10. Theo
Theo
The Bellwether Center van smells like lavender disinfectant, warm plastic, and the sour edge of my own fear.
I sit in the back with my hands tucked between my knees, pressing my fingers together until the joints ache.
It helps keep them still. Mostly. The tremor still slips through in small uneven pulses, but if I keep my hands low enough, Andrea won't see them from the front seat, and maybe when the van door opens, I'll have enough control left to look like someone worth taking home.
Andrea has been talking from the front seat like the van is another room at Bellwether and I’m still sitting across from her practice desk. She’s barely taken a breath since we left, reading me all the rules as I nod and curl farther into myself.
She stops briefly and meets my gaze through the rearview window.
“First visit only,” she reminds me, tapping something on the tablet balanced against her knee.
“No final decision today. The Crane pack understands that, and you understand that too, right?” I nod because that answer is easy, and because she’s already told me twice.
“Communication cards are allowed,” she continues, turning enough to look at me over her shoulder. “They’re in your pocket?” My fingers move toward my cardigan before I stop them, but Andrea notices anyway. She notices everything.
“Yes,” I say, the word coming out thin enough that my face heats before she can smile at me.
“Good,” she says, too warm for one small word. “Verbal responses are encouraged, but they aren’t required. The Crane pack has been fully briefed on your communication history.”
Fully briefed sits wrong in my stomach. My eyes drop to her tablet, where my name is typed at the top of the screen in block letters above lines I’ve seen too many times this week.
Selective mutism. Verbal locking under direct Alpha attention. High scent sensitivity. Previous placement disruption.
Andrea scrolls with her thumb as the van turns into a quiet neighborhood where the houses sit too far apart, and I wonder if there’s a line farther down the page that tells them what to do when the real version of me doesn’t match the one they prepared for.
“Theo,” Andrea says gently, and I look up before she has to say it again. Her face has gone soft in that practiced way that means she’s about to ask me for something. “Practice greeting.”
My mouth dries at once. The words are ready because I made them ready in the mirror before breakfast, standing beside Andrea while she held a checklist and told me I was doing much better.
Hello. Thank you for having me. I’m glad to be here.
They should be simple, but my tongue already feels too heavy, and the back of my throat has started closing around the first sound.
It used to be so easy for me and then an Alpha punished me for my words. The next one punished me for not speaking. The last time I couldn’t force the word out, an Alpha gripped my shoulder so hard it left bruises, waiting until I could say the words he demanded of me.
No amount of tears or whimpers had saved me from that moment of humiliation, the rest of the pack laughing at me.
“Good Omegas use their words, Theodore. Or are you unwilling to obey me?”
I swallow nervously, trying to calm myself, counting through the memory that came after that, one I keep trying and failing to bury. “He-llo,” I push out.
Andrea’s smile flickers, then fixes itself. “A little clearer.”
My fingers curl against my knees. I try again, pushing more air behind it this time. “Hello.”
“Better,” she says, and I hate how fast relief moves through me, like I’ve been waiting for permission to keep sitting in the van. She glances back down at the tablet. “And what do you do if you lock up?”
“Cards,” I answer.
“And if you need a break?”
“Yellow card.”
“Good.” Andrea turns forward as the van slows, her voice warming like we didn’t just rehearse how to survive walking into a house that might not want me once I’m actually inside it. “We’re here.”
The house rises at the end of the drive with wide stone steps, dark trim, and windows bright with afternoon light. It looks expensive and settled, the kind of settled that makes my stomach tighten because settled things don't need another person coming in and making noise in the wrong places.
There are trees along one side of the property and a garden tucked beyond the curve of the drive, but the house takes up most of what I can see. It looks like someone already knows where everything belongs. Which means they aren’t really looking for someone like me.
"The Crane pack is very well respected," Andrea says as the driver puts the van in park.
"Mr. Crane is a senior pack-law attorney, and Bellwether has worked with his office before.
Their home passed every environmental review, and the first-contact preparations were completed exactly as requested. This is a good opportunity, Theo."
I manage a nod, hating how everything sounds managed. I’m a good fit because they make money, can clinically take care of my needs, and know how to lawfully take care of an Omega. Or at least… that’s what it sounds like.
The driver opens the side door, cool air slipping into the van with the first heavy wash of pack scent.
Cold mint and polished leather reach me first. Smoked cedar and brown sugar settle under it, warmer and broader, and then black tea and rain cuts through both with a steadiness that makes me want to breathe deeper.
Beneath the Alphas, softer and low enough that I almost miss it, is honeyed pear and vanilla tea. My eyes widen a little in surprise as I lean forward, my fingers loosening in the hem of my shirt. That scent, I tell myself.
Andrea catches it before she unbuckles and steps out ahead of me. "Take your time," she says, though she's already waiting beside the open door with the tablet against her chest.
I step down from the van with my hands tucked into my sleeves, the cuffs pulled low over my fingers. Andrea's gaze drops as she clicks her tongue. "Hands, Theo."
I pull them out too fast, fingers curling hard against my palms instead. My face burns as she gives me the same patient look she gave me this morning when I forgot to make eye contact during practice introductions. "Visible hands," she reminds me, softer now. "Remember?"
Good Omegas keep their hands visible during first contact. Andrea made me practice it after breakfast, along with steady posture, polite eye contact, and the kind of smile that looks grateful without showing too much need.
My fingers want the shelter of my sleeves again, but I keep them out where everyone can see them.
One minute out of the van, and there's already something Andrea had to correct. If there’s too many things, she’ll send me back to the Center for more training.
I can’t go back there. I don’t want to go back there.
Andrea starts up the walk, and I fall half a step behind her, hands stiff at my sides, still trying to make myself small.
It’s only when I look up and see the space between us that I hurry to match her pace, heat crawling up my neck as her tablet shifts against her chest. The scents grow stronger near the porch, layered over stone, wet leaves, and the faint sweetness tucked beneath all the Alphas.
Honeyed pear. Vanilla tea. My breath catches around it, and I lower my eyes to the steps before Andrea can remind me not to scent like I’m starving.
The front door opens before she knocks, and I stop with one foot on the bottom step. Garrett Crane stands in the doorway, taller than the photograph in the packet made him seem, dark hair neat, suit pressed, face calm in a way that makes my hands feel wrong at my sides.
His gaze touches Andrea first, then me, and every word I practiced in the van sinks somewhere I can’t reach.
“Theo,” he says, voice smooth and low. “Welcome. I’m Garrett Crane.” He leaves the threshold open, one hand resting on the door, and that should help. It almost does until Andrea turns slightly toward me with the tablet held against her sweater.
“Greeting, Theo,” she murmurs.
My mouth opens. The hello is right there, the shape of it still sore from practice, but the porch is too bright and Garrett is too still and Andrea is waiting beside me with my tablet tucked under her hand.
I press my nails into my palms, trying to push the word out through my fingers instead.
Nothing moves. Nothing sounds. Garrett stays quiet while my face heats so fast my eyes start to sting.
Andrea shifts into her meeting voice. “Verbal locking,” she explains. “It’s most common under direct Alpha attention or when Theo feels evaluated. Yes-or-no questions are usually easier, and he has communication cards if he needs them. He understands what’s being said, even when he can’t answer.”
I stare at the edge of the porch step as Andrea’s shoes blur beside mine. She’s helping. She’s making sure he knows I’m not stupid. But her explanation doesn’t even begin to hint at the why, which just makes this feel like something added to the file before I’ve made it through the front door.
Garrett’s attention returns to me. “I read the note,” he says, still mild, still holding the door open. “You don’t need to prove anything on the porch.” He steps back further, giving Andrea space to enter first. “Come in when you’re ready. We’ll keep this simple.”
I nod, unable to find my voice, and follow Andrea inside.
The staircase curves up one wall, a hallway opens ahead, and another branches left into rooms I can’t see yet.
I keep my hands out of my sleeves, fingers curled tight and visible the way Andrea wants them.
Garrett walks ahead at an easy pace, not slow enough to feel like he’s managing me, not fast enough to make me hurry.
“The others are in the sitting room,” he says, glancing back once. “We thought that would be easier for a first introduction.”