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They moved Riley to the ICU an hour ago, but no one is allowed in to see her yet, not even Miles, who is officially her Alpha point of contact. Instead, we stand, sit, and pace in the ICU waiting room for someone to come get us or at least update us on her condition. There’s a moment, no matter how brief, when I wish that I still worked in cervology. But even then I may not have been able to be her attending doctor. Not with my Alpha instinct overruling every rational thought in my brain.
I’d be growling every time a nurse stuck her with a needle.
While the waiting room for the ER has its own tensions, the ICU is somber, as if everyone is holding their breath for when their own bad news will finally come.
At last, Papa comes out from Riley’s room, his face haggard with exhaustion. All four of us Alphas stand, crowding around him, but he waves us off and takes a seat.
“How is she?” I ask, sitting in the chair next to him. “How’s Riley?”
“She’s fine,” Papa says, wiping at his brow. “We were able to stabilize her, and she should bounce back fromthisepisode just fine.
“I won’t sugarcoat it. It was touch and go there for a while. Those illegal suppressants really messed with her hormones, made her body weaker allowing the cervus to get a stronger foothold.” He pauses, his expression grave. “Based on the way she is presenting her symptoms, I think Riley has gone her entire life without treating her cervus. There are pockets of scar tissue around her spinal cord that are far too developed for someone of her age, scar tissue that wouldn’t be there if she’d been receiving the proper treatment. Until she starts regular treatments with us, she will beveryfragile. She’ll need to be kept in the ICU for a while with outside visitors to a minimum. Her immune system is shot. If she got even a cold right now, it wouldn’t be good.”
An ache sears through my chest so sharp that it feels like I’m having a heart attack. I can’t believe it. My Riley has never had medical treatment for one of the deadliest conditions ever to exist. No antibiotics, no stabilizers. No painkillers. The fact that she hasn’t died yet is a miracle. She’s so strong.
“What I don’t understand is why you haven’t bonded with her yet,” says Papa, his brow wrinkling. “All four of you. You know that an Alpha-Omega bond would strengthen her immensely. You should have done it weeks ago.”
“We know,” I say, flinching at his questioning gaze. To Papa, it must all seem so easy. Bond the Omega, because it’s what Alphas do. That’s all there is to it in his world. But there’s so much more at stake, and I’m terrified to make that decision.
“We’ll make sure she gets bonded immediately,” says Miles with a confidence that I know isn’t real. How can it be? We can’t even find another pack that would be good enough for her, and I’m stalling like a coward.
“For now, though,” Papa says, “you won’t be able to visit her for a few hours yet. Go home and get some rest. The nurses will call you if anything changes.” His gaze drifts to mine. “Thane, your mother and father and I would like to have breakfast with you.”
I swallow back any anxiety. This won’t be just breakfast, I’m sure, but after they’ve taken the time to oversee Riley’s care personally, I can’t say no. “Sure, I can do that.”
“Good,” says Papa brusquely. “Because they are already waiting at the café next door.”
Of course, they are. Levi, Fox, and Miles each give me a bracing hug goodbye, although when Fox wraps his arms around me, he hums Darth Vader’s theme music into my ear before releasing me. So supportive of him.
I follow Papa to the lobby, shocked to see the sunrise glinting through the large glass window panes. I hadn’t realized how much time had passed since we first brought Riley in. Exhaustion overwhelms me, and I quicken my pace. At least I’ll get some coffee into my system, even if that ends up being the only positive from this breakfast meeting.
Dad and Mom are waiting inside, a carafe of coffee already delivered to their table. I plunk down into a chair next to Mom, grunting out a hello as I reach for the life-giving liquid. I pour myself a cup, spilling a few drops on the table in my haste.
“It’s all right, Thane,” Mom says, taking the carafe from my hand to finish pouring the rest of my coffee. “Slow down. The coffee isn’t going anywhere.”
“I’m just so tired,” I mutter, and Mom settles her hand over my shaking one, so much concern in her baby blue eyes I can’t take it. My chest swells and everything hits me at once. Riley. Her cervus. The disastrous meal with my parents. The burden of being the pack leader and trying to protect the others. The misery of working in a field that is slowly killing me.
Right there, in the middle of a crowded café, in front of all three of my parents, I break. I start to cry, my body shaking from the weight of it all. We’re in a fairly private booth, so only a few heads turn, not that I would care anyway. I’m done with it all, and I need to let it out.
Mom pulls me into her arms, making soft, shushing noises, and I feel like I’m a kid all over again. Papa and Dad remain silent, speaking only to ask the waiter for more time as I lose my fucking mind. Who needs scrambled eggs when my entire life is falling apart?
Finally, mercifully, the ache in my chest loosens and I’m able to stop the flow of tears, left sniffling at the table, wiping my face with a diner napkin. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” says Mom, squeezing my arm. “You’ve had a very eventful past twenty-four hours. Anyone would be emotional after that.”
I’ve had a very eventful past ten years, but who’s counting?
“We wanted to talk to you about Riley,” Dad says cautiously, as if he thinks saying her name will set me off crying again. But I’m all cried out for now, wrung dry from the inside out. It’s been years. More than I care to count since I allowed myself the luxury of feeling my own emotions so strongly.
“What about Riley?” I ask.
“Well…” Dad pauses and looks at my mom. “Nell, you’re better at this than I am.”
“Of course I am,” she says with rare sass. “Thane, about what she said to us yesterday, before everything happened. Are you really that miserable at work?”
“Yes,” I say, the admission soft and breathy. “God, I’m so miserable. I don’t mind endocrinology as much as cervology, but I can honestly admit that I don’t want to be in medicine at all. I never have.”
Papa shifts guilty, pouring himself more coffee. “We discussed it last night, and perhaps we’ve been a little blind to your needs. You are our son first, not just our”—he winces—“not just our legacy.”
