Examining the Bond

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

RIANN

“Run the test again.”

A lump forms in my throat before I’ve even fully processed the doctor’s words, and the sinking feeling in my stomach threatens to drag me through the floor.

“That can't be right. Run it again, please.” I hate the wobble in my voice.

Neither of the previous doctors I saw could figure out what’s wrong with me, so I wasn’t optimistic when I arrived to see this heat specialist today. The past two letdowns left me clinging to a shred of hope that I would get answers, but this… this is worse than anything I could have imagined.

Not an omega?

That can’t be possible…

The white walls of the tiny exam room feel like they’re closing in as the man in a lab coat blinks at me over his clipboard. I can’t breathe. Time slows to a stop, marked only by the intense pounding of blood in my ears.

No, no, no.

Nothing makes sense.

I expected some kind of wonky test results, maybe a hormone imbalance or a vitamin deficiency—possibly even a neurological disorder or developmental delay.

Literally anything to explain why I exhibit some, but not all, of the textbook omega characteristics.

Why I'm mostly unaffected by scents, like a beta.

Why—instead of a heat last month—I had the feral, violent urges of an alpha rut.

Trying and failing not to panic, I tuck a strand of long red hair behind my ear with trembling fingers. The baggy sweater I chose this morning suddenly becomes a horrible choice as anxiety floods my system, and the temperature in the exam room skyrockets, making me sweat.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” I mumble, barely registering that I’ve spoken.

Head swimming, I grip the edge of the exam table to ground myself, and play through the events that led me here like a bad dream.

My entire life, I was raised knowing there was a high probability I would be an omega.

Before I even showed any signs, my parents did early genetic testing—which isn't always reliable until puberty—and showered me with all the things an omega could want: blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, pretty, shiny things.

They were thrilled and hardly surprised when I perfumed on my eighteenth birthday.

I was an omega, just like my mother, but they didn’t make it to see me enroll at the Woodside Omega Academy. They both died in a boating incident right before my first semester began.

I did everything I could to make them proud. I studied hard, excelled in my classes, did what I was told… but something wasn’t adding up. By the beginning of my third semester, my professors grew suspicious. They wanted answers; they wanted proof of my designation.

Three doctor’s visits later, and I’m here, at the Huntsville Heat Clinic, to be examined. To be tested.

Never in a million years did I expect to find out that I'm—

“Not an omega,” he repeats the test results aloud, cutting off my frantic train of thought.

He shrugs and shakes his head, flipping through the few pieces of paper attached to his clipboard.

“The results are correct. Your blood lacks the chemical compound that would mark you as an omega.

I'm sorry if this comes as a shock, Miss Saunders.”

Shock is an understatement. It's like I've been electrocuted, my nervous system absolutely fried by the information. My stomach sours, bile burning the back of my throat, and I stare at the harsh white tiles beneath my feet.

“But I perfumed,” I say in disbelief, my voice sounding small. “I had my first heat.”

What the hell is happening?

I was supposed to come here and find a way to sort out my unique situation. A bottle of pills, a few shots, and I should have been good as new…

My brain spirals as I consider the implications of the results.

If I'm not an omega, I'll be kicked out of the academy. I’ll have to leave everything I know, my entire life, and start over from scratch again. With nowhere to go—not even a distant relative who could take me in—I’ll have to find a place to live and search for a mundane job.

Will the academy let me stay until I find somewhere to go?

Or will they boot me out the door the second they get the results?

I swallow hard and wipe my sweaty palms on my leggings. The promise of being bonded into a pack and treasured like a precious omega goes up in smoke. Every dream I’ve ever had of moving into a pack mansion, of having babies and growing old with my mates, evaporates.

I have no idea where to go from here as my reality lies shattered on the ground at my feet.

“If I'm not an omega, does that make me,” I clear my throat to keep my voice from breaking, “an alpha?”

The doctor shakes his head again, his dark hair too perfect and his blue eyes emotionless, concealing any shred of sympathy. He's just a stranger in a lab coat. He doesn't care that the paper in his hands has just destroyed everything I know about my life.

Everything I know about myself.

“No,” he says, his mouth curving downward in a frown. “Your blood also lacks the compound for the alpha gene.”

I blanch. “You're not about to stand there and tell me I'm a beta, are you?”

There's no way I'm a fucking beta, not that it's the worst thing in the world to be.

A beta wouldn't be here right now having their entire designation questioned.

Scents and perfumes might not affect me like one, but that's the only thing we have in common.

They don't perfume or go into heat like I do, and they certainly don't have weird rut spells like I did last month…

“You're an enigma, Miss Saunders.”

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Excuse me? Is that some weird fourth designation I’m supposed to know about?”

He chuckles, which only infuriates me more. “No. You're a mystery. We aren't quite sure what's going on with you.”

Not sure? How the hell are they not sure? This is the third clinic I’ve been to looking for answers, my very last option in the state. If they can’t tell me what’s going on, who the hell can?

Panic grips my chest, my pulse lurching.

“So where do I go from here?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “The academy wants answers; they’ll kick me out if I can’t prove I’m an omega.”

“We’d like to refer you to the Buchanan Center for Designation Research in Boston,” he says very matter-of-factly.

“Boston, Massachusetts?" My face falls. “But that’s… so far.”

“Eighteen hours, give or take. Less if you’re flying.” His gaze softens, his mask of professionalism wavering. “But they’re equipped to perform the tests we need to investigate further,” he assures me. “Unfortunately, we're just not set up here for those kinds of things.”

Those kinds of things.

I can't help but wonder what kind of tests they'll have to run to figure out what’s going on. Will they need pints of my blood? Will it hurt? Will they need to cut into my brain to figure out what the fuck went wrong with it?

I shudder at the possibility.

“I don't have money for a trip,” I say, mostly to myself, the depression in my chest growing heavier. I spent the last bit of cash I had on the three-hour bus trip to get here.

How am I supposed to afford a plane ticket and a hotel?

Even before my parents died, we didn't have a lot of money—Dad lost a lot more than familial ties when he left his pack.

In fact, if it wasn't for the academy stepping up and footing my tuition, I wouldn't be there at all.

They agreed to cover the doctor visits and testing because they deemed it necessary to continue my education, but I doubt they'll pay for a trip to Boston plus a hefty doctor bill.

“The program is grant-funded,” he goes on, seeing the worry in my eyes. “All you'd have to cover is your trip there. Testing and lodging are included.”

The thought of grant funding momentarily alleviates some of the weight on my shoulders, even if I still have to work out how to get there.

However, the relief is quickly replaced by a prickle of nerves crawling up my spine.

I shift on the exam table, the thin paper lining crinkling in protest. The idea of being trapped in a clinic one thousand miles away, being poked and prodded by a bunch of doctors, has my anxiety on full alert.

I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a movie or two like that, and they never go well.

My lips purse as I mull over the information, my feet swinging restlessly off the edge of the table.

A grant-funded program for people like me? Are there other omegas going through the exact same thing? Maybe it includes all designations with weird symptoms.

Or maybe I’m the only one and they’ll treat me like a science experiment.

I inhale a shaky breath, trying to rein in my thoughts.

“How soon would I have to go?” I ask, considering my classes at the academy. I have no idea how long a trip like that would take.

But I guess if they’re going to kick me out, it doesn’t really matter.

“We can put you in contact with the clinic, and you can see what their availability is,” he says, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.

Of course. Fuck me for thinking he could possibly empathize.

“Right.” I hop off the exam table and grab my black cross-body, throwing the strap over my head in a swift motion. I just want to get the hell out of this suffocating room, so I can breathe again. “Thanks… I guess.”

What else is there to say?

“I know it isn’t the outcome you wanted, Miss Saunders, but don’t worry. They’ll be able to get everything sorted in Boston,” he says, but I’m barely listening. I'm storming out the door before he can say goodbye.

When I check out at the receptionist desk, they hand me a stack of papers, along with pamphlets for the specialty clinic, which I hastily shove into my bag. I pull a green beanie out of the pocket of my sweater and pull it on before shoving the front door open and stepping out into the chilly wind.

“Christ on a bike,” I hiss, already shivering as I hurry down the sidewalk toward the bus station.

I should have worn more layers, or at least thicker pants, but I didn’t expect it to drop ten degrees since this morning. Next time, I’ll be sure to check the weather. Twice.

By the time I arrive at the station, I can barely feel my nose.

Everyone on campus has been talking about potential snow this weekend, which I can’t say I’m upset about. A day or two of flurries is a rare sight here in Georgia, and it would be just the thing to distract me from the clusterfuck that is currently my life.

Maybe it would be better to wait until the summer to set up an appointment…

That way, I don’t have to miss classes, and I’ll at least get to finish the semester. Assuming the academy doesn’t kick me out first.

Then again, the suspense of not knowing what’s wrong might kill me before then. I want—no, need—to know why I am the way I am.

To know what I am.

Because if I'm not an omega, then what the hell am I?