Chapter 24 #2
I can feel it anyway—Ragon's presence somewhere out there. A lion behind a gate.
But it's just Arden and me.
The study smells like ink and old wood and Ragon's stubborn need to control every surface he claims.
Arden gestures loosely. "You can sit wherever you're most comfortable."
The chair closest to the desk looks like a trap.
The couch looks too soft—too much like I'm supposed to relax.
There's a hard-backed chair near the window, angled slightly away from everything.
I choose that one.
Arden sits opposite me, far enough that I don't feel crowded. He crosses one ankle over the other, pen poised.
He doesn't start with sympathy.
He starts with something worse.
Neutrality.
"How are you sleeping?"
I blink. "Fine."
Arden's brow lifts. "Fine like you're sleeping well? Or fine like you're surviving it?"
I hold his gaze. "In the chair."
He nods once, like he expected that answer.
"And the bed?"
I look past him. "Not."
Arden doesn't push immediately. He writes something down. The scratch of his pen is oddly grounding.
"How is your appetite?"
"I eat."
His gaze lifts. "What does that mean?"
I exhale through my nose, almost amused by how hard he is to dodge. "It means I eat when I remember."
"Any nausea?"
"No."
"Any heats, flares, spikes?"
I swallow. "No."
Arden makes another note, then sets his pen down. He leans forward slightly.
"I'm going to do a few basic assessments. Nothing invasive. You can say no at any point. If I ask something too personal, you tell me and I'll reframe it."
I nod once.
His eyes hold mine—steady, calm, not demanding.
"Can I scent you?"
The question makes my skin prickle. In this world, an alpha asking to scent an omega means something. It's intimate.
But Arden asked.
He didn't just do it.
"Yes," I say.
He stands slowly, giving me time to change my mind, then steps closer—not looming, not crowding. He tips his head and inhales once.
Then again, nearer my hairline.
He pulls back, faint frown forming.
"You're not on blockers."
"No."
"No masking oils?"
"No."
"Supplements?"
"No."
He nods, gaze thoughtful. "Okay."
I sit very still.
It's strange, being studied without feeling owned by the study.
Arden sits again and taps the clipboard lightly.
"Now we're going to test response. You know omegas respond automatically to certain alpha cues. Growl. Purr. Dominance pressure. It doesn't mean consent. It doesn't mean you want anything. It's physiology."
My cheeks warm in anticipation of humiliation.
Arden reads it and adds, "And if it doesn't happen, that's information too. Not a failure."
He waits. "Are you comfortable with that?"
"Yes," I say, because refusing feels like effort and I'm tired of effort.
Arden nods once. "Okay. I'm going to start with a growl."
He straightens in his chair. The growl that leaves him is controlled and low—not aggressive.
It's meant to call. To send me into an aroused state.
My body waits for the old reflex.
For slick to gather.
For that familiar drop in my stomach, the heat that used to happen when an alpha's voice went velvet and steel.
Nothing happens.
I blink, surprised by the emptiness.
Arden watches carefully. "Any response?"
"No."
He nods and writes it down.
"Okay. Now I'm going to purr."
That one hits different.
It's subtle, vibrating in his chest, threaded with warmth. The sound an alpha makes when he wants to soothe—to coax your nervous system into remembering it's safe.
My throat tightens.
Not in tranquility.
In something like memory.
My skin prickles faintly along my arms. A weak flutter low in my belly. It's so small it almost doesn't count.
But it's there.
Arden stops immediately—like he felt the shift and chose not to push.
"How was that?"
"Fine," I say automatically.
His brow lifts. "Fine like nothing? Or fine like you felt something."
I hate that he can tell.
"I felt a little," I admit, voice quiet.
Arden nods once, satisfied, and makes a note.
"That's not nothing. Your nervous system isn't dead. It's just guarded."
I swallow and look down at my hands.
Guarded implies there's something worth guarding.
Arden opens his slim case and pulls out several folded shirts in clear plastic sleeves, setting them on the table like evidence.
"What are those?"
"Marked cloth. I asked your pack to scent a piece of clothing each. If you're okay with it, I want you to hold them one at a time. See if your body registers comfort, distress, neutrality."
I nod, because words feel heavy.
Arden slides the first sleeve toward me.
I open it.
Smoke and iron.
Ragon.
My stomach drops like I stepped off a curb I didn't see. Not arousal. Not comfort.
Cold.
A faint nausea curls at the back of my throat.
My fingers tighten, then loosen, like my body realizes it doesn't want to hold it.
Arden watches my face. "How is it?"
"Bad," I whisper.
"Bad like unsafe?"
I nod.
He extends his hand—not taking, just offering. I hand it over and he sets it aside without comment.
He slides the second sleeve toward me.
I open it.
Citrus, clean soap, and vanilla.
Drake.
My chest tightens. There's a flicker—an old ache, a memory of laughter, of a hand at my elbow, of him trying to make sharp edges softer.
Then vanilla threads through it and the ache twists bitter.
The scent feels split. Like Drake is divided and I'm holding the wrong half.
My body doesn't relax. It just stiffens.
"Confusing?" Arden guesses.
I nod. "Confusing."
He takes it back and sets it aside.
The third sleeve waits.
I open it.
Tea and clean linen. A hint of cedar.
Eli.
Warmth tries to rise—real warmth—memory of him reading beside me, voice soft, hand brushing my hair.
Then it collapses under guilt sharp enough to sting behind my eyes.
Because Eli tried.
And he still held me down.
My fingers shake slightly.
Arden's voice gentles. "Too much?"
"He tried," I say, barely audible.
"But he didn't stop it," Arden says softly, finishing the sentence I refuse to.
I hand the shirt back like it burns.
Arden doesn't react. He just notes.
Then he pulls out a fourth sleeve.
"Jasper," he says this time, and my head lifts despite myself.
I open it.
Clean air. Winter. Ink and paper under the edge. Not heavy. Not claiming. Present without pressure.
My shoulders don't lock.
My stomach doesn't drop.
I hold it for a moment longer than the others, then—without meaning to—lift it closer, inhale again.
It doesn't soothe the way marked cloth used to.
But it doesn't hurt.
That feels like a miracle.
Arden's pen scratches quickly. "Okay."
I lower the shirt. "Why? Why is that one okay?"
Arden studies me. "Tell me what Jasper is to you. In your mind. Not on paper. Not hierarchy. In your body."
I stare down at my hands.
"He's new. Not tangled."
Arden nods.
"He wasn't there before Marie. He didn't build routines with me. He didn't promise me anything. He didn't—" My throat tightens. "He didn't have years to prove he'd choose me and then not."
Arden's voice is quiet and steady. "So he feels safer. Because you didn't expect him to protect you the way you expected the others to."
The words land like a stone dropped into still water.
Because they're true.
Arden makes one final note, then sets his clipboard down.
"Now we're going to talk. Not about what they did. Not yet. About what you felt."
My stomach tightens.
"I don't—"
"You do. You just don't want to. There's a difference."
He waits. Gives me space.
"Tell me about the day Marie arrived. Not the facts. The first feeling."
The first feeling wasn't jealousy.
It was hope.
Hope she'd like me.
Hope I could do this right.
Hope I could be enough that they’d all still want me around.
My throat tightens.
"She took up space," I say finally.
"And that felt like...?"
"Like I had to shrink. Like there wasn't room for both of us."
He watches my face. "Did anyone tell you there wasn't room?"
I let out a humorless breath. "Not at first."
"But later."
"Marie did," I whisper.
Arden's eyes sharpen slightly. "What did she say?"
I hesitate.
Saying it makes it real again.
"She called me second-hand."
Arden's jaw tightens, controlled. "And what did that mean to you?"
"Used. Like a placeholder. A spare omega. Something they kept around until they found what they actually wanted."
"And when she said it, what did your alphas do?"
My chest tightens painfully.
Nothing.
They didn't correct her. They didn't shut it down.
"They didn't stop her," I say quietly.
"And how did that land in you?"
"Like confirmation. Like she was saying what they were thinking and no one wanted to admit."
Arden leans forward slightly, voice warm and firm. "A scent match is biological. Chemistry. Pull. It does not determine worth."
I give a small shrug.
Arden doesn't let it go.
"It can make alphas biased. It can make them prioritize without noticing. That's why structure exists. To protect against instinct-driven harm."
My mouth twists. "So I'm collateral."
Arden's eyes hold mine. "No. You're a person who was treated like collateral."
The difference matters.
It shouldn't, but it does.
He lets the silence settle, then asks, softly, "Tell me what you believed about yourself when she arrived."
The answer rises like bile.
"That if I was perfect, they'd keep me," I whisper.
"Perfect how?"
"Quiet. Useful. Pretty. Sweet. Grateful. Never demanding. Never jealous. Never—" My voice cracks. "Never a problem."
Arden's pen stops moving entirely.
"And when you couldn't be perfect, what happened?"
My pulse ticks once, hard.
"I was punished," I say, flat.
"And what did your body learn from that punishment?"
My hands tighten around Jasper's shirt unconsciously. "That nothing is mine. Not even my safe places. Not even my nest."
Arden's expression shifts—controlled horror, then professional calm.
"That is why your nesting instincts shut down."
I don't look away.
"You didn't stop being an omega. You stopped trusting."
The words hit so cleanly it almost hurts.
Because it means the omega part of me really is still there. Just buried.
Arden sits back and exhales slowly. "Okay. We have data. We have context. We have a direction."
He reaches into his bag again and pulls out a large t-shirt, folded neatly. Plain. Soft. Oversized.
He holds it out.
"This is for you."
I hesitate. "Why?"
"Because I want to test something. And because you need neutral comfort. Something your body can accept without being dragged into a specific memory."
I take it.
The fabric is soft. The scent is mostly neutral.
And underneath—faintly—something warm I can't place. Like sun on skin. I can tell it’s alpha, vague enough to be nonthreatening. And I don’t recognize it either. It’s not Arden’s scent or any of my own alpha’s. It’s like a clean, steady presence.
"Smell it," Arden says.
I lift it to my nose and inhale.
"How does it make you feel?"
I shrug. "Fine."
Arden's brow lifts. "Fine like neutral? Fine like comfort? Fine like it bothers you but you don't want to admit it?"
"It's kind of nice," I admit quietly.
"Does it bother you at all?"
I sniff again, searching for the sting.
Nothing.
"No. It doesn't."
Arden nods once. "Good. Keep it."
He doesn't say why.
He doesn't explain the faint undertone.
He just watches, like he's waiting to see what I do with it when no one tells me to.
"We’re done for today. That's enough work for one session."
I blink. "That's it?"
"That was a lot. Your system is doing what it was designed to do. Protect you. I'm not going to punish it by forcing more."
The word punish makes my throat tighten.
Arden stands. "You did well."
Something shifts in my chest—small, unwilling.
I nod once and stand.
As I step toward the hall, my gaze flicks—just briefly—to the photo on the desk.
The version of us before.
I don't let it swallow me.
I just register it.
Then I leave the study and walk back to my room.
I close the door.
The bed is still there. Flat. Untouched. A silent accusation.
The chair waits, familiar.
I strip out of my clothes and pull the new t-shirt over my head.
It falls over my shoulders, soft and heavy, sleeves dangling past my elbows.
It smells nice.
It smells faintly safe.
I sit in the chair and stare out the window, toward the neighbor's house where Finn lives with his alphas.
Down the hall, the house breathes and shifts and continues being itself.
But in here—just for a moment—I have something in my hands that doesn't hurt.
And I'm tired of pretending that doesn't matter.