"Fuck off, Carlisle."
"Such eloquence." He stands, moving toward the pull-up bar with that liquid grace that makes him look like he's floating instead of walking. "Though I suppose I can't expect poetry from someone whose entire personality revolves around survivor's guilt and a hero complex."
My fist connects with the bag hard enough to split the leather. "And what about you? Does being a sociopath make you immune to the pull? Must be nice, not feeling anything while the rest of us are losing our minds."
He pauses mid-pull-up, hanging there like it costs him nothing, and his laugh is bright and terrible. "Psychopath, actually. Common misconception. Sociopaths are made—products of environment and trauma. I was born this way. Came out of the womb with all the empathy of a particularly motivated shark."
"There's no fucking difference."
"Oh, but there is." He drops from the bar, landing silent as a cat. "Sociopaths are disorganized, impulsive, prone to emotional outbursts. I'm none of those things. I'm calculating, controlled, and I feel plenty. Just not what you'd considerappropriateemotions."
He moves closer, and I have to fight the urge to step back. Not because I'm afraid of him. Carlisle would never hurt the team, that much I know, and if he did, I'd be more than happy toput him down. But there's something off-putting about the way he looks at the world, like we're all just particularly interesting specimens in his collection.
"For instance," he continues, tilting his head like he's examining me, "right now I'm feeling genuinely curious about whether you've been jerking off thinking about them. Both of them? Or do you have a preference? The broken little bird who sees things that aren't there, or the one who's been lying about his entire existence?"
My fist flies before I can think about it, but Carlisle's already moving, dodging with the kind of ease that makes it clear he was expecting this. Maybe even hoping for it.
"Touched a nerve, did I?"
"You're a fucking asshole."
"Yes, but I'm an honest asshole." He straightens his shirt, smoothing out wrinkles that don't exist. "Unlike the rest of you, tiptoeing around the elephant in the room like it might explode if you acknowledge it."
Before I can respond, the door opens again and Elias walks in, looking tired but alert. He takes in the scene—me with bleeding knuckles, Carlisle looking pleased with himself, the heavy bag with a suspicious new tear in the leather—and sighs.
"Bane's called a meeting. War room, five minutes."
Carlisle claps his hands together in delight. "Oh good, are we finally going to discuss our miraculous double omega situation? Because the sexual tension in this compound could be cut with a knife, and I have several excellent options if anyone's interested."
Elias just turns and walks out, which is probably the smartest response to Carlisle anyone's ever had.
I grab my water bottle and towel, not bothering to change out of my sweat-soaked clothes. The war room is just Bane's pretentious name for the study where we debrief after missions,but calling it that makes him feel like we're still playing soldier instead of what we really are—vigilantes with too much money and not enough oversight.
The room smells like leather and old books, with maps covering most of the walls and a massive oak table that's seen better days. Bane's already there when we arrive, standing at the head of the table like he's about to brief us on invading a small country.
"Sit," he says, and we do, because when Bane uses that tone, even Carlisle listens.
He waits until we're all settled, then plants both hands on the table and leans forward. "We need to talk about Felix and Juniper."
"Finally," Carlisle mutters, examining his nails like this is boring him.
Bane ignores him. "It's been three days since we found out Felix is an omega. Three days since we've all known what they are to us. And we've done fuck all about it."
"They just tried to escape," I point out.
"Water under the bridge," Carlisle says with a wave of his hand. "But at least now we know why he hasn't marked her."
The thought of them trying, of them wanting that connection so desperately but being unable to achieve it, makes my chest ache.
"How's Felix doing?" Bane asks Elias.
"Healing well, all things considered. He should be back to full strength within the week."
"And Juniper?"
"The effects of the pheromone weapon have completely worn off," Elias answers. "And she's on suppressants, since I'm quite sure she was giving the ones I gave her to Felix. They're... remarkably codependent."
"Trauma bonded," Carlisle corrects. "There's a difference. Codependency implies choice. What they have is survival instinct hardened into something that looks like love."
