Chapter Eight ABBIE #2
I groan and press my thumbs into my temples, like I can hypnotize myself into acting like a normal human being. “Yes. I mean, we can talk later. Sorry again.”
He pushes me gently onto my side, scooting up behind me. It’s dangerously close to the tender area on my spine, but he just lays a big arm across my waist, as comforting as a weighted blanket. “No need to be, butterfly. But go to sleep now. I’ll watch over you.”
Maybe Pitt is the one with hypnotic powers, because I sleep until noon. As soon as I open my eyes, I know I’m alone, but I still brush my fingers over the cold sheets, seeking out any wisps of warmth that he left behind.
Time to wake the hell up, Abbie.
But the firmest pep talk in the world only gets me as far as the bathroom where I stare at my listless face. There’s nothing particularly memorable about my reflection - except for the butterfly tattoo on my neck - so maybe that’s why it’s so hard to recognize the person staring back at me.
After I’ve taken care of the basics, I crawl back to bed.
The scent of bacon still lingers in the air, along with a freshly brewed pot of coffee, but not even that can lure me into the kitchen.
Instead, I pluck the post-it note off the nightstand, smiling a little at Pitt’s handwriting in scratchy caps: WE’RE AT WORK. EAT SOMETHING. CALL FOR ANYTHING.
That’s slightly more tempting than dragging myself back to the kitchen, but when I pull out my phone, I find four missed calls and a bunch of unread texts. Most are from Glory and Patch, but I linger over the single, stark message from Ark: TRUST ME TO FIX IT.
My first instinct is to shoot him a rude emoji, especially because my heart squeezes with remembered longing.
Once upon a time, all I ever wanted was for someone to fix the world for me.
To free me from a situation I was too young and helpless to escape on my own.
But I found my escape in the end, and maybe it wasn’t perfect, but I got to watch my demons burn to ash at my own hand.
A hand that now shakes so hard, I have to toss the phone aside. Ark is persistent, but my resentment is ironclad. It’s going to take more than a sprinkle of promises to sweeten me up.
He doesn’t want me.
He wants to start over.
Yeah, well, you can’t always get what you want, can you?
I try to escape back to sleep, but the ghosts have burrowed under my skin, and I move restlessly against the sheets.
It helps to bury my face in the lingering pockets of Pitt’s scent, but as the hours crawl by, they grow fainter.
Or maybe my own stench just grows stronger, drowning them out.
The itch under my skin is definitely harder to ignore, and I eventually roll onto my belly, pressing my thumbs into the scar tissue on my back.
There’s hardly any sensation there anymore, but it still makes me shudder.
I also can’t stop my thoughts from looping back to the alpha in the gym.
How did he get the scar on his face? Were those scars on his chest the reason he works out in an empty gym?
But why doesn’t he just cover them up? Or does he feel like I do, that he’s a stranger in his own skin?
A stranger who commanded me to stay away, because he doesn’t want me.
Plain and simple.
I groan and roll onto my back, wishing I could rewind the clock and avoid the club at all costs. Or maybe I just need to avoid myself for a little while.
The way I’m whining and obsessing, anyone would think I’m bond sick...
I freeze, staring blindly at a spiderweb in the corner of my ceiling.
I run the clinical definition of bond sickness through my mind, but stutter to a stop. Why am I even thinking about this? I’m bondless. Bite-free. I might have some of the symptoms, but so does a ninety-year-old beta with a bad case of the flu…
But there is that weird ache in my chest.
The skin sensitivity that feels like a persistent itch.
The lack of appetite and lethargy.
The mood swings, the tears, the need to cling to the nearest alpha…
I roll and grab my phone, scrolling until I come to Janice’s number. If anyone can tell me it’s all in my head, it’s her.
She’s on shift, so we arrange to grab a coffee at the clinic’s cafeteria in an hour.
I manage a quick shower, wincing at the way my clothes scrape over my damp skin.
I can barely stand my softest brush, so I let my hair dry on my shoulders and shrug into my brother’s jacket.
Instead of grabbing my bike keys, I call a cab and wait down by the curb.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking into the cafeteria, grimacing at the glare of the hospital-strength lights and the squeak of rubber soles on tired linoleum.
“Lord, I heard you were sick, but you look terrible!” Janice scrambles up from her chair and gives me a quick hug. “Are you sure we shouldn't be getting you a bed upstairs?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” I admit as I slide into the seat opposite her.
The cafeteria smells like burned toast, tuna salad, and floor polish, and while it’s usually comforting, it makes me press a hand to my nose.
“Is there anything like bond sickness when there's no claiming mark? Can an omega still get sick if an alpha she’s not bonded to rejects her?”
I’ve been over it in my head again and again. Omega’s emotions are often tied to their heat cycle, and while mine is still a month away, early spikes can happen. But this doesn’t feel like an ordinary hormonal fluctuation. This feels bone deep, like something is wrong at a more fundamental level.
“I don't see why not,” Janice says slowly, “although it would be rare. As you know, when a compatible pair meets for the first time, they tend to connect immediately. It’s not in their nature to reject each other, but if they do, some part of that potential bond might still be there, causing a certain amount of pain.”
I wince, imagining a damaged thread connecting me to the runaway alpha. “What if it was a scent match?”
Her eyes widen with surprise. “Resisting a scent match is almost impossible. It’s our most primal instinct.
” She studies me for a moment, then leans over to squeeze my hand.
“It would fit, though. We rarely see it, because of the type of bond, but if something forced them apart, bond sickness is highly likely.”
Something like a command to stay away, even though I can still taste his scent in the back of my throat.
I mull over that as Janice goes to the counter to get us coffee.
Like she said, scent matching is biology at its most primal.
It’s one hindbrain talking to the other, scent receptors firing off electrical impulses like it’s the Fourth of July.
And as in the case of any explosion, the impact is both powerful and irreversible.
Did we have even a glimmer of that? I was attracted to the alpha, obviously, and it was intense enough to make my heart skip. But if our biology was going on a rampage, then why did he run away? Shouldn’t he have been drawn to me, the same way I was drawn to him?
When Janice comes back, she pushes a peppermint tea my way and I take a tentative sip. It’s been laced with honey, and I sigh in relief.
“Is that what's happened to you? Did you scent bond someone, Abbie?”
I wince as I gulp too hard, the hot tea searing my tongue.
“I don’t know. He barely spoke to me. There was just this overwhelming…
attraction, I guess. I thought he felt it too, but …
” I can’t finish the rest. Here I am asking for a diagnosis of bond sickness, and the object of my obsession commanded me to stay away.
“I can tell you’re feeling pretty low right now,” Janice says quietly, “but don’t assume it was all you. What do we tell our patients?” I stare at her, blank, and she gives me a sad smile. “Alphas have trauma too, Abbie.”
I feel my cheeks grow warm as I remember the haunted look in the alpha’s eyes. When exactly did my brain cells run off with my clinical detachment? “Yeah, I guess I didn’t think about that.”
Janice sips her coffee for a while, watching me over the rim.
I don’t interrupt her, because I came here for her wisdom, and rushing her would be rude.
Even if my knee is bouncing under the table like it’s on a spring.
“Can you call him?” she asks finally. “Ask him why he left without exploring the connection?”
I scowl, because of course she knows he ran away.
If all had gone according to the textbooks, I’d be off blissfully riding an alpha’s knot, instead of slinking around the hospital cafeteria like a lovesick Victorian wraith.
“I don’t even know his name. We move in some of the same circles, though.
” I press my lips together, because club business is still club business even if I never step inside the gates again.
“I could probably find out more, though.”
“Then I suggest you try seeing him again,” Janice says calmly. “As long as you have the right support around you, you should get the answers you need.”
I mull that over. Do I consider the Iron Flyers a support group? Maybe if I had a question about the benefits of synthetic oil over conventional, or exactly how much gasoline to wood ratio is required for the club bonfire to reach maximum burning capacity.
“Thanks, Janice.”
She reaches over to squeeze my hand. “Don’t worry too much, Abbie.
Scent matches usually find their way back to each other.
The bond is too strong to stay away.” That gives me more hope than probably anything else she’s said, and it must be pretty obvious, because she gives me a fond smile.
“If you want to talk more, we’re all here for you, okay? ”
She gestures around at our colleagues and I nod, but I keep my head down until I get out into the fresh air. I’m so focused on filling my lungs, I don’t notice the other omega until I nearly walk into him. “Damien!”
“Hi, Abbie.” He smiles shyly, tugging his long woolen coat tighter around his slender frame.
He looks good – bright-eyed and pink-cheeked – and he’s holding a bunch of red roses wrapped in an expensive velvet ribbon.
“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the bouquet into my hands.
“I wanted to apologize for the way I behaved last time I was here.”
“Really?” I accept the flowers awkwardly and look over my shoulder, feeling disoriented. “Are you here to check in…?”
“No, I was just going to ask reception to send them to you. I rang a couple of days ago and they said you were on leave.” His curious gaze scans me from head to toe, and I’m not surprised that he looks concerned. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine.” How many times do you have to say something before it becomes true? “I’ve just had a touch of the flu.” I shake my head as I study the beautiful bouquet. “You really don’t need to apologize, Damien.”
Now, more than ever, I empathize with his unruly emotions. And can I blame him for wanting the comfort of another omega, when the alphas of our world are so damn complicated?
My heart pinches as I think of Wings. His face flashes in my mind, the hurt in his eyes when I told him I needed space… Right when his own club – and the only home he’s ever known - is no doubt debating his worth because of his designation.
Fuck. What kind of insensitive asshole am I?
I must look as devastated as I feel, because the driver’s door of a long black limo pops open behind Damien and a hard-faced alpha climbs out.
He’s wearing a dark suit, but based on the bulging shoulders under his jacket, he wouldn’t look out of place at a bike rally.
When he catches my eye, his scowl is pretty outlaw, too.
“Ignore Lucas,” Damien says with a dismissive wave in his direction. “He’s my parents’ idea. An overreaction, as usual.”
He has his back to the other man, so he doesn’t see the way the alpha watches him, possessiveness etched into every rigid muscle. “Is everything okay with you?”
“It will be.” Damien offers me a radiant smile. “I’m going away. An extended holiday on the coast.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. “These are my details. Call if I can do anything for you, Abbie. No matter what it is.”
I look at him in surprise, because I think it’s the first time a patient has ever offered to help me. A surprised squeak escapes me as he pulls me in for a quick hug. “Thanks for restoring my faith in… people.”
As his slender arms release me, I breathe in his sweet scent. Maybe it’s just the flowers between us, but he smells better than he has in all the times I’ve treated him. “I’m glad you’re doing so well, Damien.”
“Well, you know what they say.” He gives me a wink. “It helps if you have a great therapist.”