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“He knew.” And that’s the root of it.
Jett knew and he left, just like everyone else leaves.
“No. It’s not possible to recognize a mate bond that young. If he’d so much as mentioned your name in the decade afterward, then I would’ve followed up.”
“Then why did you bother putting me with the pack? They already have Orion.”
“Because they’re stubborn pups and proximity was the only way to knock them out of their funk. My packmates and I believed your relationship would resolve itself with your heat.”
Let’s not revisit my heat. “Well that worked out fantastic. I’m ready to move on unless you have more schemes? More shady contracts?”
“No more schemes.” Hikaru exhales. “Your fingerprints are coded to the door for Bungalow Six. Don’t go anywhere else until we can formalize your security plan.”
I take his words as the dismissal they are and scurry past Stacey’s empty desk, back out to the campus green.
Feels like I never left.
The OCC is all manicured lawns, flower-lined brick paths, and herds of baby omegas who got kicked out of class just in time to witness my walk of shame.
Ah, the memories.
Like, look over there!
The copse of stately willows where I used to hide from Noelle and her posse between combat and etiquette.
And there, the memorial bench by the pond where Marisol and I first teamed up to kick the older girls’ asses.
Because they were bigger, but we were scrappier.
I miss her.
Or maybe I just miss the feeling of having someone on my team.
Been a while since anyone had my back.
A flash of pity may have given Hikaru a moment of conscience, but I have zero doubt he and the dads will come back with some bullshit once it’s clear I’m looking for anyone but Wyvern Pack’s second generation to take care of my heat-related needs.
Wanting away from the kicked-anthill crowds, I sneak onto the side path that skirts the pond. The bungalows are for adult omegas who visit campus to lecture or take short courses.
Security’s good all over, but the bungalows are an extra step in the maximum-security direction. The perimeter features blade-tipped, double-wide fences and tons of mounted cameras that actually set me at ease.
The only way inside is through a guard house.
The beta on duty smells like cucumbers. I catch his nostrils flaring at my perfume, but he’s professional, letting me press my own finger to the scan pad without touching me. “Your afternoon appointment is waiting for you on the porch, Miss Lilah.”
“Oh. Thanks?” It’s super weird for a staff member to not go instant douche-mode on me, but the staff here don’t work the main campus, so they must not know my story.
The bungalows are their own world.
Each one is a stand-alone cabin, isolated by lush landscaping. It gives the illusion of a jungle resort instead of an institution.
I follow the signs to number six, where a woman in a vintage skirt and cat-eye glasses kicks her feet, waiting for me on the porch swing.
“Lilah?” She hops to her feet. “I’m Catherine from Honeymoon Hills. So pleased to finally meet you in person. Hope you don’t mind that I came early—there was some debate whether I’d be allowed on campus to see you.”
Her omega scent is a warm banana bread.
I tense.
