Cara #2
His hand tightens on mine. “You can always be here. You know that.”
I kiss him instead of answering. Soft and slow, tasting like the mint gum he always chews when he’s studying. The textbooks slide off the bed. Neither of us cares.
Later, tangled together in his sheets, he traces patterns on my shoulder blade.
“I’m going to miss you,” he murmurs. “When we go to college.”
“We’ll make it work.”
“Long distance is hard.”
“We’re harder.” I prop myself up to look at him. “We’re pack, Lucas. Nothing changes that.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
I broke that promise. Six months later, I was gone.
“Dr. Price,” I manage, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He steps inside. Closes the door.
His scent hits me fully now—bergamot and sandalwood, warm and complex and achingly familiar. It’s stronger than it used to be, more mature, but underneath it’s still him. Still the boy who traced patterns on my skin and saw through every wall I tried to build.
The room shrinks. The bergamot thickens, fills every corner, presses against my skin like a physical weight. My heart is pounding too fast and I can’t make it stop.
“I heard you had a fall.” He sets the tablet on the counter. Still not looking at me directly. “Let’s take a look.”
Professional. Detached. Like I’m any other patient. Like we weren’t tangled in his sheets ten years ago making promises I didn’t keep.
My instincts don’t care about professional.
They only care that he’s here, close, smelling like safety and home and everything I threw away.
And underneath the instincts, something worse—the part of me that remembers his hands in my hair, his voice in my ear, his absolute certainty that we would make it work.
Promise?
Promise.
God, I was such a liar.
Say something. Apologize. That’s why you’re here.
But his face is closed off, his scent carefully controlled, and I can’t find the opening. Can’t find the version of him who might actually want to hear what I have to say.
He pulls up a rolling stool and sits in front of me. This close, I can see the tiredness around his eyes. The tension in his jaw. Ten years have changed him—made him sharper, more guarded—but underneath, he’s still Lucas.
His hands hover near my foot.
“May I?”
I nod. Don’t trust myself to speak.
Lucas, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was scared and stupid and I—
The words stay locked in my throat.
His fingers are warm as he unlaces my boot. Careful, gentle, professional—and completely devastating. Every brush of his skin against mine sends heat racing up my leg. My breath catches. I pray he doesn’t notice.
He eases the boot off. Then my sock. My ankle is a little swollen, slightly pink. Honestly, it doesn’t look that bad.
“When did this happen?”
“Half hour ago. Outside the bakery.”
“Any weight on it since?”
“Walked to the car. It’s a little tender.”
He nods. Types something on his tablet. Then his hands are on my ankle again, pressing lightly, testing.
“Tell me when it hurts.”
He presses the outside of my ankle. I inhale sharply—not from pain, but from the shock of his fingers on my bare skin. His scent flooding my lungs with every breath. The heat building in my core that has nothing to do with inflammation.
“Tender there?”
“A little.” The word comes out breathy. I clear my throat. “It’s fine.”
He moves his fingers. Palpates along the bone with clinical precision. But there’s nothing clinical about the way I respond—every nerve ending lighting up, skin prickling with awareness, the ache between my thighs that’s getting harder to ignore.
I watch his face as he works. The furrow of concentration between his brows. The way his lips press together when he finds a tender spot. He’s so focused, so careful, and it makes me remember other times those hands touched me. Other contexts entirely.
Stop. Stop it.
I should be using this chance to apologize. To explain. Not sitting here getting slick while he examines my ankle like I’m any other patient.
“Any numbness?” he asks. “Tingling?”
“No.”
His thumb brushes the arch of my foot as he repositions his grip. Accidental. Has to be accidental. But my whole body responds like he touched me somewhere far more intimate.
And then I feel it. The unmistakable slick of arousal.
Not much. Just a hint. But I feel it and I want to die right here on this exam table.
I wanted to use this chance to apologize. Instead I’m making everything worse.
I clench my thighs together. Hard. Try to think about ice, snow, anything cold, anything that isn’t the alpha in front of me with his hands on my skin and that smell everywhere.
“Rotate your foot. Slowly.”
I rotate. Focus on the movement. On the clinical fluorescent lights. On anything except his hands.
“Good range of motion.” His voice is steady. Professional. But his nostrils flare—just slightly, barely perceptible—and I watch his jaw tighten. “Not broken. Mild sprain. Ice it tonight, keep it elevated. You’ll be fine in a couple days.”
He stands abruptly. Moves to the counter. Puts distance between us.
Can he smell it? Can he smell what’s happening to me? My scent must be screaming right now. The thought makes heat flood my face. I want to disappear.
When he turns back, his eyes are darker. The bergamot and sandalwood has shifted, gone heavier. Primal. It makes me want to tilt my head back and bare my throat.
“I’m going to wrap it now.”
He returns to the stool. Pulls my foot into his lap to stabilize it—my calf against his thigh, his hands cradling my ankle—and the contact sends a rush of heat through me so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
His fingers pause for just a second. Then he starts wrapping, movements quick and efficient. Not looking at me. Jaw tight.
The silence between us goes thick and charged.
“Lucas, I’m sorry—”
“Dr. Price.” He looks up at me, and underneath the composure, I see it—the anger he’s barely containing. The hurt. “In this room, I’m Dr. Price.”
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. Which I probably needed, given what was happening thirty seconds ago.
He holds my gaze. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second—one second—and the bergamot spikes, goes darker.
Then he looks away. Finishes the bandage with hands that aren’t quite steady. Ties it off and stands abruptly. Moves toward the door.
“Lucas.” It comes out before I can stop it.
He pauses. Hand on the doorknob. Doesn’t turn around.
“I want to explain—”
“Ice and elevation,” he says. “Stay off it as much as you can for a day or two.”
Then he’s gone.
I sit there for a long time after the door closes. The paper crinkles beneath me every time I shift.
Well. That was humiliating.
Not just the slick situation—though that’s going to haunt me at 3am for the rest of my life—but all of it. The way he wouldn’t look at me. The way he said “Dr. Price” like a door slamming shut. The way he wouldn’t even let me finish a sentence.
Great job, Cara. Really nailed it.
The nurse comes eventually. Brings an ice pack and an ACE bandage. I nod along, barely hearing her, too busy replaying every mortifying moment.
Did he smell it? He had to have smelled it. My scent must have been obvious. His nostrils flared. He went darker, heavier.
Oh god. He definitely smelled it.
I want to melt into the exam table and never emerge.
Mary wheels me back to the waiting room—clinic policy, apparently, even though I could walk just fine. Maeve and Mrs. Patterson are there, flipping through magazines, and they both stand when they see me.
“All set?” Maeve asks.
“All set.”
They don’t ask about Lucas. Maybe they can read it on my face—the flush that won’t fade, the thousand-yard stare of someone who has experienced a profound personal humiliation.
The drive to Grandma’s is quiet. By the time we pull into the driveway, I’ve catalogued approximately a thousand things I should have done differently. Starting with “not fallen on the ice” and ending with “not gotten slick during a medical exam like some kind of feral animal.”
A medical exam I didn’t even need. Mild sprain. Ice and elevation. I could have done that at home.
Mrs. Patterson pats my shoulder as I climb out of the car. “Don’t you worry, honey. In the books, they always get back together in the end.”
She means well. She has no idea how much worse that makes it.
In the books. My books. The ones where I get to control the ending. Where the alphas forgive the omega because I write them that way. Where second chances are guaranteed because it’s fiction.
This isn’t fiction. And I’m not in control of anything.
“Thanks for the ride,” I manage.
They leave. Grandma opens the door, takes one look at me, and steps aside.
“That bad?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Couch. I’ll get ice.”
She doesn’t push. Just gets me settled with my ankle elevated and an ice pack wrapped in a towel. Brings tea. Retreats.
I stare at the ceiling.
Three alphas. Three different responses to me showing up in their lives again.
Nate was ice cold—called me Ms. Donovan and walked away like I was nobody. Theo gave me sad eyes through a window and a single nod, nothing more. And Lucas was professional, controlled, wouldn’t let me get a word out before he was gone.
I’m doing great here. Really knocking it out of the park.
But here’s the thing—and I hate that I noticed this, hate that I’m even thinking about it—they’re not unaffected.
Nate’s heart was pounding when he caught me.
Theo couldn’t stop looking at me through that window.
And Lucas... his scent went darker when he smelled me.
His hands weren’t steady. He looked at my mouth like he was remembering.
Not that it matters. Noticing their involuntary reactions doesn’t change what I did. Doesn’t erase ten years of silence. Doesn’t give me the right to expect anything from them.
I close my eyes, and the memories come whether I want them or not.
Nate teaching me to drive his truck, his hand covering mine on the gear shift, patient even when I stalled out for the fifth time.
Theo pressing a wildflower into my locker every Monday morning for an entire semester, never once taking credit.
Lucas memorizing my coffee order, my favorite songs, the exact way I liked my sandwiches cut—paying attention to the small things because that’s how he loved.
I had everything. And I threw it away because I was eighteen and terrified and too stupid to understand what I had until it was gone.
My ankle aches. The ice pack is already melting.
I reach for my phone. Pull up my notes app. Start typing.
Things I need to say: 1. I’m sorry 2. I was scared 3. I know that’s not an excuse 4. You deserved better 5. I never stopped thinking about you 6. I wrote books about you because it was the only way I could be close to you (DO NOT ACTUALLY SAY THIS ONE) 7. I wish I could go back
I stare at the list. Seven things. Ten years. Three alphas who used to look at me like I hung the moon, and now look at me like I’m a ghost they’re not sure they want to see.
But I didn’t drive two thousand miles just for Grandma. I’m only realizing that now, after seeing all three of them. After feeling what it did to me.
The auction flickers through my mind. All three of them, on a stage, being bid on. Whoever wins gets a date. Gets time with them. Gets them alone.
The thought disappears as quickly as it came. I can’t even get through a medical exam without humiliating myself. The idea of bidding on them in front of the whole town is laughable.
Probably.
Eventually.
Right after I figure out how to look Lucas Price in the eye without spontaneously combusting from shame.