Chapter 16 Jonah
I spend the first week in bed. I’ve never done not, not even when I had chickenpox. I feel worse than that now. I suppose it’s a kind of illness, losing one’s alpha even if that alpha was the wrong one from the beginning.
The quilt my grandmother made smells of the cedar chest where Mom stores it in summer. It should smell comforting and like home, but it doesn’t.
The twin bed creaks when I roll over, which I do constantly, trying to find a position where my body doesn't ache for something I can't have.
I am a mess of a human being. I couldn’t bear to leave and now I can’t bear to be here. I can’t bear to be at Alex’s estate and I can’t bear to be away.
It’s my hormones, I tell myself. I’m in withdrawal from a prime match. I just need to wait it out.
But all I can think of is the raw honesty in Alex’s voice when he said, “God took both my parents before I was eighteen.”
Is that what’s wrong with him? Just one more broken man numbing himself with alcohol. It can’t just be that. Other alphas lose their parents young and don’t grow up to be sarcastic, rude, drunk and irresponsible.
It doesn’t matter what caused it because
all I can think about is how miserable he looked.
Even when he was being an absolute ass, even when he was drunk and cruel, there was always this deep undercurrent of misery.
The funny thing is, I thought I could make his life worse. I’d sat in this exact same house the night before the wedding and decided that if he made my life difficult, I’d make him miserable.
But his life was already miserable. How was I going to do—make it worse? How? By cooking him breakfast he didn't want? Getting the tabloids even more focused on him?
What would be the point?
Voices drift up from downstairs. I don’t need to see them to know exactly what my parents are doing. They’ve had the same routine for decades. Mom is doing the washing up. Dad is at the kitchen table, drinking the chamomile tea she just made for him.
I don’t intend to eavesdrop but my bedroom door is open and we’ve never had secrets in our house anyway.
"The Henderson family isn't coming to prayer meeting anymore," Mom says quietly. I have to strain to hear. "Sarah told me they can't handle the photographers."
"It's not right," Dad responds. "They have no respect for privacy."
"Pastor David says he's going to issue another statement."
"Lot of good the last one did."
They're trying to be quiet, to not wake me, but I haven't been sleeping anyway. How can I when every time I close my eyes I see storm-gray ones looking at me.
Downstairs, I hear the phone start to ring.
It's been ringing all week. Reporters, mostly.
Some gossip blogger got the number somehow and posted it online.
Now strangers call at all hours asking if it's true that Alex is already dating someone else, if I'm planning to sue for alimony, if the marriage was ever consummated.
That last one made me cry. Consummated. It’s such a dry word.
It can’t contain everything that we did.
That I did. I don’t know where it came from, that dominance.
It’s not natural in an omega, no matter what Alex claims. I know that.
I know I can be too outspoken for an omega and not always as subservient as I should be.
But that’s something I have to work on. It’s not natural.
The phone stops, then immediately starts again.
I want to go downstairs and tell whatever reporter to go to hell—language I never would have used before Alex—but Mom's already picked up downstairs.
"Wells residence," I hear her say, her voice carefully neutral. Then: "I see. Yes, he's here. May I ask what this concerns?"
There's a pause. I can picture her in the kitchen, trying to maintain composure.
"I'll see if he's available."
Not a reporter then. She’s been polite but I’ve heard the way her voice shakes when they ask questions that are well beyond the boundaries of proprietary.
Her footsteps on the stairs are careful, like she's approaching a wounded animal. Which maybe she is. A soft knock on my door.
"Sweetheart? Mrs Norris is on the phone."
She hands me the receiver. Diana. Of course. The puppet master can't leave well enough alone.
I take the phone from Mom, wait until she's back downstairs before speaking. "Hello, Diana."
"Jonah. I need to speak with you."
"Why?" I say, far too bluntly. There’s me being far too direct as always. The correct response for an omega in my position is “Yes, ma’am.” I don’t say it.
"To discuss terms. The separation has generated significant media attention, as I'm sure you're aware. We need to coordinate our response."
"What kind of terms?"
"Financial arrangements. Media strategy. The technical aspects of your separation."
"Divorce, you mean."
A pause. "If that's what you choose. Though I should mention that Alexander hasn't indicated—"
"I don't believe in divorce." The words come out flat.
It's not even about faith anymore, not really.
It's about the promise I made. The vow. Even if Alex treats marriage like a temporary inconvenience, I don't. I can't. It’s just not who I am. I may not be a perfect omega but I’m not a completely different person.
"We still need to discuss how to proceed. The current situation is untenable."
She's right. The photographers haven't left in days. They camp at the edge of our property—we don't have gates, the Fellowship never needed them—and document every movement. Yesterday, little Emma couldn't understand why she wasn't allowed to play in the yard.
"When?"
"Tuesday. Four o'clock. My apartment." She gives me an address in the city. "I’ll send a car for you."
"Will Alex be there?"
"No. He's been... uncommunicative lately. Besides, it’s better that you and I discuss this alone."
Uncommunicative. That's one word for it. Another would be 'hiding.' Or 'running away,' which seems to be his signature move.
"Fine. Tuesday."
"Jonah." Her voice softens marginally. "For what it's worth, I don't think either of you expected this outcome."
Of course, we did. I knew I shouldn’t have married him in the first place and he was just as clear that he didn’t want to. What else was going to happen?
But I don’t say it. Instead I say, “Yes, Ma’am,” like the good little omega that I am.
She hangs up without saying goodbye. I lie back against the pillows, one hand drifting to my stomach.
It’s too early for a pregnancy test. If I am pregnant, I won’t get a positive result for at least another week.
Somehow I’m both longing for it and dreading it. My heart is going to break whether it is positive or negative.
There's could be a life growing inside me, a tiny piece of Alex and me combined.
The thought terrifies me. An omega alone, pregnant, with an alpha who doesn't want children and thinks marriage is optional. But instead, there's this fierce protectiveness already building. It would be my baby. Mine and Alex's, yes, but mine to protect and nurture and love even if its alpha can't.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. "Jonah?" It's Robert, my oldest brother. "Can I come in?"
"Yeah."
He enters with a tray—soup, crackers, ginger ale. Invalid food. He sets it on my nightstand then sits on the edge of my bed, making the mattress dip.
"You look terrible," he says conversationally.
"Thanks."
"When's the last time you ate actual food?"
I try to remember. Days blur together when you spend them staring at the ceiling. "Not sure. When did you last come over?"
"On Monday,” he says bluntly. “It's Wednesday."
"Oh."
He studies me with those careful alpha eyes, so different from Alex's storm-gray ones. Robert's are warm brown, steady, the kind of eyes that see everything but judge nothing.
"You miss him."
It's not a question. I don't answer.
"It's okay to miss him, you know. Even if he's a jerk."
"He is a jerk," I admit. “It’s complicated.”
"Love always is."
"I don't love him."
Robert raises an eyebrow. "No?"
"No. How could I? We barely know each other. That's not love."
"Then why do you look like someone died?"
Because something did die. The future I imagined, the family I wanted. All dead now.
"You know Pastor David wants you to go back to him," Robert says quietly. "Says it's your duty as an omega."
"I know."
"Mom and Dad agree. They think... they think this is just a break. That you need to go back."
"I know."
"Dad's been pretty clear about it."
I remember dinner last night. Every time I'd started to speak about Alex, about the separation, Dad had said my name in that same firm tone he'd used whenever I spoke out of place.
Just my name: ‘Jonah.’ A gentle reprimand and a reminder of my place. An omega doesn't leave their alpha. An omega doesn't complain about their alpha. An omega submits. An omega doesn’t leave their alpha just because it got difficult.
I think about Alex's face when I mentioned children. The pure terror in his eyes. Then later, drunk and bitter: *Tell me how to want children I'll definitely fuck up.*
“I can’t go back. He’s going to make me miserable. He doesn’t want children. He mocks my faith. He’s rude and messed up.”
"Sounds like you understand him pretty well for someone you don't love."
I throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning.
"Eat your soup," he says, standing. "And Jonah? Whatever you decide about the marriage, I’m here. The family, I mean. No matter what Pastor David says, no matter what the fellowship thinks. I’m your family too."
After he leaves, I manage a few spoonfuls of soup. It stays down, which is more than I can say for anything else lately. The crackers are harder—too dry, too much like cardboard—but the ginger ale helps.
Outside, I can hear voices. The photographers are changing shifts, probably. They work in teams now, making sure someone's always watching in case one of us tries to leave.
Yesterday they followed Mom to the grocery store. She came back shaking, saying they'd shouted questions at her the whole time, asking if she was disappointed in me, if she blamed Alex, if the family was planning to sue.
The phone rings again. This time I answer on the first ring, not wanting Mom to have to deal with it.
"Wells residence."
"Is this Jonah?" The voice is unfamiliar, female, professionally perky.
"Who is this?"
"Stephanie from Celebrity Weekly. We're doing a feature on alpha-omega matches that don't work out and we'd love to get your perspective on—"
I hang up. The phone immediately rings again. I press the answer button then hang up without saying anything.
The sun is setting by the time I finally drag myself out of bed. I find Mom in the living room, knitting.
She looks up when I enter, her face carefully neutral. "Feeling better?"
"A little."
I sit beside her on the couch, watching her fingers work the yarn. She's always been able to create beautiful things from simple materials. Blankets and sweaters and scarves that keep us warm in winter. Things made with love and patience and skill.
We sit in silence. The click of her needles is soothing, familiar. How many evenings did we spend like this when I was young? Her knitting, me reading, Dad in his chair with the newspaper. Simple. Peaceful. Everything my life is not anymore.
"I failed," I say quietly.
"Oh, sweetheart." Her voice breaks just a little. She sets down her knitting, but won't meet my eyes. "You needed space to think. That's understandable."
"Mom—"
"But you know you have to go back." The words come out rushed, like she needs to say them before she loses courage.
"He's your alpha now, Jonah. You belong with him, not here. I know he’s not what you want. He’s not what I want for you.
But that doesn't change the vows you took. For better or worse."
"This is definitely worse."
She finally looks at me, and her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "Your father and I... we've talked about this. Prayed about it. You can't stay here, sweetheart. Not permanently. This isn't your home anymore."
"Mom—"
"You belong to Alexander now. That's God's design. An omega leaves their family and cleaves to their alpha." She's reciting scripture, but her hands are trembling. "Even if he's..." She stops, swallows. "Even if he's not what we hoped for you."
"You mean even if he's a drunk who doesn't want children and thinks we're a cult."
"Jonah." My father's voice from the doorway makes us both jump. He stands there in his work clothes, solid and unmovable. "Mind your tongue."
"It’s not untrue, Dad."
"You're speaking disrespectfully about your alpha." His tone is gentle but firm, the same one he uses when teaching.
“Dad—”
"Jonah."
That tone again. The one that means *stop talking, you're overstepping, remember your place.*
Mom puts her hand on my knee. “We love you darling, but we don't get to pick and choose which parts of God's plan we follow." But her voice breaks on the words. "Oh, Jonah. My sweet boy. This isn't what I wanted for you."
"I know."
"But wanting doesn't change what is. You're married. Your place is with your alpha. These are facts we have to accept."
"And if I can't?"
She reaches over, takes my hand. Hers is cold, trembling slightly. "Then you pray for strength until you can. That's what we do. That's what I did when your father made decisions I disagreed with. That's what you'll do with Alexander."
Dad stands in the doorway watching us. I don’t want to say anything. I don’t want to hear him say my name like that again, but there is a difference here. I don’t know why they can’t see it.
"Dad has never been cruel to you."
"No. Never. He's a good alpha, a godly man." She squeezes my hand. "But even if he hadn't been, my place would still be with him. That's the covenant we make."
I think about Alex at our wedding, sober and trying. The way he'd held me during the first dance and the way he'd taken care of me during my heat, bringing water and food, washing my fevered skin with cool cloths.
Then I think about him drunk and bitter and mocking.
"I have a meeting with Diana on Tuesday," I tell Mom. "To discuss terms."
“You can’t get divorced,” Dad says.
“I won’t.”
Mom pulls me against her side, her lavender scent enveloping me. "I know, sweetheart. I know."
We sit there as the light fades, her knitting needles clicking.