“April wants you for dinner Sunday,” he said, pencil scratching against the newspaper. His tone stayed conversational, like he was discussing weather rather than detonating bombs. “She says I can’t keep feeding you tuna sandwiches, especially with the way how much your kid hates it.”
The words hung between us like a physical presence. My fingers stilled on the keyboard, my brain struggling to process what he’d just said. He knows. This rumpled beta with his crossword puzzles and coffee addiction had puzzled out my secret. All the careful hiding, the baggy clothes, the lies about the smells, useless against someone who’d been paying attention.
“I don’t... how did you...” The words tangled on my tongue, too many questions fighting for priority.
He finally looked up, meeting my panicked gaze with steady calm. “Omega wife for thirty years. I know the signs.”
Of course. April. I’d heard him mention her but never connected the dots. An omega wife meant he’d lived through heats, through all the particular vulnerabilities of our kind. He’d learned to read the subtle signals, the careful movements, the protective gestures we couldn’t quite suppress.
“Does anyone else know?”
“Just me. And I’m good at keeping my mouth shut.” He returned to his puzzle, giving me space to process. “April lost two before we finally stopped trying. Complications from being an omega, doctor said. Like her body wasn’t designed for what nature demands of them.”
The casual revelation hit like a slap. He understood more than just the physical signs. He knew the fear, the uncertainty, the way pregnancy felt like borrowed time when you were omega. His wife had lived it. He’d watched her live it.
“I can’t, Wayne, if anyone finds out, I would be in danger.”
“Then they won’t.” Simple as that, like keeping explosive secrets was just another daily task. “But you need proper food. Real nutrition, not gas station sandwiches. April makes a pot roast that could raise the dead.”
Did I trust him? Could I afford to? And worst of all, could I afford not to?
The questions churned while Wayne calmly filled in another answer. Seven across: REFUGE. The word stared up at me fromhis puzzle, accidentally profound. Maybe that’s what this was, not just a job but a refuge. Not just a boss but an ally.
“Sunday then?” he asked, like my whole world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Good. April will be thrilled. Fair warning though, she’s going to try to feed you until you pop.”
The normalcy of it, the casual acceptance of what I was and what I carried, broke something loose in my chest. Not quite trust, given that I’d lost the ability to trust completely. But maybe something adjacent to it. An emotion that felt like the first deep breath I had taken since Saturday night.
Outside, the afternoon sun slanted through windows I’d checked obsessively all day. But for the first time since the rogue encounter, the movements looked less threatening.
Wayne Garrett, my boss, old enough to be my father, knew my secret. And somehow, impossibly, that made me feel safer than I’d felt in months.
21
— • —
Rhea
Tuesday’s lunch happened at the Millbrook Diner because Wayne insisted on “proper food for his pregnant employee.” The words still felt surreal. Someone knew, someone who hadn’t immediately thrown me out or reported me. The booth’s cracked vinyl stuck to my thighs as I slid in, trying to process this new reality where my secret existed outside my own head.
He ordered for both of us without asking: chicken soup, grilled cheese, orange juice for me, coffee black for him. The mothering felt strange from a gruff man like him. But I was too emotionally exhausted to protest. The orange juice appeared in a scratched glass, pulp floating like tiny islands. Real juice, not the concentrate I’d been buying. My mouth watered despite everything.
“So,” Wayne said after Betty, our waitress shuffled away, her orthopedic shoes squeaking on linoleum, “want to tell me which Lycan King’s pup you’re carrying?”
The directness made me choke on the juice I’d just sipped. Liquid went down wrong, triggering a coughing fit that drew glances from nearby tables. Wayne waited patiently.
“I can’t... it’s not safe to know.” The words came out raspy from coughing.
“Kid, I’ve been unsafe my whole life. Try me.” He stirred sugar into his coffee with methodical precision. One packet, two, three. The spoon clinked against ceramic in a rhythm that felt like punctuation.
Betty returned with our food, the smell of melted cheese and chicken broth making my stomach growl audibly. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until real food appeared.
Wayne cut his sandwich diagonally, the way my mother used to. The simple gesture hit unexpectedly hard. “Eat first.”
The soup burned my tongue but I didn’t care. Salt and fat and vegetables that hadn’t come from a can. My body craved it with intensity that probably showed on my face. Wayne ate his sandwich in neat bites, gaze politely averted while I inhaled soup like salvation.
