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Could that really be true?
A mate is the dream I gave up on. So long ago, I barely remember wanting it. But if it’s here and it’s happening…
It’s easy to smile. “See? We can find a silver lining here, guys. Bad circumstances, but, you know, everything happens for a reason.”
“Nauseating drivel,” Spencer bites out.
“Fuck off,” Avery spits.
Tristan manages to turn paler. He swallows hard, his features hardening. “How will I ever make this up to her? If you all could feel how—she’s so scared,” he rasps, dropping his chin to his chest and breathing hard. “I don’t think I should go back in there.”
Archer agrees. “Best not. And I’ll administer emergency doses of rut-blockers to each of you beforehand. Jonah, I’ll sign off on yours for the team, so you don’t have to worry about that. We have more than a month before the season starts anyway.”
Avery rolls his shoulders, the tats under his tank top moving with his muscles. “What, are we all just going to walk in there? Isn’t she, like, traumatized?”
“Quite. I would recommend meeting her one at a time.”
Ah, shit.
I know what that means. Even before all three of my packmates turn and look right at me.
But Archer interrupts, chuckling quietly. “It’s not as simple as choosing the friendliest of you all,” he tells us. “You aren’t the ones making the choices anymore. She’ll decide who she needs to meet first.”
Surprise echoes through all four of us.
Holy shit.
We have an omega.
And she’s in charge.
Spencer is about to strangle himself with his own outrage. “How do we allow her to choose without going in there?”
Archer has the grace not to outright smile. Or maybe he just doesn’t want Ave to kick his ass. But I see a spark of humor in his eye. “Well, Professor, you could start by taking off your shirt.”
chapter
nine
Okay, seriously.
Why the fuck am I here?
I know I ask myself that question way too often, but come on.
This is like some sort of bad lineup. The four of us, bare-chested, sporting band-aids on our biceps, leaning against the wall of the local police station.
Except for Spencer, who refuses to touch the wall. Or, you know, anything.
I put joggers on before we left, so at least I have pockets now. My fingers clutch at their seams while we wait, listening to Spencer’s foot tapping and Tristan’s heavy breathing and Jonah’s bullshit positivity.
I could bail.
The thought is way too familiar. I estimate it pops into my head at least once a day. Whenever I look around and wonder how the hell I wound up in a pack when I swore I never would.
I could leave. We aren’t bonded. And I’m the last-minute addition no one asked for. I lift right out. No one would miss me much, aside from Jonah, and he’s famous for his Zen resilience.
My gaze only makes it halfway to the exit before the door across from us swings open. Dr. Monroe stands there, holding up a tattered scrap of black.
