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“Over here,” Tris mumbles, leading us to an abandoned corner.
He looks like shit. Twitchy and pale, with his shoulders hiked up. I note the way his hands keep clenching into fists at his sides, and a bolt of dread strikes my throat.
He really bit her.
I sort of didn’t believe it. Even as Spencer ranted the whole way over.
He told us the short version of the story at least three times. Some omega with “Super-Perfume”—whatever the hell that is—came in and needed help. Tris walked into the room, took two breaths, and wound up biting her on the spot.
That’s insanely out of character. If you’d asked me which one of us was most likely to do something like this, I could have made a case for anyone else.
If I believe in anything, it’s scent-sensitivity, which is why I’ve never pushed the guys to look into omegas. I figured there was no point. If our true mate was out there somewhere, we would find them whenever it was meant to be.
If I’d been the one to stumble across him or her… I wouldn’t have meant to, but I may have been tempted to bite first and ask questions later.
And Avery? His Alpha is a beast. Fucking feral. If he slipped his leash for half a second around the wrong omega?
Yeah, I can see it.
Spencer, too. He may seem the most controlled, but how long can a guy rein himself in before he snaps? I’ve known him for the better part of twenty years, and I’ve never seen him with anyone. He has to be lonely as fuck. If someone told me he’d lost his shit, I would easily believe it.
But Tristan?
Tris is careful, not controlled. He listens to his instincts but also tempers them. Gives his Alpha just enough, never too much. And under all the senator shit, he’s kind and empathetic in a way most people never see.
Not to mention… all of that senator shit.
He’s in the press. He has a reputation. People counting on him. Important laws he’s trying to pass.
Tris rarely gets angry at any of us, but when he does, it’s usually regarding optics. Because if our pack gets a bad rep? All of his work goes to shit.
I don’t know if I can think of something that would be worse for his position than this. Assaulting and biting an omega? A strange, younger woman who came down here to get help?
We are so fucked.
A door opens and closes. Dr. Archer Monroe appears, frowning, with concern behind his square-framed glasses.
I clap his shoulder. “Arch, hey. How are you?”
After playing for the Ospreys for years, I know our team doctor well. In the off-season, he also conducts research at the same university where Spence teaches—but, of course, our packmate would never try to socialize with anyone.
Instead, they offer each other professional nods. Spencer holds his gaze. “What’s the situation?”
Archer gives him a look and politely addresses our pack as one. “In terms of where she came from, I’m afraid I don’t have good news. She’s physically fine right now, but she has a lot of healed bones and several scars. She’s dehydrated and needs vitamins, particularly vitamin D; so I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s been kept out of the sunlight. For the next few months, she’ll need a rich diet, lots of fluids, and adequate time outdoors. ”
My head spins.
Scars? From what?
And kept out of the sunlight? As in, she hasn’t been allowed outside?!
Holy fucking shit.
She hasn’t been allowed outside. She hasn’t been eating. And now Tristan has traumatized her to hell.
Archer sighs, wiping his glasses on his shirt. “As for the current situation—she’s awake and very frightened. She’s also severely touch-starved, which causes a lot of underlying distress for omegas. She can feel Tristan’s emotions, as well, which isn’t helping. He needs to get a feel for the half-bond and figure out how to shut his interior doors to keep his feelings from affecting her. At least, for now.”
Tristan’s fists turn white. “I’m trying,” he mutters. “I swear.”
