Chapter 23
This is a joke. I’m having a nightmare. I’d pinch myself if everyone wasn’t looking at me expectantly.
Shit, they’re all staring and I’m standing here with my mouth hanging open like a fish gasping for breath.
I give a mumbled reply to Jackson’s question about forgetting about tonight, unable to focus on his words. How can I, when the woman sitting at the dining table with my pack is here, eyes wide with shock at the sight of me?
I’m an idiot. My brains are the one thing I’m supposed to have going for me, yet Ambrose and Jackson told me the omega’s name was Camille, and I didn’t put the pieces together. I didn’t even consider that she’d be this Camille.
To be fair, I don’t let myself think of her as anything more than Ms. Clairmont. Her first name is too personal. Too intimate.
Now the woman I’ve been avoiding at all costs at the office is here, in my home, for a courting date. The woman my alpha took one look at and thought “mine” the first day we met. The omega my partner is scent matched to.
My mind races, a million questions flooding my thoughts. The primary one being, what the fuck am I supposed to do now? Followed by, why didn't Camille tell HR that she’s an omega?
If she’d told them, they would’ve told me. And I would’ve known instead of agreeing to tonight and getting blindsided.
This is fucked. Absolutely fucked.
Things only get worse when Camille rises and reaches her hand out to me, introducing herself like I’m a stranger.
I freeze, momentarily wondering if she doesn’t recognize me. But that’s impossible. River isn’t exactly a common name and my tattoos alone are enough to distinguish me from others.
No, she knows it’s me and she’d rather pretend she doesn’t than address it head on.
Does she really hate me that much?
Feeling the weight of Jackson and Ambrose’s perplexed stares, I take her hand and give it a quick pump, barely managing to croak out my name when her silky soft palm brushes against mine.
Fuck, she’s so soft. My alpha wants to run my hands over every inch of her, and I fight back a rumble of pleasure.
This close to Camille, I catch a hint of her scent, much stronger than any other time I’ve been around her. What is normally a light coffee aroma has gone acrid, broadcasting her displeasure.
I pull my hand back and brush it off on my pants before my alpha uses the connection to tug her toward me and bury my face against her neck, scent marking her until her scent grows happy.
Camille’s expression crumples as she sits back down. Her hand shakes as she reaches out to grab her wine glass, though she tries to hide it.
Ambrose stands and moves to my side, making me realize that I’m still frozen to the spot. I blink at him in an anxiety-fogged haze, and he presses a kiss to my cheek. “Breathe, love. Everything is okay,” he murmurs under his breath.
I locked my side of the bond down before I headed home from the office, not wanting to stress them out with my ever-increasing nerves about meeting the omega they want to court.
But Ambrose doesn’t need the bond to read me.
Hell, Jackson can tell how freaked out I am judging by the look he’s giving me right now.
I give my mate a curt nod, unable to do more than that.
Ambrose gives my arm a gentle squeeze before prying the bakery box out of my vise grip and setting it down on the table. “Come sit down and eat something. You look pale. Have you eaten enough today?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, unconvincingly. It’s true I haven’t eaten since this morning, but one glance at the food spread out on the table makes my stomach roil.
I can’t eat right now. Not when the alarm bells ringing in my head are warning me that this is a disaster. That despite all their reassurances beforehand, I’m absolutely going to ruin my packmates’ chance of having an omega.
Their chance, not mine. That already went out the window when I saw the omega in question was my subordinate. But I don’t matter. I’ll be fine as long as my packmates are.
I need to get my shit together. Now.
I force a smile onto my face as I take the empty seat next to Jackson.
Though it turns into a small wince as my body protests the movement.
My joint pain and back are killing me after being stuck at my desk and in meetings even more than usual.
Normally, when things are this bad, I’d come home, take a long hot shower, pop a CBD gummy, and lie down.
Camille catches my grimace and misinterprets it, her eyes dropping to her plate as she pushes her food around with her fork so she doesn’t have to look at me.
Fuck. She’s miserable now that I’m here.
I’m in no state to make a good impression, but I didn’t want to be the reason Ambrose and Jackson didn’t see Camille tonight.
Now, I wish I’d cancelled. Or at least been less scared to ask them for more details about this mystery omega. I could’ve avoided this clusterfuck. I could’ve prepared myself.
This is what happens when I let hope in. Giving into the fantasy of Ambrose’s scent match slotting into our pack like she’s the missing piece was a mistake. I can’t believe I didn’t learn my lesson after our past attempts to find an omega.
I grab the water glass in front of me and take a swig, washing down the bile rising in my throat.
Ambrose’s brow is set with deep concern and I can’t meet his eye for fear that I’ll lose my hold over the bond and my panic will break through.
I pinch my thigh under the table, trying to use the pain to snap me back to my senses.
“What did I miss?” I ask, my voice terse despite my attempt to sound casual.
“Oh, just Dolly attacking Camille with love, us gushing about the food, and some of Camille’s work woes. You know all about that kind of thing, right?” Jackson smiles at me, clearly trying to give me an opportunity to connect with Camille, but my stomach clenches violently at his question.
If Camille is having a problem at work, it must have to do with me.
I’m acutely aware I haven’t been the best boss to her. I’m curt and cold, and I took away her biggest account after she was absent with no warning.
That decision reframes itself in my mind, transforming from a common sense choice to salvage that business relationship into something much worse.
Fuck, I’m a bastard. I didn’t even ask her why she was sick. I didn’t check in with her after our brief conversation about changing her account assignments.
If I had… I don’t know what I would’ve done. I’d like to think I would’ve been more supportive, or at least not so harsh.
But I did nothing.
I couldn’t.
I couldn’t let myself entertain the possibility of being friendly or sympathetic toward Camille, because my alpha would’ve latched on to that and deepened his obsession with her.
Keeping myself at a distance, only seeing her briefly in team meetings and in the halls, was the only way I could stay professional.
And despite that distance, my alpha was still distraught, wondering what happened to her when she didn’t show up for days.
Slimy dread and guilt pool in my stomach. I nod at Jackson. “Work can be rough, I guess.”
My trite response has Camille’s eyes flashing up to meet mine. Her gaze shows clear hurt, like I implied she was the source of my work problems.
I want to tell her that she’s never been a problem. That aside from her absence, she’s the best, most competent employee on my team. That she’s so smart and hardworking that it makes me ache to praise her every time I see her.
Maybe under different circumstances I could say fuck it and give in to my alpha’s attachment to her.
Apologize for being an ass and confess my desire for her.
But if I did that, I’d have to quit my job.
There’s a strict no fraternization policy at the office, never mind the unequal power dynamic that’d come into play between us as boss and employee.
With the loss of Jackson’s higher income, I’m the one providing for our pack now. I took on the managerial position at Pulse PR because it was the best paying job I could get. I can’t quit or get fired. I have to take care of them.
Pack comes before any of my desires.
Camille picks up her wine glass, her hand shaking so violently that it sloshes over the edge and splashes onto her chest. Rivulets of crimson slide down the swell of her breasts—which my alpha won’t let me look away from—staining her pretty pale dress.
“Shit! Sorry!” She sets the glass down and pushes back from the table, grabbing the napkin from her lap to blot at the liquid.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Ambrose says, placing a hand on her arm to soothe her.
Her eyes flick to his, and he gives her a warm smile. One I’m intimately familiar with. The one that tells you that he’ll keep you safe and that there’s nothing to worry about.
Hot, ugly jealousy spikes inside me. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s giving someone else that look or that she’s so receptive to him.
Jackson smiles at Camille. “If you take your dress off, I can soak it for you. I’m good at getting stains out.” He pauses and makes a face. “Don’t ask why.”
She lets out a weak laugh at his weirdness. “I wasn’t planning to get undressed on the first date, but okay.”
I should say something nice, too. Joke about how I’m clumsy. Tell the story of how I accidentally squirted a ton of sriracha all over myself on one of my first dates with Ambrose.
But my mouth won’t unglue itself from the firm line it’s set in. I’m held hostage by my body, knowing what I should be doing, but paralyzed by my emotions.
Jackson stands and moves over to Camille’s side, holding out a hand to her. “Come on, gorgeous,” he says, flashing her one of his patented charming smiles. “Let’s get you cleaned up and into something more comfortable.”
Camille nods and takes his hand, Jackson steadying her as she wobbles a bit when she’s on her feet. “Sorry,” she whispers, her face flushing when she notices me staring at her. “I only had a few sips, so I don’t know why I’m such a mess.”
“Not a mess.” Jackson squeezes her hip. “Red looks fantastic on you. And now I get to see what you look like in my clothes, which is going to make these alphas super jealous.”
She gives him a watery smile and lets him guide her out of the dining room as he continues to joke with her.
The moment they’re gone, I crumple forward, cradling my face in my hands with a pained groan.
“I’m sorry.”
I can’t look Ambrose in the eyes, even as he reaches out and wraps a hand around my forearm and gives me a gentle squeeze.
“River, what’s going on?” There’s no sharp edge or accusation in my mate’s tone, only concern. Which only makes me want to go hide and never come out even more.
Why is he being so nice to me when I’m clearly ruining his chance at happiness?
“It’s nothing.” My reply sounds distant and robotic. “I’m just tired.”
“If you’re not ready to meet Camille… if you’ve changed your mind, or don’t want to do this, we don’t have to.”
I look up at him, alarmed. “No! I want this for you.” I sigh and try to focus on my desire to make sure he and Jackson get what they need, not my panic. “I’m sorry. It’s… I… It’s not her. She’s… lovely. I want this for you.”
Ambrose’s gentle concern shifts to frustration. “It’s not about wanting something for me. You matter, River. You’re mine, and our bond is more important than anything.” He huffs out an exasperated sigh. “Stop being so self-sacrificing and tell me the truth about what’s going on in your head.”
“I…” I scrub a hand over my face, trying to gather myself and talk to him, knowing beneath all my turmoil that he’s right.
Before I’m able to come up with the right words, Jackson pokes his head into the dining room, his usual cheery smile absent. “Hey, uh, so Camille says she isn’t feeling great, and asked if she could have a raincheck on dessert. I’m going to give her a ride home.”
The disappointment on Ambrose’s face is like a knife in my gut. “Oh no, does she need some meds? I don’t want to send her home sick. Hold on, I’ll go grab a cold compress and check on her.”
Jackson shakes his head. “She’s embarrassed and doesn’t want anyone to make a fuss. I think it’s her stomach.” He grimaces. “Fuck, I hope it wasn’t my food. Dammit. Sorry for ruining this.”
A snort escapes me at his ludicrous interpretation of events. “It wasn’t your food. She’s making up an excuse to leave.“
Of course, right when I speak is the moment Camille returns. Her stricken expression makes her look like she’s been slapped, her pale cheeks flushing a bright, indignant red.
Go apologize to her. Beg her for forgiveness. Fix this!
“Thank you for dinner. I’m fine to get home on my own.”
“No!” Ambrose and Jackson say in unison, drowning out my own murmured protest.
Camille shakes her head. “It’s not far. I’ll be okay. Thanks again. Goodnight.”
She turns and leaves. Jackson follows her, calling out to for her to wait. I can tell Ambrose wants to do the same, but he stays with me.
He crosses his arms over his chest and levels me with a withering look I’ve never seen him use. “Explain. Now.”