“I don’t know.” But I studied his profile in the glow of the TV. Maybe that was Domenic’s nose.
Marco eventually fell back asleep, his head slumping onto my shoulder. My heart had clenched with tenderness for this little boy with dark hair and sad eyes as I tucked him under a throw blanket and crept back upstairs. In the morning, he was gone, and I knew better than to ask any questions about him.
But no one else interrupted my nighttime wanderings. If my parents ever wondered why I slept so late each day, I’m sure they just attributed it to laziness.
As I got older and learned to swallow my rage, my disobedience branched onto new and interesting paths. Ever since the expensive, controversial blood test that showed the latent Omega cells lurking in my body, my parents wereobsessed with the idea of my eventual presentation as an Omega. But I resented my body. It felt like a ticking time bomb, ready to destroy my future and trap me forever with new Alphas who would control me just as much as my fathers did.
So I learned to control my body instead. I would spend hours pacing the floor of my room, touching each wall as I made laps. Or I’d stand on one leg, as still as possible, until my muscles shook.
When I started learning about biology in my homeschool curriculum, including the physiological differences between Alphas, Betas, and Omegas, an even more enticing idea emerged. If low body weight, like that of female gymnasts and dancers, could delay menstruation in Betas, could it delay presenting as an Omega? I embarked on my first scientific study to find out.
I excelled at not eating. To my mother’s delight, I was naturally thin. My “delicate” appetite, which became even more discerning, didn’t raise any flags. The same closet where I’d been locked as a child became a stash for the sweetener packets my mother used in her coffee. Whenever I craved something sweet, I could eat two or three to tide myself over.
Recovery from anorexia is always tricky. As a biologist, I knew it was difficult for the brain and body to fully return to normal. But I thought it was even harder when I was pretty sure the eating disorder saved my life. I would have been bonded to Alphas just like my own fathers had I not stunted my presentation.
Linda didn’t like that I credited my illness with any good.
“Look at all the trouble it’s caused you,” she would say, as if all my issues were laid out on the battered coffee table between us in the therapy room. First, there were the hormonal problems that meant I’d never had a true heat, didn’t have proper Omega pheromones, and would probably never have children. Then, ofcourse, the body dysmorphia that made looking in the mirror a daunting prospect. The lingering bradycardia that gave me the resting heart rate of an athlete when I was anything but.
Given the choice, I’d do the same thing all over again to secure my freedom.
Luckily, I was mostly in recovery. Eating in front of other people or looking in mirrors was challenging, but I had stopped restricting. I did Pilates a few times a week, ate three square meals and two snacks every day. I even used sugar in my tea instead of artificial sweeteners.
But the new, unsettling reactions I was having to Nathan, Andrew, and Gabriel were messing with my head. I was feeling the urge to restrict again, to put my traitorous body back in its place.
That wasn’t an option, so I would take control of my work situation instead.
The night of the ill-fated meeting with Lisbeth, I started my research. Axion Biostorage, the new supplier, didn’t have a large online presence, just a vague website with stock photos of people in PPE and a contact form to learn more about their services.
I filled out the form with a fake email account and got a canned response email that just said, “Thank you for contacting Axion Biostorage; someone will be in touch soon to discuss your request for information.” I didn’t have high hopes that anyonewouldbe in touch.
The address for the lab was in the city, way uptown. I briefly considered going to check it out, then realized I could just look online. The building was beige and looked like a random, nondescript warehouse, especially with the two rolling garage doors.
I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for. The website listed all the right accreditations and qualifications. Was Iexpecting a glaring sign on the door saying, “We cross-contaminate our specimens”?
I shut my laptop, annoyed, and resolved to do more extracurricular research at the lab.
Except I didn’t have a chance to do anything, because another MSC sample was causing immune responses. And, once again, Lisbeth was nowhere to be found.
“This is not okay. Don’t you want to knowwhyshe doesn’t care? I know it probably won’t hurt anyone now, but we’relyingto people. And if we don’t tell someone, and they start human trials on direct Omega bone marrow transplants—”
“I know.” Nathan cut me off with a glance at the prep lab door. “I’ll talk to Lisbeth again, or go to IRB. Just… let me handle it.”
That really piqued my anger. I was used to being treated as if I were incapable of managing things. But it hurt even worse coming from Nathan.
“Does this mean the study is over?” Anvi interjected. She looked panicked, and I understood. The prospect of the study dissolving would mean a lot of work finding a new one to take her on as an intern. “It can’t be! Lisbeth said—”
“Enough,” Nathan said, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. “This is not the time or place for this conversation.”
Well, that was me put in my place. I crossed my arms tightly over my chest to keep from yelling at him in front of Anvi.
We finished the day in silence. Nathan glared at his computer like it had insulted him, and Anvi looked even more miserable than I felt. When I stood to leave right at five o’clock, and Nathan looked up like he’d wanted to have another conversation, I didn’t give him the chance.
What I hadn’t admitted, barely even to myself, was how much my professional dismay mingled with worry for a certain subject.
When Andrew had asked me on adateat his last appointment, my brain had short-circuited. The excuse about it being unprofessional had been a godsend. But I would have said no, regardless. Even if my brain and body were convinced Andrew should be touching me at all times, an Alpha like him would have… expectations. Expectations that I could never, ever fulfill. I’d never even had sex, let alone a proper heat.
So I lied to myself and said it was only my ethical integrity that had me pulling Gabriel’s card from the gala out of my purse. Of course I’d kept it. It was simple but elegant: his name and phone number on thick cream cardstock, like an old-fashioned calling card. Did all glamorous Italian men carry these? Or was it a security thing?
