Chapter 23
Seb is still staring off into the distance.
He's hardly moved all morning. I'm worried that our pack's medical expert, who had thrived for so long in stressful situations, has become completely catatonic.
"James, we'll need to seriously consider taking him to the ER if he hasn't moved by this evening."
James looks up at me, his jaw set, and nods. At least a sense of duty, the need to develop a plan, is enough to pull his focus ever so slightly from… what I can't think to call anything other than grief.
Zeke is still pacing around the room, radiating rage like a furnace.
His alpha's riding him hard. I suspect, because the second anything other than fury is let in, there will be room for pain, and there is already more than enough of that in his life.
So he's lashing out, desperate to find someone to blame.
And try as I might, I haven't been able to get Clarke out of his line of fire.
Clarke has been almost frenetic with guilt and shame since I woke up.
My sweet beta, our sweet beta, our omega whisperer, is utterly convinced it's his fault that she's gone.
He's sitting on the sofa, hunched over, running his hands frenetically through his curls, like he's trying to wipe away the guilt. Our bond is a maelstrom of anxiety.
I wish I had the courage to tell him the truth—that the whole situation is my fault. I'm the one who knew better. I'm the one who should have got us out of there the second we got the slightest hint of scent. I'm the one who let us fall down the rabbit hole with no way back out.
And, on top of that, once the genie was out of the bottle, I'm the one who should have realized that she wanted out.
I should have noticed that being with a pack who'd provided heat support services would be too much for her.
As a psychologist, it's my job to understand this sort of thing; as pack lead, doubly so.
Fuck it. I need to just call a spade a fucking spade.
We're nothing more than just really fucking expensive sex workers.
And being in a relationship with a sex worker can be too much even for people who don't morally judge the job, and who understand that sex work is real work. No wonder she bolted.
But I'm a coward. I can't bring myself to say the words. So I distract myself from the guilt spreading like sprouting weeds in my chest by focusing on what I can do to help my pack. At least I'll stop making things worse.
I sit down on the sofa next to Clarke, and let my arm fall around his shoulders. He flinches. I try not to wince.
I let my thumb drift over a sliver of skin on his upper arm.
"Hey, love, why don't you let me share some of that burden you got going on in there?" I let my voice drop into the growly rumble I use on him when he needs to get out of his head.
He shrugs, and silently hands me his unlocked phone. There are those three damn Heatseekers notifications still taunting me from the screen.
Maybe that's the first place to start.
I pull Clarke into a gentle hug. "Love, I think we need a break from heat clients for a while," I murmur in his ear. "What do you think?"
After a moment, he lifts his head slightly. "For a while? Or…" His pause spreads like tar, viscous and thick.
The idea of it only being a temporary break from other omegas' heats—well, apart from Dellie's, of course—makes something twist and roil in my chest. But… asking the others to give up so much if they all weren't fully on board… "Hypothetically, let's say… indefinitely."
There's a moment where he seems to freeze; but he blinks a couple of times, then gives a stiff nod. "I… I'll check the numbers. We might have to sell the Tribeca loft… but we should be able to make it work, even if we keep the packhouse in Brooklyn. I don't know what we'd do with ourselves though…"
I want to smack him over the back of the head and ask him what he wants, not what's practical or what he thinks he's supposed to care about or what we'd do instead. I bite back the frustrated sigh that's threatening to burst out of my chest. "Don't worry about it until tomorrow."
I rub his back gently, and stand and walk into the bedroom, where Seb is still slumped on the floor. James is watching him with concern growing in his expression, and Zeke is still pacing.
"Do you think we need a break from heat clients for a bit?"
Seb glances up at me, blinks a few times, and nods. Thank fuck. I can see relief dripping from James' face at the sight.
But he's gone right back to staring at the wall.
I catch James' gaze. He nods, curtly, then disappears into the kitchen.
"Zeke?" I mutter, trying to keep my voice calm and low.
"Of course. I couldn't… not any more… not with anyone else. Ever again. But…" His voice is clipped, laced with sharp edges.
His jaw is twitching. I rest my hand on Zeke's shoulder. "We'll figure it all out, okay? But we gotta stick together. It's not anybody's fault."
The room seems to still when his nostrils flare, but he lets his head dip into a curt nod. He's tense under my touch.
Gut churning, I sit down on the bed and open up the Heatseekers app, and start declining the heat requests and cancelling our current bookings.
As my fingers move on autopilot, I almost decline them all, until a line in the last one catches my eye.
'… not actually after your knots, just your medical, psychological, and logistical training…'
I pause. It's not for another six weeks.
An omega who's found her pack, where one of her alphas is a war vet who has PTSD, another has ADHD and a third has a bad back that tends to flare up upon overuse. Her beta got completely overwhelmed during her last heat trying to keep everyone safe and stable, and it didn't end well.
… but who supports you?
I couldn't answer her question.
I think I knew, deep down inside, that the moment I scented her, I would never be able to support any other omega's heat again. Well, other than hers. But… supporting the alphas and betas doing the heat support? Doing for them what we do for each other anyway?
I leave the booking unaccepted and undeclined, and go ahead and finish with the cancellations and declining the other bookings.
One by one, the cancellations acknowledgements roll in. They're thanking us—actually thanking us—for abandoning them.
All but one. The one we were all so excited about.
I look at our "upcoming bookings" tab. Normally, Clarke manages this, so it's comfortably full.
Now, it's down to only two—the tentative booking to help the pre-existing pack while they support their omega's heat, and the one that we'd all been looking forward to until we were all overcome by the scent of freesias.
The only one who might not have time to find a replacement support pack.
Lauren Treloar.
It's supposed to start the day after tomorrow.
I frown. Clarke's been in contact with her PA—Adeline, I think? —pretty much every day this week. She's professional and incredibly efficient. I don't remember her taking more than fifteen minutes to reply to a message.
I doubt they will be able to find another support pack in time, but at least I have a few favors I can call in. You don't thrive in the industry the way we have without a few people owing you favors.
I grab my own phone and tap out a few messages to packs who owe me and who I'm pretty sure are decent people, in the vain hope they might be free this week. Best we know who's available before we talk to her, anyway.
I glance over at my beta. His features are wrought with growing guilt.
Shit.
I march over to the sofa and snap my fingers in front of his eyes. He startles.
"None of that, love."
He blinks, I wrap my arm around him. This time, he leans in a little and relaxes.
"Can… can you ever forgive me?" His voice is flat.
I plant a kiss on the top of his crown. "There's nothing to forgive."
He leans forward, resting his head on his knees, his shoulders shuddering, silently.
I gently stroke his back.
"Love, do you have a contact number for Lauren Treloar's assistant? I couldn't see it on the booking and they haven't acknowledged the cancellation."
He roughly swipes the back of his hand against his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Uh. Yeah, sure. Hang on." His voice is thick.
He passes me the phone, with a contact pulled up. I hit the call button, but it goes straight to a cheerful voicemail.
Shit.
"… can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message."
"Uh, hi, this is Allen from Pack X. Um, unfortunately we have just learned that we will not be able to support Lauren in her heat on this occasion, so we just wanted to touch base and confirm you have alternative heat support available, and, uh, to offer to help you locate an alternative support pack.
And, uh, we will do whatever you need to ensure they are supported if required.
If you could please call Ra—uh, Clarke as soon as possible, that would be great, thanks. Bye."
I hang up the phone, sighing, and run my hand over my face.
My phone has lit up with replies to my messages. All those texts from packs who swore they owed us, who'd promised us a favor, saying the same thing in so many different ways. Sorry buddy, wish we could help, we know we owe you, but we're booked.
Shit.
I shoot off another handful of texts. Alphas I've known from when we used to work heat clinics, who'd shown they were trustworthy, who've gone down the heat support route. Alphas who I helped get their first booking in the industry, when omegas helped reach out to us when we were already committed.
I furrow my brow, racking my brains, as more apologies roll back in.
... but who supports you?
I guess, technically, we had one supporter—well, one pack of supporters—once.
And because they helped us when we needed it, we helped them forge the connections they needed to get where they are.
But that was so long ago. They went stratospheric years ago, leaving us mere mortals behind.
They've probably forgotten. I probably don't even have their number any more.
My alpha, who I've been suppressing with an iron will since I woke up this morning, gives an unbidden scrabble at my chest.
Another surge of guilt rolls through me like the tidal pull through a polluted river.
I have to try.
I flick through my contacts, holding my breath.
Well, look at that. Turns out never cleaning up your contacts list has some advantages.
Crossing my fingers, I shoot off one last text and put the phones down on the coffee table. I rub the back of Clarke's neck with a soothing hand, sending all the calm I have in me to him down the bond, and then stand up.
I have to look after my pack now.