“Mother.” I didn’t have the energy for more greeting than that.
She circled me like a predator evaluating weak prey, her assessment clinical and merciless. The tremor in my hands, the way I leaned against the counter for support, the protein shake I couldn’t stomach. Nothing escaped her notice. Nothing ever had.
“Three months, Damon. Three months of watching you waste away over that murderous omega.” Her voice dripped with contempt thick enough to drown in. “Your father would be disgusted. He never let emotions compromise his leadership.”
The previous Lycan King who’d ruled through four decades without ever showing weakness. Who’d taught me that mate bonds were tools for alliance, not chains of emotion. Who’d died in his sleep at just short of sixty, peaceful and surrounded by power. Not like this. Not dissolving from the inside because he’d sent away the other half of his soul.
“You’re weak. Just like I always feared.” Lucinda adjusted her jacket, a subtle gesture that somehow communicated volumes of disappointment.
“I did what you wanted. She’s gone.” The words scraped past the glass in my throat.
But I was the one who felt dead. I was the one haunting my own life, going through motions that meant nothing. Territory disputes, trade agreements, disciplinary actions. All of it waspointless paperwork when my wolf howled for the one thing I’d thrown away.
“Gone isn’t enough.” My mother moved to the window, studying the city lights below. “You should have executed her. Clean. Final. Instead, you’ve left a loose thread that will unravel everything we’ve built.”
She turned back, her face carved from decades of ruthless practicality.
The ultimatum hung between us, sharp as the claws that had ended my brother. Three months of agony had led to this moment. This choice.
My wolf stirred, interested for the first time in weeks. But not for the reason my mother intended.
Find her, he whispered. Yes.
13
— • —
Rhea
The nausea started on Monday, mild enough to blame on the gas station coffee. By Wednesday, smells that never bothered me before sent me rushing to the bathroom. Wayne’s cologne hit like a physical assault when he passed my desk. The jasmine-scented air freshener turned my stomach inside out. Even my own shampoo, the cheap lavender from the dollar store, had me gripping the toilet bowl at dawn.
I sat on the cracked tile floor, forehead pressed against cool porcelain, and did the math I’d been avoiding. Fifteen weeks since that night. Fifteen weeks since my last heat. Fifteen weeks of telling myself stress and trauma could delay my cycle indefinitely. The human side of my brain offered logical explanations: malnutrition, psychological trauma, the disruption of leaving pack territory. But the wolf part knew better, had known for weeks, whispering truths I refused to hear.
The Wayne Garrett Real Estate office bathroom had become too familiar. Yellowed linoleum curled at the corners, exposing black mold that explained the persistent dampness. A spider had built its web in the corner by the window, growing fat on the flies that buzzed against the frosted glass.
Thursday brought exhaustion so profound I fell asleep at my desk, waking to Wayne’s concerned face hovering above. Drool had pooled on the Henderson property file, smearing the ink. My neck ached from the angle, and my mouth tasted like copper pennies. The overhead fluorescents stabbed at my retinas as I straightened, trying to orient myself in space and time.
“You look like hell. Go home early.” Wayne’s voice carried more command than suggestion, his usual gruffness softened by genuine worry.
“I’m fine. Just tired.” The lie came automatically, practiced from weeks of deflection.
My hands shook as I straightened papers, trying to look busy and capable. The omega clinic on the edge of town would have answers, but medical records left trails. A banished omega seeking reproductive health services would ping alerts through the pack medical network. One database search and they’d know exactly where I was, what condition I was in. So I suffered in silence, adding saltines to my desk drawer, pretending the wool of my cheap blazer didn’t suddenly feel unbearable against sensitive skin.
January in Millbrook brought its own miseries. Ice crystallized on the inside of the office windows, creating patterns that caught the weak winter sun. The radiator clanged and hissed but never quite heated the space. I’d taken to wearing fingerless gloveswhile typing, my breath visible in small puffs as I answered phones. The cold usually helped with the nausea, but today nothing helped. My body had declared war on itself, each system rebelling against the secret it carried.
The coffee pot gurgled in the corner, its burnt offering a constant assault on my heightened senses. Three months ago, I’d lived for that first cup. Now the mere sound of percolation sent acid climbing my throat. Wayne noticed, of course. He noticed everything with the quiet attention of someone who’d learned to read people like weather patterns. He’d started drinking his coffee in the back room, claiming he needed the quiet. We both knew better, but kindness came disguised as indifference in places like Millbrook.
By Thursday evening, I’d memorized every stain on the ceiling tiles. Water damage created continents and islands, a map of neglect that told the building’s history. I traced their borders while fighting waves of dizziness, wondering if anyone else had ever lain on this floor counting ceiling stains while their life restructured itself at the cellular level. The answer felt obvious. This bathroom had seen decades of desperation. Mine was just the latest installment.
Please let me be wrong. Please let this be anything else.
***
I was at the pharmacy three towns over by Friday evening. I had spent yesterday wallowing in the what-ifs and what happens until sleep had taken over my brain. Now with my baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses despite the darkness outside, made me look like an actual tool.
The drive had taken forty minutes through winding back roads, each mile adding distance between my real life and this necessary errand. Marcy had been kind enough to let me borrow her car without asking any questions. All I had to do was cover for her next week when she asked for another emergency sick day.
I’d told myself I was being paranoid, that no one tracked pharmacy purchases, but survival meant assuming threats everywhere. The last gas station I’d passed had been twelve miles back, a comforting buffer of isolation.
