Chapter 22
I’ve kept my eye on my phone, just in case anyone has an emergency that requires my assistance, but I’ve put a sign on my door indicating that I’m ill and my clinic hours are cancelled until further notice.
It’s been two days since I realized this circus is full of scent matches for me while sick with the flu, and I don’t feel any better than I did that night, when I got dragged out of my trailer to care for Quinton.
Quinton.
The handsome Alpha is such a sweet man, and he’s going to be collateral damage in the wake of my trauma. He’s going to be another on the long list of things Rich has taken from me.
He needs my pheromones to keep his Alpha Rot from progressing, and I need to hide my pheromones to keep my scent matches at bay and protect myself.
Am I a monster if I don’t help him? If I leave him to succumb to the Rot?
Because that is what I’m doing, if I go back on the suppressants, I’m basically condemning him to a life of pain because I hold the cure in my pheromones.
Sure, there is a possibility of him meeting another scent match, but that’s slim.
And pointless when he has me sitting right here, available to him.
If only I could let myself have him and the others.
Instead, I have to accept that if I am going to protect myself, he’s going to suffer.
I am a doctor. How does this relate to my vow to “do no harm”? Couldn’t it be argued that it would harm me to go off my suppressants so he can have access to my pheromones?
Emotional harm is still harm, and I would not be in a good place mentally if I had to work surrounded by scent matches for the entirety of my six-month contract and then walk away from them.
Because staying after the end of my contract isn’t an option, I would leave now if I had enough money saved up to tide me over until I figured something else out.
My phone chimes, and I pull the blanket off my head. I’ve been so wrapped up in my nest that I haven’t been eating or drinking. I know I need to do both if I am to get better, but I don’t have the energy to pull myself out of this comfortable pile of linens.
I know that I can’t ignore the outside world forever, as much as I want to, so I grab the phone from my nightstand.
Matteo
Hey, Alex. I know that things are insane and overwhelming, and none of us handled it well the other night. That wasn’t fair to you. I don’t blame you for sneaking out. I probably would have done the same.
I’m not trying to guilt you or force your hand or anything, and Quinton may be too proud to ask himself, but I’m not.
Do you have any linens or clothing I can have to keep on hand for him? Right now, he’s still doing okay, having your shirt close, but I want to stave off as much of the Rot for as long as possible.
I know it’s not your responsibility to fix him, but I love him. I’ll do anything to save him, even begging you for help. I can’t watch him waste away.
He’s a good Alpha. A good man.
Well, fuck me.
What do I say to that? How do I deny him something that will, without a doubt, help keep the man he loves from succumbing to a terminal illness, for however short a time that is?
It feels like a slippery slope, opening myself up to be used as nothing more than medicine for the ailing Alpha, but what harm does it cause me to give him some of my dirty clothes or linens?
I don’t want to be beholden to the whims of a scent match again, but I want Quinton’s pain and demise on my shoulders even less.
I’m happy to give you what I have, but I have gone back on the suppressants, so I won’t be able to provide any more.
Matteo
We’re grateful for anything you’re willing to give.
Can I ask you a personal question?
You can say no if you want. I know we don’t know each other well .
I stretch out in my nest, lying on my back and staring up at the ceiling. My muscles scream in protest, and the dull throbbing ache emanating from my head makes my stomach churn.
There’s a joke that doctors make the worst patients, and I can confirm that it’s true. I want nothing more than to whine and cry and beg for someone to take care of me, but I doubt I’d let them.
I can’t let anyone in.
Except that Matteo is texting me. He wants to chat. What do I have to lose in answering a question, especially over text? Words on a screen would be better than being utterly alone. It’s not like he’s asking to come sit across from me in a facsimile of an interrogation.
It’s a text.
And it’s Matteo. It’s hard not to feel safer with the Beta than the others. His scent definitely called to me, but he’s not an Alpha, and that makes a huge difference when it comes to my comfort. I don’t need his scent to live, and he doesn’t need mine.
He’s unable to treat me the way Rich did.
Sure, I suppose so.
Matteo
Do you really think Quinton is like your ex?
Ouch, right for the jugular. Matteo does not pull any fucking punches, does he?
My ex wasn’t like my ex when we first scent matched.
Matteo
Fair.
But in your gut, don’t you know he’s not?
I don’t know any of you, not really. And now I will never truly get to know the real you, because this will always be hanging over our heads.
How can I know you’re being genuine when, deep down, I know you’re only treating me this way because we’re scent matches?
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again. Like he can’t come up with an acceptable response to my question.
Because there isn’t one.
We will never be able to know each other as just a man and a woman, because now we know that we are scent matches and all the designation bullshit comes into play, too.
I throw my phone to the side and grab a pillow to smother my scream.
This is exactly what I was trying to avoid when I put myself on those heavy-duty suppressants. I wanted to be able to hide out in the fucking circus for six months as I try to figure out how to get my life in order. I didn’t want any romantic entanglements, much less a scent match.
Oh, and lucky me, it’s not just a scent match.
It’s five.
How many more are out there? Am I going to scent match every time I walk into the grocery store? How about at the dentist’s?
I feel like I’m on a daytime talk show. You get a scent match! You get a scent match!
Everyone gets a scent match!
Even though I never asked for it, and I can’t afford to pay the taxes on it.
Why is this happening to me? There was one point in my life when I was thrilled to have a match. It was a dream come true. Everything I could’ve ever wanted.
But now I know that the girl who cried tears of joy when she scent matched to the hot resident in her program is dead.
She’s laid to rest in a pretty meadow covered in flowers, and a bitter, jaded woman rose in her place.
No Omega is ever safe in this world. When our biology overrides our logical minds at every turn, how can we be? Without suppressants, I would go into heat and be happy with a knot shoved into me by any Alpha, even though right now the idea of accepting a knot makes me want to scream.
Without suppressants, my body will betray me.
And I refuse to give it the chance to.
The nausea is back, and my head is starting to feel fuzzy, like I’ve been holding my breath for a while. I stumble out of bed and to the bathroom, puking up red bile again.
I can’t go on like this much longer. I’m going to need an IV for hydration at the bare minimum soon, but I’m so dehydrated that I worry someone would have trouble finding a suitable vein.
If I weren’t dealing with all this Omega bullshit I would’ve given myself one ages ago, but now I’m too fucking weak. I’d end up blowing my vein out or something.
In the background, I can hear my phone pinging with messages, and then ringing twenty minutes later as someone tries to reach me.
But I can’t get to the phone. I used up all my energy texting Matteo, it would seem, because the idea of standing up produces the same feeling as thinking about climbing a mountain.
My phone keeps ringing, and I have no choice but to ignore it. My body refuses to move from where it rests beside the yellowed toilet in my bathroom.
If it’s an emergency, they’ll call 911.
They’ll have to. I can’t treat someone else when I can barely hold my head up.
There is a niggling in the back of my mind that begs me to reconsider my diagnosis. I’m starting to think that this isn’t the flu, despite what the initial symptoms seemed to indicate, as it shouldn’t last this long and shouldn’t be this debilitating.
Maybe I’ll feel better after a short rest. Maybe after a rest, I should consider asking someone to take me to the hospital.
It’s not like Rich can search my records and find me. He doesn’t have access to that kind of thing.
Just as I convince myself that a hospital is the right choice, darkness clouds my vision, and I slump down, resting my face on the cool linoleum floor of my trailer’s bathroom.
The hospital can wait.