It doesn't make sense. Nothing about this makes sense.
But I'll figure it out. I always do. In the meantime, Juniper is safer here than she is out there. At least until I can heal enough to protect her properly.
That's enough. It's all that matters.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
ARCHER
The heavy bag takes another hit, and my knuckles scream in protest through the wraps that are already spotted with blood. I don't give a fuck. Pain is simple. Pain makes sense. Pain doesn't smell like sweet flowers and winter mornings, doesn't make my alpha instincts howl like a fucking werewolf at the moon.
I slam my fist into the leather again, feeling the impact reverberate up my arm and into my shoulder. The gym reeks of sweat and disinfectant, but underneath it all, I can still catch traces ofthem. Two omegas. Two scent matches. Two people who'd rather chew their own arms off than let us anywhere near them.
The universe has a fucked up sense of humor.
Another punch. Another. The rhythm becomes meditation, each impact driving thoughts from my head for a fraction of a second before they come flooding back. Felix is an omega. Felix, who fought like a demon, who killed five trained soldiers while bleeding out, who's been masquerading as an alpha for God knows how long.
What kind of hell does someone have to live through to make hiding their entire biological identity seem like the better option?
I've seen my share of trauma. War does that to you—shows you exactly how creative humans can be when it comes to destroying each other. But this is different. This is someone so desperate to escape what they are that they've been chemically altering themselves for years. The dedication that takes, the constant vigilance, the fear that must live under his skin every single day...
And then there's Juniper. The timid looking little omega who's as vicious and bloodthirsty as any alpha under the porcelain doll surface. The girl who flinches at every sound, whose reaction times rival any soldier I fought alongside. The other day, while I just happened to be walking past the room they share in the clinic for the third time that night, I heard her whimpering in her sleep. He pulled his arm around her and she went quiet, like his touch is the only thing that can quell the demons that plague her.
I can only imagine what they've been through.
My fist connects with the bag hard enough to make the chain groan. The stitches Juniper gave me pull with each movement, four perfect lines across my hand that I refused to let Elias properly treat. They're going to scar, and good. I want the reminder. Want the evidence that she's real, that she exists, that she marked me even if it was with violence instead of affection.
The gym door opens behind me, but I don't turn. The scent tells me everything I need to know—wine and danger and that particular brand of insanity that only Carlisle wears like expensive cologne.
He doesn't say anything, just moves to the weight bench and starts loading plates with the kind of intense grace that makes everything he does look like performance art. Even his workoutclothes are pristine white, because of course they fucking are. The man treats everything like a stage, and we're all just supporting actors in whatever twisted play he's directing.
I ignore him and keep punching, but I can feel his eyes on me. Watching. That's what Carlisle does. He collects information like other people collect stamps, filing away every micro-expression and tell for future use.
The weights clink as he starts his set, and suddenly it's not just a workout anymore. It's a competition. Everything with Carlisle becomes a competition eventually, even when no one else knows they're playing.
I switch to combinations, letting muscle memory take over. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. The bag swings with each impact, and I have to adjust my stance to keep the rhythm. My shirt is soaked through with sweat, clinging to my back like a second skin.
Carlisle increases his weight.
I increase my speed.
He adds another plate.
I switch to kicks, driving my shin into the bag with enough force to make the whole frame shudder.
This goes on for maybe twenty minutes, neither of us acknowledging what we're doing, both of us completely aware. It's like everything else with Carlisle, a game with rules only he knows, stakes only he understands.
Finally, he sets the bar back in its cradle and sits up, not even breathing hard because apparently psychopaths don't need oxygen like normal people.
"How does it feel?" he asks, and his voice is casual but there's something underneath it, sharp as one of his precious knives.
I pause mid-punch, knuckles barely grazing the leather. "How does what feel?"
"Oh, come now." He grins, and it's the kind of smile that makes smart people cross the street. "Two omega scent matches under the same roof, both of whom would rather gargle broken glass than acknowledge what we are to them. Must be absolutelymaddeningfor someone with your particular... sensibilities."
The word hangs in the air like a challenge. Sensibilities. Like my need to protect people is some kind of character flaw instead of basic human decency.
