Chapter 8
eight
I’m already halfway up the stairs when I hear a metallic thunk followed by a heavier thud.
Taking the rest of the steps two at a time leaves me panting. Not because the distance is too much, but because I’ve been half-holding my breath since we walked in. Only inhaling through my mouth. Trying to avoid some lingering omega scent that my Alpha finds a little too tempting for my liking.
No matter. I am in control.
Ignoring the burn behind my sternum, I focus on the sight across the cramped attic landing. A broken door, lying beyond a splintered threshold… and the soles of two heinously expensive shoes.
Dear God.
Finn actually fainted.
This alpha. I swear, sometimes, I’d be better off giving tasks to Maximus.
Honestly. What on Earth could have possibly—
I breathe. I don’t mean to, or even realize I am. But the image of Finn lying unconscious, in a room covered in endless pencil sketches, jars me enough to make me forget. Just for a split second.
An omega scent slams into me. Over me. A tsunami of delicate, ethereal sweetness that swamps my senses. Flooding my mind, sweeping through my entire body, pooling in the one place it absolutely cannot.
Yet, it does. It is. Soaking into my center, connecting with my Alpha before it sinks deeper. To the piece of me that shouldn’t feel anything—because I’ve already given it to someone else.
My soul snaps to attention, anyway. Forcing me to look past Finn. To the small, slumped figure lying in a halo of meager light. Surrounded by a haze of golden hair.
I’ve made very few notable mistakes in my life.
Having patients and students who relied on me to be a source of valuable insight, finding love with someone much younger, and then discovering he was from a powerful, horribly corrupt family.
There was no margin for error.
I had to move with grace, intelligence, and purpose. Stay calm and empathetic. Be the leader everyone needed.
So when I’m confronted with the choice between fleeing or keeping a solid grip on my self-control, the latter option seems like the better option.
Smarter. More noble.
Besides, this woman clearly needs medical attention. I will call an ambulance or drive her to the nearest hospital myself, but there’s no reason I can’t start helping her now.
Trapping my last inhale in my lungs, I step cautiously, in case Finn startles when I plant my foot beside his right leg.
My brow furrows when I spot a frying pan hanging from the ceiling eaves.
It swings like a slow pendulum, the rope of blonde hair fastened to it fraying a bit more with each swing.
Christ. Did this woman make twine out of her hair?
She sure did. And she fastened it into an effective booby trap, too.
Clever little thing, I think, turning to examine her with fresh appreciation. Whoever she is, she’s smart. Fearful, obviously—but what omega wouldn’t be in a situation like this?
This has to be the girl Cillian’s been looking for. Briar’s sister.
And, all along, she’s been here? Left for dead?
Compassion smolders into concern and draws me closer. For the first time since we entered the building, I see no dust on the floor. In fact, this tiny room is remarkably neat. Aside from the stained mattress, the chaotic art on the walls—and the omega’s unbrushed hair, of course.
The Daddy in me doesn’t approve, but the therapist senses pattern disturbance. She takes care of her space—why not her hair? Why would someone be so conscientious about cleaning the floor, but not themselves?
There are dozens of reasons, of course. Self-loathing, trauma, defiance. Lack of resources.
Physical incapacitation.
That last notion is enough to launch me forward. I close the distance between us, hurrying to the side of her dingy cot.
Honestly, the strength of my anxiety feels inappropriate… until I realize the woman hasn’t stirred. Not when Finn busted in. Or when her frying pan knocked him out.
Come to think of it, why am I more worried about this stranger than my own packmate?
As if sensing my gaze on him, Finn groans, rolling onto his back with a whispered curse. His fingers trace the blooming welt on his left cheek. He seems to decide it’s not worth totally rousing for, because all the tension seeps out of his posture as quickly as it returned.
Years of psych training tell me he’ll be fine. He’s moving and speaking, choosing to be his dramatic self. It’s likely a mild concussion—if anything.
A beat of relief interrupts my swirling emotions, and I shake my head at myself. I’m unaccustomed to feeling so scattered. It’s unacceptable, right now. I need to center myself. Maintain my focus.
On this strange omega.
I probably ought to question why my Alpha is so keen, but he’s also correct. The woman clearly isn’t a beta, like Briar said. She’s obviously an omega. And needs our help immediately.
Her chest is barely moving beneath her thin lavender nightgown. The very shallowest breaths come much too slowly, pushing her pale, freckled breasts in and out of the single slant of sunlight that falls across her bed.
Her skin is sallow, but it still glimmers when the warmth hits it. Dramatic shadows pool around her clavicles, under her cheekbones, and beneath her sunken eyes. Her lips are nearly colorless. So chapped, they’ve likely bled.
This poor baby.
She’s half dead. Visibly malnourished and dehydrated. And yet, lying here? Catching the one beam of light in the whole room? Tangling it in her endless loops of golden hair?
She looks like an angel.
The notion is grim. Not just because I’m admiring another omega’s beauty—but because of how deeply true it is. The girl is barely alive. If I don’t get her out of here, she may wind up in another plane of existence.
Unfortunately, that means I have to touch her.
My lungs pinch from lack of fresh oxygen. I know I’ll have to breathe soon, but not yet.
In truth, I’m afraid. As I extend my hand, a tremor shoots down my arm. My fingers curl, pausing mid-reach. Every nerve along my spine stands at attention. My stomach clenches.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m out of time to find an answer. Muted black spots dapple my view of the omega’s fine-boned features.
I have to take another breath.
I tell myself I can handle it—that the scent still tingling in my shriveled lungs was a figment of my imagination. Surely, nothing can be as good as Gideon.
Even that thought—the appraisal in it—feels wrong. I recoil internally, swerving away from such a blasphemous comparison. Reminding myself that—that—
Fucking hell.
I inhale because I have to, sucking in a gasp. Too desperate to limit the amount of perfume I consume.
My Alpha has been waiting for this moment. With a vicious lunge, he shoves to the surface. Forcing a series of all-consuming breaths.
Honey.
No.
Wildflowers.
This cannot be happening.
Golden sweetness and gentle warmth.
Please, no.
Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, I silently beg every god I don’t believe in to help me.
Alter reality. Wind back the clock.
Anything.
But, no.
This omega is my mate.
And she’s opening her eyes.