33. Callisto
Chapter thirty-three
Callisto
Normal hospitals give me the creeps, but this place is even worse. Nurses push wheelchairs carrying drooling patients, and the ones who can walk on their own two feet laugh at me like they know a joke I don’t. Jokes don’t belong in the Maria Ventiss Hospital.
I suppress a shudder. Lexi Wren, brilliant former managing director of Wren Enterprises, beloved omega of the deceased CEO, and two-time winner of the Laversham Hoofbeats Dressage Cup, does not belong in a place like this. And yet here she is, in room thirty-nine. At least it’s a private room in a wing that smells less like Clozapine and more like lavender.
I balance my flower bouquet in one arm as I knock on the door. Should I just enter? Is that what family does? They know I’m coming, after all. Funny how I’m the king of any courtroom, but in this situation, I feel like I’m twelve years old again.
The door slides open, and Lector chucks his chin at me in greeting. “Hi, Callisto.”
I nod once. “Hey, Lector.” It shouldn’t feel this awkward; I saw him just a few weeks ago. But that was at the Wren house and this is here, in a hospital. New dark circles shadow his eyes, and belatedly I lean in and squeeze him around the shoulders. I’d rather see him than Simon.
Mom sits in her hospital bed, doing a word search puzzle. She smiles brightly as I approach, but she watches me with wariness. I recognize that expression from years of depositions with clients who are hiding something.
“Hi, Calli.”
“Hey, Mom.” I lean down to hug her one-armed around the flowers. She feels thin and smells a little sweaty. “I brought you these to cheer you up.” My stomach sinks as I look around and see several bouquets already filling vases on every available surface. Maybe I should have bought a bigger one, or fruit.
“They’re beautiful.” She dips her nose in to smell the liliums. The small motion exposes her chipped, unpolished fingernails. Her makeup sits a bit thinly too, like she’s done it in a hurry.
I glance away. For most of my life, Mom’s been the affluent, put-together executive, but it all fell apart once she lost her first bond mate. I get that people grieve, but how do they fall apart so completely? It’s been ten years.
Mom hands the flowers to her pack mate and he shifts them to a narrow bedside table where they compete with purple irises. Lector perches on the side of the bed and takes her hand, stroking the back with a loving gesture. A pang of guilt vibrates through me. I should’ve just taken her hand instead of silently critiquing her lack of a manicure.
Am I really that judgmental? I prefer to think of it as having attention to detail, an essential trait in my line of business.
“How are you feeling, Mom?” I ask, shoving my mental block away.
“Doing a little better.” Her smile looks forced.
Since Lector seems settled on her bed, I drop into the spare chair nearby. “Any news on when you’re getting out? I bet you’re missing your own bed.”
“Well, end of the week, most likely. After I’ve caught up on some sleep.”
My brows knit together. “You haven’t been sleeping?”
She shakes her head. Well, no wonder she drove into the fence and had a nervous breakdown. I open my mouth to say so, but then realize she must be aware.
“What’s been keeping you awake?”
“Oh, just the usual.” She shrugs it off like it’ll roll down her back. “You know.” She flashes me a tiny smile, but I feel like her watery blue eyes beg me for something.
Problem is, I don’t know what. The washed-out blue color of her eyes reminds me of Red and the uncomfortable pang in my chest deepens. Mom will freak out if I tell her I met an omega, but what else can I say? I got too busy with work to call my supposed scent match and check on her? Or Rickon. And my best friend seemed kind of pissed when I finally spoke to him.
As if reading my mind, Mom asks, “Have you seen Ricky recently? He called looking for a place to get riding lessons for someone. I thought you might know what he’s up to?”
A cold chill runs down my spine. Is someone out there sticking a doll that looks like me with voodoo pins? I press my hand into my throat, which suddenly feels scratchy. “No, not for a while. He’s been busy looking after his actress, and I’ve had my hands full with my cases.”
Mom’s face falls. “Oh, that’s a shame.”
I can’t even tell her Ricky found his scent match, because that’d lead to uncomfortable nagging for me to get one. Fuck, it’s like walking on eggshells to find a safe topic.
I clear my throat and lace my fingers together, so I don’t end up fidgeting. “We caught up for a drink a bit before your birthday. He was doing well.”
She nods, worrying her bottom lip through her teeth. “He’s a sweet boy, Calli. You should take better care of him.”
“He’s doing fine.” That little pinprick in my chest niggles again. Is Rickon really doing fine? How would I know if he wasn’t? Our last conversation didn’t end too well, and he hasn’t even sent me a movie-themed meme in several days, let alone a meaningful message.
Mom squeezes Lector’s hand, and he interrupts my daze. “Tell us about the cases you’re working on.”
Right, she’s given me a topic I can run wild with. “Just a couple weeks ago, the OCB busted a huge illegal omega trading ring a few hours north of here. They have so many cases they asked Harkman and Laurance for help, and your boy got assigned to the case.” I rest my hand on my chest.
“Oh, you’ll do a great job bringing them to justice.” Mom nods firmly. “But I hope you slow down soon.”
I deflate, ignoring her nagging. “Well, unfortunately we’re missing some key evidence and one omega has gone AWOL, so that’s a problem.”
Mom tips her head. “Oh, is that related to the omega the OCB are looking for?”
An eerie premonition flutters through my soul. “What omega?”
Lector grabs the TV remote and aims it at the screen over the foot of Mom’s bed. “She’s been all over the news.”
The midday romantic drama Days of Our Heats flickers to life with its characteristic hazy-edged screen, like everyone’s living in a cloud. Must be nice. After a minute, a scroll bar runs across the bottom, and there in miniature portrait, sits my Red, unsmiling and cold compared to when I last saw her. The tickertape states she’s considered vulnerable and anyone with information should contact the OCB’s missing persons hotline.
My insides twist and I blink, my world shifting once more. “Wha—?” Shouldn’t she be tucked away safely with Ricky? My mind scrambles back to the day we met. She had no idea where she was and didn’t have any money. Not to mention a color for a name. I wrote my credit card number on her arm, for crying out loud.
And what if she’s the missing omega from the cases? Held at an illegal clinic, with no family, no pack, no love. What if she’s the one—?
For a moment I can’t breathe. Heavy pressure squeezes my chest, and I gasp, dark and light sensations warring through my body. I jump to my feet and snatch my jacket off the back of the chair. “Sorry, Mom. I think I gotta go.”
She gets a wistful look on her face, but I’m too dazed to process. “Oh. All right, son. Thanks for coming by when you’re so busy.”
I drop a kiss into her hair and stride out the door, breaking into a jog when I reach the empty hallway. It can’t possibly be her. Please, please let me be wrong.
The Omuber driver waited near the hospital as requested, and I wave my hand furiously to signal him as I cross the road, not waiting for the pedestrian crossing at the lights.
“I need to go back to the OCB office, immediately.”
Dread winds through my belly and slowly up my neck, burning my throat and leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. Every car on the road seems determined to go at a snail’s pace today, and I thump the back of the front passenger seat in frustration, earning me a wary look from the driver.
“Can you go any faster?” I hiss.
“I can only do the speed limit, sir,” the man answers, mouth curving down in obvious displeasure.
The hum of the engine as we accelerate out of a turn reminds me of Rickon’s voice as he chided me not to neglect Red. Did he know the truth? I don’t want my suspicions confirmed.
To distract myself, I give Rickon a call, but he doesn’t pick up. I flick over to messages, but he hasn’t even read the last one I sent. He’s never left me hanging before. Another unfamiliar pang adds to the mess in my chest, squeezing me. Maybe this is a kind of reflux?
I press a hand to my collar, trying to ease the thick, bubbly sensation. What if the OCB think Rickon’s kidnapped Red? I mentally run through all the cases I’ve ever heard of for successfully defending a kidnapper, like Stratton vs. Pauls where Pauls was acquitted due to the fact the door was never locked.
Ricky has an electronic door that opens automatically from the inside, so that should work. Or maybe Shefield vs. Dayten because the supposed victim asked for it as part of a kinky play.
Heat runs up the back of my neck at that idea. Are Rickon and Red into that sort of thing? I don’t even know Ricky’s preferences. He usually doesn’t talk about his boyfriends, but I figured that was because they don’t last long.
“We’re here, sir.”
“Thanks.” I don’t mean to sound so gruff, but the lump in my throat makes it hard to speak. I fling myself out of the car and into the building, flashing my visitor pass on all the scanners as I barrel up to my floor.
One of the lawyers flags me. “Callisto, I wanted to ask—”
“Sorry, George, later.” I keep walking, which is more like running.
I slam the door to my temporary office shut, making the blinds quiver and screech softly against the glass. The cardboard grates as I tear the lid off the evidence box and pull out the bag with a glass vial of haze. Something’s been bothering me about this for days. I hesitate, fearing the truth.
“Get a grip, Calli,” I mutter, unsealing the bag and tipping the vial into my hand. Get it over with. There’s a faint chance I’m wrong.
The vial rolls out of the bag, leaving a smear of oil across the plastic. Too late I see the chip in the bottle. The glass cracks as it hits my hand, splitting in half, and the fragrance releases in a powerful explosion that rocks my senses. All sugar and nuts.
Red. It’s hers. I should’ve recognized it the moment I met her, when this delicious scent wafted off the omega herself.
Red is O-11, the abused omega rescued from the illegal center, the one they took an unholy amount of haze from.
Red, the omega I rejected because I was too busy.
I cup my hands on the desk over the plastic film, trying to keep as much of the precious haze pooled in my palms as possible. As it spills over my fingers, tears overflow from my eyes. I’ve treated all these cases as clinical—a means to my expanding career bolstered by a sense of righteous vindication. But this is the first time I’ve stopped to consider the impact on the omegas’ lives.
My scent-matched omega’s life.
Red is beautiful and wild, but she had nothing. Not even a proper name. I thought it was a nickname, but her only name was a clinical designation. Pain squeezes my chest, and a heavy sob breaks loose through my throat. That look in her eyes as I pushed her away so I could hurry off to court reappears in my mental vision and I drop my head onto my forearms, the sobs deepening.
It’ll haunt me forever.
I should’ve done anything possible to cancel court that day. They would have postponed it for omega leave. Or at the very least, I should have bought her food and coffee and had her sit next to me until I was done.
Anything but leave her on her own.
As the priceless oil drips from my hands, I look over at the thick list of catalogued physical evidence taken from the illegal center. Red’s never had anyone on her side, no one to rescue her as they took vial after vial from her body. It doesn’t take a genius to guess they forced it from her. That beautiful, free-spirited woman would never give up her haze willingly.
I groan and glare at the arrested personnel files on my desk. One of these bastards put their hands on Red during her heat. Fuck, her heat. The paperwork swims as a fresh batch of tears shake loose and I squeeze my eyes shut. I’ve been in this business long enough to see brutal crimes, and I know for a fact that the only way to get that much haze is to edge her through a heat. Cruelly and painfully.
After all that, she came looking for her alpha, and I turned her aside like an unwanted appointment. Disappointed her just like the fuckers in these files.
The pain turns to blinding agony. I gasp and swallow my own tears. I can’t get air inside me, and it suddenly feels like I’ll never breathe again. The room closes in, too blindingly bright under the artificial lighting. My small gasps wheeze in my throat with every gulp. The dizzying sensation carries a hint of the effervescence that’s always motivated me to keep moving, to speak well in court. But now it’s overwhelming, squeezing my body and drowning me in a tidal wave. I grab at my chest as my lungs squeeze me. Am I having a heart attack?
Haze spills across my arms and shirt, drenching me in Red’s scent. I slide under the table, feeling a crushing pressure like the roof is sinking down on me. In the process of wiping my tears, I touch the haze against my lips and lick it off without thinking. The scent surrounds me, inside and out, and the harrowing pressure in my chest relaxes a little.
I can’t rescue the oil now, so I smooth it across my arms and neck and into my hair while I gasp in the powerful scent. Maybe I’ll never shower again. The cool liquid seeps into my body and my muscles respond, unwinding.
I lean against the table leg and let the tears spill down my cheeks while my pounding heartbeat slowly steadies.
Rickon didn’t refuse her. My beautiful, loyal friend did what he’s best at—being there without question, without judgment. He was the alpha I should’ve been, sheltering Red and meeting her needs. He’s a better man than I am in every respect.
As I sit under my desk, covered in Red’s dazzling omega scent, my sobs slowly quiet down, and I catch my breath. If I’m not too late, I’ll go crawl on my belly to ask her forgiveness. See what support Rickon needs. Be a true friend.
If Red’s escaped from the Omega Center, she might need legal representation. Maybe, if I make myself useful, she’ll overlook our poor start.
When I stop shivering, I crawl out from under the desk and carefully put the pieces of glass back in the bag. I can’t bring myself to be thankful for so many other vials of evidence. Each one came at a greater cost than I can wrap my head around.
Someone knocks at my door, and I wipe my tears away on my sleeve. My face must be super puffy, so I can’t hide the fact I cried. “What is it?”
The door creaks open. “Hey, Callisto, I need—shit, what’s that amazing smell?” George, the lawyer who tried to catch me before, pokes his head in.
I hold up the evidence bag. “I accidentally dropped this, and it spilled.” He’s taking in my tear-stained face with wide eyes, so I clear my throat and add, “I, ah, l felt terrible about it, especially after knowing how it’s extracted.”
“Oh, man. Sure, but that’s not your fault. And damn, it smells divine in here. I wouldn’t blame you for having a little private go-go time, if you know what I mean.” He chuckles. “Actually, give me the bag and I’ll clear it up with the team leader, after a private sesh.”
Heat roars through me and I lurch toward him, grabbing his collar in my oily fist. He gasps.
“We do not enjoy ourselves on their suffering,” I grind out, shaking with the powerful desire to hurt him. My alpha scent flares thickly. “Understood?”
“Yeah, sure, I got it. Just calm yourself, okay?” He taps on my bunched fists warily. “I’m sorry, Callisto, it was a bad joke.”
The apology’s devoid of any true repentance. I know that kind of placating voice all too well. I’ve used it hundreds of times with difficult clients who just needed to be soothed until the situation could be turned around. And he wasn’t joking at all.
Holding in a sigh, I release his collar. If I cause trouble now, I’ll get kicked off the case, and that can’t happen. “I’m sorry too. I think that scent stirred my aggression a little.”
He nods. “I know what you mean. These cases are the hardest to work on. We do it all the time, but you might not be used to it.” He scratches his head, and then sniffs his palm where the oil on my hands touched him. “A big firm like Harkman and Laurance probably avoids these kind of sewer litigations.”
Unfortunately, he’s correct. “And yet these are the most important ones,” I muse, more to myself than him. Red’s scent caresses me and I remember the urgency of what I was doing. I lift the streaked bag containing the broken glass. “Thanks, but I’ll submit this. What did you need me for?”
George lets me know one of the case’s trial dates got moved and I jot the changes into my calendar before submitting the destroyed evidence to the team leader. His assurances it’s no big deal because we have plenty more bite cruelly into my conscience. Not only because they came from Red, but because she’s also wanted by the OCB, and I think I know where she is. I hurry out of the office and wave down a cab. I’ll never betray her trust again.
I try to practice my apologies over and over on the drive, but my words don’t seem to fit together. My insides still feel shaky from whatever happened to me in the office and my mind just spins in circles, yawing on the memory of meeting Red. And turning my back on her.
“Sir, are you sure this is where you need to be?”
The driver’s query pulls me from my turmoil. Red and blue lights flash across the street where OCB vehicles cluster in front of Rickon’s apartment. My heart dives into my throat.
“Yes.” I fling the door open and race onto the footpath. I’m too late, again. The OCB found them first. Then I stumble and the heat drains from my body as I spot an ambulance pulled up on the sidewalk. Why do they need an ambulance to collect a runaway omega?