Chapter 12
TWELVE
My alarm blares, startling me from a sleep that can barely be considered that.
When I went to bed last night, I again had the na?ve hope that my migraine would be gone when I woke up. At least once a month, I convince myself that all I need is a little sleep and that I’ll be right as rain.
Unfortunately, that is never the case.
I groan as I roll out of bed, trying to take stock of my body. Aching at the back of my neck, my lower back, and the tips of my fingers and toes.
Pain level: Three. It’s annoying and a little distracting, but over-the-counter meds may help.
But the main problem is my traitorous head. As soon as I start moving and begin my morning routine, it rebels, ratcheting my pain up dramatically.
How and why is my body attacking itself? It feels like someone has bolts on my temples, steadily tightening them. My vision is slightly blurry, and nausea simmers beneath the surface.
Pain level: Seven. Difficult to concentrate, but can function with effort.
When I mention to someone I have migraines, the first thing they do is tell me all about their headaches. Because that’s what they are. They’re not migraines.
I can recognize someone who actually suffers from them. I don’t know how to describe it, but people who deal with chronic pain have an aura about them that is only recognizable to someone else in the same boat.
The second thing they do is ask how I am out and about, if I have a migraine, because their brother/aunt/neighbor/grocery store clerk has to hide under the covers whenever they have a migraine.
Don’t get me wrong, I have my hide under the cover days—more than I’d like to admit. But the world doesn’t stop because I’m in pain. There are things that I have to do to keep living.
My family returned to Colombia after I finished college, and I don’t have a pack. I utilize delivery services and outsource everything I can, but I still have to leave the house sometimes.
Like today.
I’ve got a follow-up with Dr. Talbot to get another gene therapy treatment. I’m still wondering if it was a good idea to put some of the small amounts of banked effort I have on a given day to explore this treatment option. I haven’t noticed much, if any, difference.
I should eat.
Not eating and drinking can make it worse. But the idea of eating makes me feel green.
A smoothie would be good. I could handle a smoothie.
But the blender is so loud.
Maybe I could order one from the shop by the Clinic on my phone and walk in once it’s done?
I’ll try that.
The rideshare driver honks from outside my townhome, and I cringe. I guess requesting a silent ride doesn’t extend to the horn.
By the time I slide out of the backseat and run into the smoothie shop (the blenders were off when I went in, thankfully), I’m just on time for my appointment.
The nurse—I think his name is Kyle, but I honestly cannot remember—takes me back to take my vitals and set me up for an MRI. Once all that is done, I’m escorted to Dr. Talbot’s office, where I try to keep my straw from making that obnoxious slurping noise that happens when you get to the end of a drink.
The smoothie has helped a little, surprisingly.
Pain level: Six. It can’t be ignored, but I can function somewhat normally.
Dr. Talbot comes in the door with a big smile. “Good morning, Mr. Ortega. Kyle tells me you have a migraine today. What is your pain level?”
“Six.”
“Okay, good to know.” One of the reasons why I like Dr. Talbot is that he doesn’t try to convince me I’m not at the level of pain I say I am. He clears his throat after scratching some notes on the paper chart he’s holding. He’s surprisingly old school for such a technologically advanced place. I have to assume he types them all up afterward.
“Let’s take a look at your MRI.” He sits down at his desk and begins tapping away at his keyboard. His face scrunches.
I don’t like that look.
“One moment, Mr. Ortega.” He picks up a walkie-talkie and depresses the side button. “Crystal, the system seems to be having a little hiccup. Can you bring the physical files for Mr. Ortega to my office?”
“Sure thing, boss,” the foreign voice comes through the tinny speaker.
“Is there a problem?” I ask nervously.
He shakes his head. “No, not at all. My research assistant will bring physical copies of your files since your digital chart seems to be having trouble this morning.”
I hum softly to myself and bob my head in understanding.
A soft knock on the door has me turning in my seat just a moment later. The research assistant, Crystal, is slim, wearing a pair of slate blue slacks and an ivory blouse under her lab coat. Her hair fades from pink to purple and then blue, barely brushing her shoulders in messy waves. She’s got a pointed nose and clear hazel eyes.
She’s so beautiful. Like a pixie. A fairy. Something not of this planet.
“Good morning, Mr. Ortega,” she mutters softly.
Usually, when people talk, my migraine will throb. But it doesn’t this time. That’s nice.
She walks past me, and the AC kicks on simultaneously, ruffling her hair. I watch it move in the sudden gust and get smacked in the face with the most beautiful smell.
Crisp, cool, peppermint.
Sometimes, before my migraines get especially nasty, a little peppermint essential oil on my pulse points can help lessen the sharp pain.
It’s not every time, and it doesn’t fully take the pain away, but it does enough that I always have a bottle on me.
My Omega smells like peppermint.
She smells like my pain is manageable.
She smells like relief from something that plagues me.
She smells like hope.
Pain level: Five. Able to ignore for thirty minutes.
Her body stiffens. Rigid. Like she’s afraid. Her eyes are wild as she stares at me. A whine bubbles up her throat, but she smothers it quickly. A purr immediately tries to rumble in my chest, but I follow her lead and stifle it. I try to jump to my feet, but a sharp shake of her head causes me to lower myself again.
“No.” The word has no bite to it when she whispers it. It’s almost pathetic.
And she turns away from me, drops the file on the desk, and runs out of the room.
What just happened?
She’s my scent match. I’m sure of it. More sure of it than anything else in my life. Did she not scent me?
It takes everything in me not to chase her down. But this is her place of work, and clearly, she did not want to have this conversation in front of her employer, which I can respect. I’ll have to find her when I’m done with my appointment.
After an hour of answering questions and several injections of the treatment that attempts to rewrite my genetic code, I’m finally cut loose.
Standing in the middle of the hallway, swinging my gaze in every direction to find my Omega, I must look lost because a doctor stops in front of me. He has slightly curly, dirty blond hair, green eyes, and smile lines. The Alpha has a friendly expression and waves his hand slightly.
“You look lost. Can I help?”
I clear my throat. “You work here?” Duh, Manny, of course he does. He’s obviously a doctor here.
But he doesn’t talk to me like I’m a moron. “I do! Icarus Knight. Where are you trying to go?”
“I’m looking for Crystal.” Her name rolls off my tongue like it was meant to be there, and I sigh at its taste. “I was hoping you could point me in her direction.
His eyes crinkle with a smile. “I can do you one better. I’ll take you to her. Are you a friend?”
“I… I’m her Alpha. I think?”
Woah, why am I saying this to a near stranger?
“You think?”
“I just met her in Dr. Talbot’s office. But… she smells like peppermint.” I swing my head towards him in fear. “Does she just wear perfume? Oh shit, did I imagine it?”
He chuckles and gently pats my shoulder. “She doesn’t smell like that to me, so the evidence points towards you making the correct assumption.”
Tension pulls my shoulders up to my ears. “Maybe this is wrong. Am I ambushing her at work? Should I wait outside until she gets off?”
“I think that’d be worse,” he answers honestly. “Scent matching someone at their place of business isn’t ideal, but you need to introduce yourself to her. Once you scent your match, as an Omega, without a regular dose of their pheromones, there is the potential to develop scent sickness.”
“Scent sickness?” A lump forms in my throat. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It doesn’t come up much because most people want to be with their matches from the moment they find them, so we don’t have much evidence about Omegas who keep away from their Alphas. And there are different levels of severity.” He stops outside a break room. “My Omega had a mild case. We treated it before it got bad.” He points at the wooden door in front of us. “She’s in there. Good luck.”
Swiftly, the doctor spins on his heel and walks away, leaving me staring at the pathway to my future. My hand shakes as I open the door and slide into the small room.
Crystal sits at the table directly in front of the door, her head whipping up when I enter. She shakes her head before burying her face in her hands.
“Not again,” she says sadly. “I can’t do this.”
Pain level: Eight.