My omega is scrambling in my chest, tugging at my heart, whimpering quietly inside me, trying to move my feet out the door and back towards where I woke up. She desperately wants her pack, her alphas and her precious beta, and she wants themnow. I try to placate her, remind her we need to protect them, but she just wants to throw caution to the wind and go and drown herself in their scent. She's pulling at my core, doing everything she can to drag me back to them.
My fingers clutch at the t-shirt sticking out of my purse. It's not quite right—it needs more mint and basil to be properly right—but its fragrance both soothes her and reminds me of what's missing.
I open the hall cupboard and crawl under the bottom shelf, dragging the t-shirt behind me. I whack my head on the shelf above, knocking over the stack of fitted sheets. But right now, I don't care. I collapse into my pathetic excuse for a nest, and huff the shirt like a damn inhaler.
I'd be embarrassed to bring any packmate into this ridiculous facsimile of a nest. But, like I always do, I tell myself this is enough for now.
Even if I could bring myself to let them throw away their careers, I don't think I could face them.
I quietly sob into the shirt until the scent is drowned out by the smell of burnt freesias.
Chapter 23
Seb is still staring off into the distance.
He's hardly moved all morning. I'm worried that our pack's medical expert, who had thrived for so long in stressful situations, has become completely catatonic.
"James, we'll need to seriously consider taking him to the ER if he hasn't moved by this evening."
James looks up at me, his jaw set, and nods. At least a sense of duty, the need to develop a plan, is enough to pull his focus ever so slightly from… what I can't think to call anything other than grief.
Zeke is still pacing around the room, radiating rage like a furnace. His alpha's riding him hard. I suspect, because the second anything other than fury is let in, there will be room for pain, and there is already more than enough of that in his life. So he's lashing out, desperate to find someone to blame.
And try as I might, I haven't been able to get Clarke out of his line of fire.
Clarke has been almost frenetic with guilt and shame since I woke up. My sweet beta,oursweet beta, our omega whisperer, is utterly convinced it'shisfault that she's gone. He's sitting on the sofa, hunched over, running his hands frenetically through his curls, like he's trying to wipe away the guilt. Our bond is a maelstrom of anxiety.
I wish I had the courage to tell him the truth—that the whole situation ismyfault.I'mthe one who knew better.I'mthe one who should have got us out of there the second we got the slightest hint of scent.I'mthe one who let us fall down the rabbit hole with no way back out.
And, on top of that, once the genie was out of the bottle, I'm the one who should have realized that she wanted out. I should have noticed that being with a pack who'd provided heat support services would be too much for her. As a psychologist, it's my job to understand this sort of thing; as pack lead, doubly so.
Fuck it.I need to just call a spade a fucking spade. We're nothing more than just really fucking expensive sex workers. And being in a relationship with a sex worker can be too much even for people who don't morally judge the job, and who understand that sex work is real work. No wonder she bolted.
But I'm a coward. I can't bring myself to say the words. So I distract myself from the guilt spreading like sprouting weeds in my chest by focusing on what I can do to help my pack. At least I'll stop making things worse.
I sit down on the sofa next to Clarke, and let my arm fall around his shoulders. He flinches. I try not to wince.
I let my thumb drift over a sliver of skin on his upper arm.
"Hey, love, why don't you let me share some of that burden you got going on in there?" I let my voice drop into the growly rumble I use on him when he needs to get out of his head.
He shrugs, and silently hands me his unlocked phone. There are those three damn Heatseekers notifications still taunting me from the screen.
Maybe that's the first place to start.
I pull Clarke into a gentle hug. "Love, I think we need a break from heat clients for a while," I murmur in his ear. "What do you think?"
After a moment, he lifts his head slightly. "For a while? Or…" His pause spreads like tar, viscous and thick.
The idea of it only being atemporarybreak from other omegas' heats—well, apart from Dellie's, of course—makes something twist and roil in my chest. But… asking the others to give up so much if they all weren't fully on board… "Hypothetically, let's say… indefinitely."
There's a moment where he seems to freeze; but he blinks a couple of times, then gives a stiff nod. "I… I'll check the numbers. We might have to sell the Tribeca loft… but we should be able to make it work, even if we keep the packhouse in Brooklyn. I don't know what we'd do with ourselves though…"
I want to smack him over the back of the head and ask him what hewants, not what's practical or what he thinks he's supposed to care about or what we'd do instead. I bite back the frustrated sigh that's threatening to burst out of my chest. "Don't worry about it until tomorrow."
I rub his back gently, and stand and walk into the bedroom, where Seb is still slumped on the floor. James is watching him with concern growing in his expression, and Zeke is still pacing.
"Do you think we need a break from heat clients for a bit?"
