Is that what's happened to you? Did you scent bond someone, Abbie?”
