It’s not enough to provoke him. He still doesn’t fight back.
“Knock it off, Darren!” Zayn shouts, moving to intervene. Usually, he’s the one we’re pulling off of some asshole on the ice. Occasionally, that asshole is me.
I release Jax with one hand, pivoting to shove Zayn away. He stumbles back, surprise flashing across his features. The movement makes my head spin, but rage keeps me upright.
“Stay out of this,” I warn Zayn.
“Or what?” He steps closer, defiant as ever. “You’ll use your little omega whine on me?”
I swing at him next, a wild haymaker that connects with his shoulder as he tries to dodge. It’s far more satisfying than punching Jax. The impact sends pain shooting up my arm, a reminder that I’m injured, weak, and apparently about to shift into a whole new biology I never asked for.
Strong arms suddenly lock around me from behind. Dmitri, using his considerable size advantage to restrain me. I struggle against him, but it’s like fighting a brick wall.
“Let me go!” I thrash in his grip.
“Nyet, my friend,” Dmitri’s voice rumbles against my back. “Not until you calm down.”
Aidan appears in front of me, hands raised placatingly, freckles standing out sharply against his pale skin. “Darren, please. The nurses will hear. They’ll sedate you.”
Sedate me. Like an animal. Is this what my life is going to be now? Restrained, medicated, handled?
“They wouldn’t dare,” I spit, but I stop struggling quite so hard. The mention of sedation conjures images of being even more powerless than I already feel, and that thought is unbearable.
My chest heaves with exertion, each breath sending stabs of pain through my skull. The room tilts and spins around me. Dark spots dance at the edges of my vision. I’m pushing myself too hard. The concussion combined with the adrenaline crash is taking its toll.
“That’s it,” Aidan says encouragingly. “Just breathe.”
I glare at him. “Don’t patronize me, rookie.”
I don’t want to hit him, but I’ll put the fucker in a headlock just to remind him of his place if I have to.
“I’m not,” he insists, those green eyes wide and earnest. “I’m trying to help.”
“Help? There’s no fucking help for this.” I laugh, the sound hollow and bitter. “What am I supposed to do now? Wait around for my first heat? Let the league push me into retirement? Become somebody’s?—“
I can’t even say the word. The thought of being claimed, marked, owned. It makes me want to vomit.
“You don’t know what will happen,” Aidan says softly. “Maybe, uh… maybe because it took so long for you to present, there’s a way to reverse it.”
I stare at him, wanting desperately to believe the kid’s words. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers. Maybe thisistemporary, a fluke that can be fixed. But deep down, beneath the denial and the rage, I know better.
I’ve never heard of anyone un-presenting. This is my new reality. No unbaking the shit cake once it’s out of the oven.
“Let him go, Dmitri,” Jax says, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
Dmitri hesitates. “You sure about that, Cap? He still seems to want to rearrange your face.”
“I know,” Jax meets my eyes steadily. “But restraining him isn’t helping.”
Slowly, Dmitri releases his hold. I step away immediately, putting distance between myself and all of them, backing up until I feel the edge of the hospital bed against my legs.
The room falls silent except for our collective breathing. I look at each of them in turn. My teammates, my pack. People I’ve trusted with my life on the ice for years. Now they’re looking at me like I’m a stranger.
Or worse, like I’m suddenly fragile.
And I didn’t miss the way they looked at me when they first caught my scent. Like I was the last fucking cupcake in the bakery window and they’d all been cutting for weeks.
Zayn’s dark eyes study me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. There’s a new element in his gaze, one I can’t name but instantly hate. It’s not quite pity, not quite curiosity, but equally unwelcome.
