Chapter 16 #2
He patted my back. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.
Sometimes, that happens. If they’re someone you trust, I recommend asking if they would spend your heat with you.
They’re probably feeling a similar pull toward you as well.
But if they aren’t a safe option, I can recommend several other colleagues I trust, who you might be more compatible with. ”
“No. This was enough, I think,” I said, standing quickly. “I mean, you’re great, I just—”
He laughed again and stood with me. “It’s alright, Max. And for the future, I don’t just offer heat teacher services. If you decide to pursue therapy in a traditional setting for what you went through, I’m here.”
“Thank you,” I said, finally meeting his eyes. And because there was only kindness and understanding there, I felt brave enough to ask, “Is it true an unclaimed bond can only be broken by sharing a heat and rejecting the mating claim?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Oh. Well, ideally a bond is formed with someone you don’t want to reject, but I suppose, hypothetically, yes. It could form between two highly compatible people without intention and thus need to be rejected.”
“What do you mean, highly compatible?”
“Usually, bonds take time to develop. They’re not something that happens by chance.
Typically, it’s an intentional union between two people who are compatible as mates.
So things like scent and pheromones are important, but also all the indefinable qualities that make us fall in love.
But if those qualities are strong enough, I suppose it could happen by accident. ”
I shuffled on my feet. “What if… What if the bond happened because of stimulants? What if it’s fake?”
“Oh, Max…” he leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms. “Heat stimulants act at the hormone level to trick your body into a sudden heat. It feels overwhelming and unnatural because your body and mind haven’t had time to process the changes.
Some people take them for pleasure, for the sudden rush.
Used without consent, they can be incredibly damaging to your mental wellbeing. But…”
His tone shifted, like he was a doctor delivering bad news. “But they can’t fake a bond. Your body and mind were disjointed because of the speed at which the heat set in and because you didn’t consent to it, but it was a real heat, and any resulting bond would be real, too.”
“So that means we really are… compatible?” I asked in a hushed voice.
“In a biological sense, yes. But none of that negates your choice, Max. Just because it’s a real bond, it doesn’t mean you wanted it, or should accept it. It just means it’s a natural part of finding a compatible option for a mate.”
My mind was spinning. “If we do spend my heat together, whether or not we reject the bond, does that mean it’s really us wanting that? It’s not like a re-wiring of who we are because of the heat stimulants?”
Owen nodded. “That’s correct; the heat stimulants can’t change who you are. But only you and your partner can decide what you want.”
I was silent, processing.
“Are you safe, Max? Did this person give you stimulants and make you feel forced into a bond?”
That was the first time I heard real alpha in his voice.
I shook my head. “No, he didn’t give them to me, and he didn’t force anything.
He’s the one who took me to the clinic. He’s been on suppressants ever since, but asked me if I would help him break the bond, so he didn’t have to be on them anymore.
My heat symptoms started back up when he… came to see me.”
Broke in didn’t really align with the whole safety part of all that.
Owen’s face paled. He snagged his water bottle off his desk and lifted it to take a sip. “How long ago was this?”
“Two years.”
The water bottle crashed to the floor. “Two years?” he asked, scrambling to pick it up before too much water spilled out.
“Um, yes? I know suppressants suck to be on for that long.”
Owen shook his head, flustered. He grabbed a handful of tissues and blotted up the water.
“I’m not sure if I should say this. I honestly don’t know what boundaries there are when discussing the potential medical issues of a patient’s partner.
But being on suppressants for that long is not safe.
They act by suppressing natural organ function.
I’ve never heard of someone taking them for that long. It can lead to organ failure.”
Wait. What? “Are you saying he’s dying?”
He threw the wet tissues in the trash. “Not necessarily. If he’s seeing a rut specialist, they’ll be monitoring him closely. I’m just surprised, that's all.”
That motherfucker had let himself get to death’s door before he came to me? Was I really that terrible of an option?
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Owen said, chagrinned. My feelings must’ve been written all over my face.
Unable to help myself, I stifled a sob. “He really, really doesn’t want me,” I choked out between my fingers.
To his credit, Owen handled the sudden burst of emotion with far more care than Mr. Marino. Handing me a tissue, he guided me back to the sofa and sat next to me. “I understand why you’d be upset, but I’m not sure it’s fair to either of you to read into his actions without more information.”
I gave a snort of derision and wiped my nose. “How else am I supposed to interpret that?”
“Well,” Owen said gently. “It really isn’t for me to say either way.
But based on his past actions, like taking you to the shelter while you were in heat despite already having formed a bond, I could imagine a scenario in which telling you the full extent of the suppressants could feel coercive or manipulative.
It’s not really a choice you get to make of your own accord if he’s making you feel like his life is at stake, is it? ”
I shook my head. “But if his life is at stake, it’s dishonest to not share the full picture.”
Owen cocked his head back and forth. “The situation isn’t great, either way. Honestly, if he’s a safe person for you to have a conversation with, I recommend you do that. Clear the air. It might help you in making a decision.”
After a deep breath, I stood. “Thank you for answering my questions.”
He cringed. “I don’t usually say this, but I’m not sure I was much help to you. I’m sorry.”
“No, you were. Really. Thank you.”
And he was. He’d shown me that spending a heat with anyone else wasn’t an option. My omega had chosen—and it was my omega, the real one, not some artificial, fake feeling forced on me—and it wanted the Masked Man.
I just had to decide what to do about that, and figure out if he felt the same.
As if to match my restless thoughts, a brewing storm chased us all the way home.
The air outside was heavy and thick, and churning clouds hung low over the bay. Almost unnaturally still, it was like the hushed neighborhood held its breath, waiting to see what the building thunderheads unleashed.
This was my favorite kind of weather. Charged and anticipatory, it made me want to huddle in close to wait out the threatening storm. I yearned for safety and comfort, and yet it also made my blood run hot and electric.
Nothing else had ever come close to that feeling, except for him.
The Masked Man was the perfect cocktail of safety and danger, like a lighthouse standing alone on a rocky shore during a November gale. Entirely singular, I craved him more than anyone or anything else.
Ever.
After that appointment, however, I couldn’t decide if it was a craving to punch him or kiss him.
Both. It was both.
Gwen and I were quiet on the drive home. I couldn’t shake thoughts of him from my mind. I wanted him to show me Joey couldn’t hurt me. I wanted him to tell me he wanted a heat with me, and not the rut suppressants or faceless omegas that hadn’t been enough for him.
Owen had confirmed something I’d suspected all along—I wanted the Masked Man. The circumstances we met under were horrible, and maybe if that hadn’t happened we never would’ve met at all, but even still, my attraction to him was real. Spending a heat together would be real.
Rejecting the bond would be real, too. My omega whined.
After waving goodbye to Gwen, I hurried down the path toward home. Mr. Marino had been called away at the last minute for business overseas and brought Enzo with him, so I had at least the next few days off.
That tingling, prickly feeling from earlier returned. The little hairs on my arms stood on end, like electricity charged the air.
Or like someone was watching me.
My blood sang when I thought of the latter. Clearly, my visit with the therapist hadn’t fixed whatever was wrong with me.
I cast around but found no hooded figures hiding in the shadows along the shoreline, only grass and trees whipping in the cold wind blowing off the lake.
Thunder rumbled. A raindrop splashed on my cheek. Then another, and another. Breaking into a jog, I tried to outrun the deluge and made it up the stairs and inside just as it really began to pour.
I quickly closed the door behind me, shaking out my damp hair. Lightning cracked, momentarily illuminating the dim living room.
And there stood the Masked Man, looming like a wraith conjured by the storm itself.
“Welcome home, sweetheart.”