Chapter 15
Lark
Cammie and I flip through dashboard views from our latest marketing push. We are just closing our laptops when Graham appears in the doorway.
“Breakfast is ready.”
He’s wearing a new pair of khakis and a fresh button-down that’s open at the top, exposing a triangle of chest and a hint of ink. My fingers itch to open the collar further and peek at what lies beneath.
“New clothes?”
Graham’s face brightens. “I ran home for groceries and decided to change while I was there.”
Now it’s my cheeks that are pink. My kitchen is embarrassingly bare. I rarely cook more than popping a frozen meal in the microwave. But I do keep an alarming amount of bacon in the refrigerator. Cammie and I would have been happy with that.
Plus all the donuts. Obviously.
The dining room table is laden with food.
Fluffy scrambled eggs. Sliced berries. Sliced French bread, toasted to a perfect light brown.
And piles and piles of wonderful bacon. The whole apartment smells like butter and salt and, underneath it all, whiskey and honey and chocolate and hazelnut.
My two alphas, layered into my space as though they've always belonged here.
My omega settles like she's been waiting for exactly this.
Cammie’s eyes widen at the bounty. “Wow! Which one of you do I have to thank for this?”
Silas pulls out my seat, and I sit. His hands linger for a second on the back of the chair, fingers skimming my shoulders. He leans down briefly, his beard grazing my cheek, and I feel it everywhere.
Cammie drops into the chair across from me in her sunshine yellow tracksuit, her bleached blonde bob somehow perfect even though I know she only finger combed it this morning. The color does something unfair to her blue eyes. Graham blinks at her over his glasses, as he sits in the seat to my left.
She points at the bacon. “Don’t be stingy.”
He passes her the plate. “Silas is the chef. His grandmother insisted he learn. He cooks for us all the time.”
Silas shrugs. “I enjoy it.” He picks up my plate and begins to add bacon and toast. “Eggs?” he asks.
I nod. “A little of everything, please. It looks so good.”
He places the plate in front of me. It’s piled high and perfectly arranged.
He wanted it to taste good and look good for me.
I would like to pretend to be a dainty little omega and pick at everything, but it all smells too good.
So I eat. Every bite. I’ll have to run an extra three miles later, but it’s so worth it.
Silas watches me polish off the last bite of toast. “Good girl,” he says quietly. A low purr rumbles underneath the words, like the praise and the sound come from the same place.
The words run straight through me. I want to eat another piece of bacon, just to see if he’ll say it again.
I don’t. I’ve already had four pieces. Plus, Cammie already claimed it all for herself.
She licks bacon grease from her fingers and tilts her head at me.
“So… are you going to see a doctor?” Cammie tears a corner off a piece of toast and pops it in her mouth.
I freeze halfway through reaching for my coffee.
Graham’s brows draw together as he sets down his fork. “Because of last night?” He turns worried eyes to me. “Should we call someone? Heat spikes aren’t uncommon.”
“For normal omegas, that would be true,” Cammie says.
I close my eyes. Here we go.
“But Lark’s heats are out of control.”
“Cammie,” I warn.
She ignores me completely. “When she got out of the hospital, the doctor made her promise she’d have her cycles fully monitored.”
Both pairs of alpha eyes snap to me. I wave a dismissive hand. “It’s not that big of a deal. He was exaggerating.”
Silence settles over the table. Not the comfortable kind.
Silas leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. His expression has gone very still. “Tell me more.” The dominance in his voice presses against the room.
Cammie blinks once, then straightens a little in her chair. “Well,” she says slowly, “Lark ended up in the hospital after her last heat went sideways.”
“It wasn’t that dramatic,” I say quickly.
Cammie’s eyes flash. “Lark, if you had gone one more day in heat you would have died.”
I should have shoved bacon in her mouth and kicked her out the door.
“Died!” She repeats.
Graham goes pale. “Why?”
“Because she tried to do it alone. Didn’t eat or drink for a whole week,” Cammie says, picking up a strawberry with her fingers before popping it in her mouth.
“It wasn’t that big of a deal,” I mutter.
“Do you have a doctor?” Silas interrupts.
I glance at him. He’s watching me the way a hawk watches a rabbit. It’s uncomfortable as hell.
I like it, my omega hums.
Traitor.
“I mean… not a regular one.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I swear I can hear his teeth grinding.
“You haven’t seen anyone since then?” Graham asks.
I shrug. “I’ve been busy.” Even I can hear how thin that sounds.
Silas pushes back from the table. The chair legs scrape against the floor. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out his phone. Without a word, he walks into the kitchen.
Cammie slowly turns to look at me. “You’re in trouble,” she whispers. She doesn’t look even slightly bothered by it.
I glare at her. “This is your fault.”
She selects another strawberry. Entirely unbothered. Five minutes later Silas returns. He slides his phone back into his pocket like nothing happened.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“I called my pops.”
I blink. “Your… what?”
“My dad,” Silas says. “He’s a doctor. He’ll be here in an hour.”
My stomach drops. “Silas,” I say carefully. “Your dad must be busy.”
“He’s not.”
“You can’t just summon a doctor to my house.”
“He’s not just a doctor.” Silas meets my eyes. “He’s one of the top omega specialists in the country.”
Mortification floods my veins. And underneath it, something else. The feeling of being taken care of by someone who didn't wait for permission because they could see what you needed before you could. I don't know what to do with that.
“Go do whatever you need to do,” Silas says calmly. “Graham and I will clean up here. I’ll let you know when Pops arrives.”
I stare at him. He doesn’t budge. Underneath the mortification, my omega is purring. I hate her a little for that.
I walk Cammie to the door. “Traitor.”
She snorts. “Think of it as friendly espionage. I’m selling your secrets, but it’s for your benefit.”
“You sold me out for a few slices of bacon.”
“Worth it.”
Honestly, she’s not wrong. Silas’s bacon is exceptional. Still.
“What would you have told them for pizza?” I ask.
She grins. “Depends. Deep dish or New York?”
I narrow my eyes at her as she steps into the hall. “Go home.”
“For New York I’d tell them everything. Everyth—”
I shut the door in her face, leaving the house annoyingly calm. I head back to my office and try to pretend this is a normal morning.
First a quick meeting with my assistant. Then a call with our chief of logistics. Both of which I mostly fake my way through because my brain is busy replaying Cammie’s little medical overshare in mortifyingly vivid detail. By the time the calls end, my nerves are stretched tight.
The buzzer at the front door rings. I stare very hard at my laptop. If I ignore it long enough, maybe everyone will forget why a world-renowned omega doctor is apparently coming to examine me.
The buzzer rings again. Still not moving. A moment later Graham appears in the doorway, knocking lightly on the frame. “Jeremy is here.”
Jeremy, I assume, is Pops. Silas’s father. The famous omega specialist.
Fan-fucking-tactic.
My omega perks up immediately. Someone is coming to take care of us.
It’s her favorite thing. I, however, briefly consider crawling into my nest and pretending I no longer exist. It’s a very appealing option.
Unfortunately, I have dignity. At least a little.
So instead of hiding under a pile of blankets like a sensible omega, I close my laptop and stand.
Silas is standing beside the couch when I walk into the living room. Next to him is a man who looks enough like him to make the relationship obvious. Same high cheekbones. Same strong nose. Same serious set to his mouth.
But where Silas is broad and built like a mountain, his father is taller and leaner. His shoulders narrower, his build long and rangy. Pale skin. Sharp blue eyes. Brown hair that leans red in the light that’s coming through the window.
Those eyes take me in quickly. A clinical assessment that does nothing to settle my nerves.
Silas gestures for me to come closer. “Lark, this is my Pops, Dr. Jeremy Caron.” His hand settles briefly at the small of my back before he adds, quieter. “Pops… this is Lark. My scent match.”
I fold my hands together awkwardly. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Caron.”
He waves a hand immediately. “Jeremy, please. Or Pops, like Silas and Graham say.”
Pops feels… like a lot. “Jeremy,” I say carefully.
He nods once. “Do we need somewhere private to talk?” His gaze flicks toward the kitchen.
I glance at Graham. He’s sitting forward on the couch, hands clasped together. His expression is so earnest and worried I have to look away. Silas isn’t much better. The tension around his eyes hasn’t softened since breakfast.
We’ve known each other less than a full day.
But I know what it means to be scent-sensitive.
I grew up in a scent-sensitive pack. My mom moved into her alphas’ house the day they met.
They never spent another night apart. I grew up on those stories.
I know how emotions can settle on things long before a person’s brain does.
So, I have a good understanding of what this must feel like for them.
For me.
“No,” I say finally. “We can talk here… together.”
Jeremy studies me for a second, then nods. “Alright.”
He sits across from us in the armchair. I sit next to Graham, on the couch, and Silas squeezes in on my other side.
“Why don’t you start by telling me about your heat history?”
I shift a little on the couch. “Well… for a while I had a friend’s pack who helped me through them.”