Adam
The highway stretches aheadof us, flat and empty, and I'm using every mile of it to try to get my head right.
Elowen is in the back seat, quiet as can be.
Every few minutes the plastic bag rustles as she shifts, and the faint chemical smell of the scent-blocking spray she applied in the parking lot drifts forward.
I need to be okay with this.
I keep telling myself that. Over and over, like if I repeat it enough times, it'll stop being a lie and start being the truth.
She's mated to Cliff. The bite is on her neck. It's done. It's permanent. She's part of this pack now whether any of us were ready for it or not, and I need to find a way to be okay with that.
But my chest won't stop aching.
It's not anger.
I keep waiting for that to show up, but what I feel instead is harder to name. It's a heavy, bruised sensation thatsits behind my sternum and pulses every time I think about Cliff's face in that tent. Every time I remember the way he looked at her.
The way he didn't look at me.
I should have been prepared for this. I've always known, somewhere in the back of my mind, that our pack might grow. I mean, that's how it works.
Alphas are wired to seek out omegas.
It's biology, or instinct, or whatever the hell they want to call it. And until an alpha formally bonds with an omega, there's always going to be a restlessness, a part of them that's searching even when they don't realize it.
Most packs simply don't stay alpha-beta forever.
But I thought we were different.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window and watch the trees blur past.
I don't blame her.I've been telling myself that since last night, and I mean it.
She didn't plan any of this. She's as much a victim of biology as Cliff is. Maybe more. And the look on her face this morning, the shame and the fear and the way she kept staring at the back door like she was ready to run, told me everything I needed to know about how she feels about what happened.
She's not the villain here.
There is no villain. Just a fat lot of pheromones, bad timing, and a situation that nobody asked for.
But knowing that doesn't make the ache go away.
Cliff's hand reaches across the center console and rests on my knee. He glances over at me, and the smile he gives is soft. His thumb traces a slow circle against the inside of my knee, and I force a smile back. It feels thin on my face, and I'm pretty sure he knows it, but he doesn'tpush. He turns back to the road, leaving his hand where it is.
The highway exits onto a two-lane road, then a side street lined with mature oaks, the kind of neighborhood where the lawns are landscaped and the houses sit far enough back from the road that you can't see your neighbors.
Cliff turns onto our street, and the house comes into view.
Home.
It's a big house. Bigger than four people need, if I'm being honest.
Two stories of gray stone and dark wood, with a covered porch that wraps around the front and a three-car garage set to the side. The landscaping is immaculate because I do it myself every Saturday morning. Hydrangeas along the front walkway. Japanese maples flanking the porch steps. A lawn so green it looks fake, but it's not. I seeded it by hand last spring.
Cliff pulls the Cadillac into the driveway and kills the engine.
I hear Elowen shift in the back seat. A small intake of breath as she looks at the house through the window.
