Chapter 22 – ARCHER
Chapter
Twenty-Two
ARCHER
T he 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 of them .
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 workout clothes 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 absolutely maddening for 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.
"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 consider appropriate emotions."
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 to put 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."
"It is love," I say, surprising myself with the vehemence in my voice. "Whatever else it is, they love each other."
"Oh, I'm not disputing that." Carlisle leans back in his chair, balancing on two legs.
"I'm simply pointing out that love born from shared trauma tends to be.
.. inflexible. They've built their entire world around each other.
Adding four alphas to that equation is going to be like trying to add corners to a circle. "
"So what do you suggest?" Bane asks, though he looks like he already regrets it.
"We tell them the truth. All of it. That they're both our scent matches, that we have no intention of separating them, that they can continue their adorable murder couple routine if they want." Carlisle lets his chair fall forward with a thunk. "Transparency. Novel concept, I know."
I really fucking hate that I find myself in the unfortunate situation of agreeing with Carlisle. Reason enough to rethink all my life choices.
"They'll run," Elias says immediately. "The second they know, they'll bolt. Felix is already planning it, I can see it every time I walk past their room. He's memorizing schedules, noting our weaknesses, looking for the first opportunity."
"Then we don't give them one," Bane says simply. "We tell them here, where it's safe, where they can process without the option of doing something stupid. And we don't leave them alone again. One of us has to be here at all times."
"You want to trap them while we deliver news that's going to fundamentally alter their entire worldview?" Elias raises an eyebrow. "That seems... unwise."
"Everything about this situation is unwise," Bane counters. "But they're healing, they're relatively stable, and the longer we wait, the harder it's going to be. And if they feel even a fraction of the same pull, they deserve to know why."
"Considering they tried to run, I'm not sure they do," I say flatly. "But you have a point."
He's right. I can see it in Juniper sometimes, the confusion when she catches herself leaning toward one of us, the way she'll freeze mid-sentence when our scents hit her.
And Felix... Felix is a bit harder to read.
And if he's gone to such lengths to mask his omega nature entirely, we have to accept the very real possibility that he's not going to want anything to do with any of us.
"When?" I ask, already dreading the answer.
"Tonight. After dinner. We'll bring them here, explain everything, and deal with whatever happens."
"I volunteer to be the one to tell them," Carlisle says immediately. "I'm excellent at delivering life-altering news with minimal emotional investment."
"Absolutely fucking not," Bane and I say in unison.
Carlisle shrugs. "Your loss. I had a whole speech prepared. Very moving. There might have been visual aids."
"We'll all tell them," Elias says firmly. "This affects all of us. They deserve to hear it from everyone."
Bane nods. "Agreed. Archer, you'll bring them here after dinner. Tell them we need to discuss their situation, nothing more."
"Why me?"
"Because despite the scratches, you're the least threatening." Bane's scarred lip twitches. "Juniper seems to tolerate you marginally better than the rest of us."
Tolerate . Ouch. He’s not wrong though.
"Fine." I stand, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here. "I'll bring them. But I have no fucking idea how they're going to react to this."
"Poorly," Carlisle supplies helpfully. "I estimate at least one stabbing attempt, possibly two if we're lucky. How fun."
"They don't have weapons," Elias points out.
Carlisle's grin widens. "You really think that's stopped them before?"
He's got a point. Juniper could probably kill someone with a paperclip if she was motivated enough, and Felix... Felix doesn't need weapons. He is one.
"We'll be ready for anything," Bane says, but even he doesn't sound convinced. "This is the right thing to do. They deserve to know the truth."
The truth. That they're ours, that we're theirs, that biology has decided to play the universe's most fucked up practical joke on all of us.