Page 117 of The Rogues

“Shit.” Cyrus panics. “I think he’s having an asthma attack.”

He turns back, saying something to the others. Without being able to read his lips, it’s all muffled. My hand keeps clutching my chest, and I can’t fathom what’s happening as I’m guided to the floor, my pack mates holding my back to keep me upright.

“Try to find your breath, Lennon,” my prime encourages, the sound still muffled like we’re underwater. “Jamie is getting your inhaler.”

I nod, the tightness becoming so unbearable that a dreadful sound escapes me, causing a wince on Malaki’s face. Izzy is there, too, looking concerned, and Mac is talking to the computer, probably explaining the situation or doing damage control, but I can’t find it in me to care as a sharp pain shoots me right in the lung.

When Jamie puts the inhaler to my mouth, I black out from the instant relief it shoots through my body.

THIRTY-NINE

The morning after the incident now being deemed “RosewoodGate,” I get a call from my mother.

It’s not unexpected. Whenever anything controversial happens with the band, or specifically with me, she calls to remind me of how precarious my father’s position is and how my actions reflect poorly on not just me, but both of them as well.

It always makes me want to punch a wall.

She’s bought into countless rumors over the years, not understanding that everything she reads isn’t necessarily true, which is something she should know because politicians are ruthless and definitely not averse to lying to get ahead (I mean, come on).

“Mother,” I say in a greeting as I finish tying my shoes.

“Josephine, you sound chipper this morning,” she retorts sarcastically.

“We have an emergency meeting today, so I’m really not in the mood.”

Things exploded overnight. Our team seems to be flailing to get things under control. I knew the guys performing this song would be news, but I didn’t think it would literally break the internet.

I should be angry at them for this stunt, but I’m not. My omega is soaring on cloud nine from this new development. It is the most public and confident way to say “she is ours” that I have ever seen, and I loved every minute of it. Despite the drama, despite the fear, despite the scrutiny of public opinion, my omega and I are the happiest we have ever been, and I want to keep riding this high for the rest of my life.

I’m ready for our relationship to be public, even if I have to deal with the repercussions of it. Even if I have to lose my best friend.

“Yes, we’ve heard,” she responds, the mood ominous as she pauses. “That’s actually why I’m calling. We’ve heard the good news about you and that boy you’ve been seeing. The alpha that sang that song last night.”

My brows raise into my hairline. “What?”

“Well, at first we were furious. I mean, why did our daughter go after her friend’s ex, and why did said ex make a claim so publicly? I mean, you guys have to be media-trained better than that.” She pauses to laugh but it sounds more like a scoff. “Anyway, then your father and I did the research and learned about his heritage… and we’re pleasantly surprised. Good job, sweetheart.”

My confusion by her statement only lasts a moment before it’s overtaken by another much stronger feeling: disappointment. How many times had I wished she would call me and apologize for the years of abuse I endured? How many times did I wish and pray that she would come to her senses and finally start being the mother that I deserved? To congratulate me for what I’ve accomplished in life and say that she’s proud of me for a job well done?

This isn’t exactly what I had in mind. This praise of hers hits me like a stone in the gut, reminding me once again what will always be important to her: status, money, and power.

“Josie? You there?”

My body pulses with anger before I can stop it. My silence a protest of the audacity that just spewed from her mouth. Because seriously? Out of everything to be proud of me for, this is what she chooses? To praise me over the person I’m romantically connected to rather than any of my own merit is a slap to the fucking face. And I’m fucking tired of it.

“Excuse me?”

She continues like she doesn’t hear my tone. “The Darlingtons are a very influential family in England. I’m really impressed. How did you manage that one?”

Steam comes out of my ears. “Manage it? Mother, you make it sound like I’m a clueless, hopeless omega. Fucking manage it?”

“Language,” she reprimands me.

“No, I will cuss all I want,” I tell her, fuming from the inside out. “I cannot believe this is why you called me. I thought you’d ream me out for being involved in controversy, or go on and on about dad’s political connections, but I had no idea you would praise me for having a well-known boyfriend. Oh my fucking god.”

“Josephine, please⁠—”

“You don’t have anything to be proud of. Did you not read further into your so-called ‘research?’ Cyrus isn’t a part of his family’s legacy anymore. Just like me, he set all of that aside so he could pursue the thing he loves most in the world, and that is music. He isn’t the prize you think he is, and you know what? That’s what I love about him. He is real. He doesn’t take shit from anyone, especially his family. It’s something we have in common.”