Chapter 13
Navigating New Territory
~AURORA~
"—and you could have been killed, Rory. Do you understand that? Killed. Dead. Gone. No amount of family money or connections brings you back from that."
Roran's been on this particular soapbox for the past ten minutes, pacing back and forth beside my hospital bed like a caged animal while his Alpha pheromones spike with protective fury.
I huff, crossing my arms—carefully, because my ribs protest the movement—and roll my eyes with as much attitude as I can muster while hooked up to various monitors.
"You sound like Father."
The comparison lands exactly as intended.
Roran's eyes narrow, jaw clenching in that particular way that means I've struck a nerve.
"Maybe Father has a point," he shoots back, but there's less heat in it now. "Maybe listening to the people who actually care about your wellbeing isn't the worst idea."
"I'm fine," I insist, gesturing vaguely at myself as evidence. "A few bruises, some smoke inhalation, nothing that won't heal. And they know what to fix on the prototypes now, so whatever. Mission accomplished."
"It's not whatever—"
"It really is, though."
Roran stops pacing, turning to face me with an expression that's equal parts exasperation and genuine fear. His scent shifts from aggressive to something softer, more vulnerable—ozone mixed with worry and that underlying note of pack-bond that we share as twins.
"You're lucky you only got bruises," he says quietly, and the change in tone is more effective than any amount of yelling. "The way that car tumbled... Aurora, we thought—"
He cuts himself off, but I can fill in the blanks.
We thought you were dead.
The unspoken words hang heavy in the air between us.
I let my arms drop, abandoning the defensive posture because he's right and we both know it.
I should acknowledge the danger. Should admit that I scared the shit out of everyone who cares about me.
Should probably express some level of remorse for the reckless decision that led to me flying through the air in several thousand pounds of prototype death machine.
But the words stick in my throat, tangled up with stubborn pride and the need to prove I'm more than just a fragile Omega who needs protecting.
"Sure, sure," I mutter instead, which is the closest I'm getting to agreement right now.
Roran's expression shifts from worried to annoyed, clearly frustrated that I won't acknowledge the full gravity of what happened.
"Where's Cale?" I ask, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a brick through a window.
Roran huffs, running a hand through his hair in that gesture we both inherited from our mother.
"Sulking in some corner."
I frown, shifting slightly in the bed despite the protest from various bruised muscles.
"Why is he sulking?"
Roran just gives me a look.
That particular twin look that communicates entire paragraphs without words. The one that says you know exactly why, don't play stupid, and we both know what's happening here, even if neither of us wants to address it directly.
Before I can push for an actual verbal explanation, something moves under the blanket at my feet.
A small black head pops out from beneath the covers, and the kitten—the cause of this entire disaster—lets out a loud, demanding meow that sounds like it's summoning its people.
We freeze and stare at the tiny creature.
The kitten stares back with those big green eyes that have no concept of the chaos it's caused, tail flicking with feline satisfaction at being the center of attention.
"Where is..." I pause, suddenly uncertain how to refer to him. "Uh... Elias?"
Saying his name feels strange on my tongue. Intimate in ways I'm not ready to examine. Like acknowledging his existence somehow makes the scent match thing more real.
"He hasn't left yet," Roran answers, settling into the chair beside my bed with the resignation of someone who knows he's going to be here for a while. "He's letting his pack know he's here. Making calls or whatever."
His pack.
Right. Because scent matches don't just affect two people—they affect entire pack dynamics. Elias has a pack, which means other Alphas.
Now I'm apparently going to be integrated into that structure.
The thought makes my chest tight with anxiety that has nothing to do with my injuries.
I nod slowly, trying to process this information while my brain still feels like it's wrapped in cotton from whatever painkillers they've got me on.
Am I actually scent-matched with him? Or was that just a hallucination brought on by trauma and adrenaline and the particular cocktail of drugs they administered when I was brought in?
The memory of his scent—sandalwood and steel, gasoline and vanilla—rises unbidden, and my Omega instincts respond with a yearning that feels embarrassingly intense for someone I barely know.
"You don't need to feel pressured," Roran says quietly, and the gentleness in his voice makes me look up to meet his storm-green eyes—identical to mine, mirror images staring at each other. "Because of the circumstances, I mean. If you're not comfortable with any of this, you can say no."
The fact that he's giving me an out makes something warm bloom in my chest.
Because he's right—I could say no. Could claim the scent match was a mistake, that I'm not interested in pack bonding, that I want to maintain my independence and complicated situationship with Cale instead of diving into something new and terrifying.
But would I be saying no because I genuinely don't want it?
Or because I'm scared?
"It's a bit odd," I admit, picking at the edge of the hospital blanket with restless fingers. "I'm used to ignoring my feelings. Suppressing them literally and figuratively. But this seems different."
Roran leans forward slightly, attention focused entirely on me.
"I feel this yearning for him," I continue, the confession coming easier than expected. Maybe because it's Roran, who shares my DNA and half my soul. "But I don't know him. At all. We've had maybe five minutes of actual conversation at best..."
The absurdity of the situation hits me, and I let out a weak laugh.
"But I slept so comfortably in his arms," I whisper, the admission feeling vulnerable in ways I usually avoid. "I didn't even realize I could sleep like that. Without nightmares or hypervigilance or waking up every hour to check my surroundings."
Roran nods slowly, crossing his arms as he processes this information.
"I don't really understand how it would feel," he says thoughtfully.
"Haven't found my Omega yet, so I can only go off what I've read and what other bonded people describe.
But if he gives you a level of peace just by his presence.
.." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "He could most certainly be the one."
The one.
The phrase carries weight that makes my chest constrict.
We share a look—understanding passing between us without need for elaboration. The knowledge that this could change everything. That scent matches are rare and precious and not something to dismiss lightly, even when the timing is catastrophically inconvenient.
The door opens, interrupting our moment.
Cale appears in the doorway, and immediately the energy in the room shifts.
His scent—burnt cedar and dark coffee—fills the space with familiar comfort, but there's something off about his body language.
Tension in his shoulders. Carefully controlled expression that suggests he's fighting to maintain composure.
"Richard requested I come back for trials or some shit," he grumbles, not quite meeting my eyes.
The awkwardness radiating off him is palpable.
He's clearly trying to respect whatever's happening with the scent match situation, trying to give me space to explore this new connection without interference. But the reluctance is just as strong—written in every line of his body, every careful word he doesn't say.
My heart aches at the sight.
I need to talk to him. Alone. Need to address whatever complicated emotions are churning beneath the surface before they calcify into something that can't be fixed.
"Roran," I say sweetly, employing the tone I use when I need a favor. "Can you get me coffee?"
My twin's eyes narrow with immediate suspicion.
"You have an IV. You're not supposed to have coffee."
"I'm dying without coffee," I counter dramatically. "Withering away as we speak. Besides, I'll just unhook the IV myself if you don't help me."
"That's a terrible medical decision—"
"Since when do I make good medical decisions?" I arch an eyebrow. "You saw me get in that car, right? Pretty sure my judgment is consistently questionable."
Roran opens his mouth to argue, then closes it, clearly recognizing he's fighting a losing battle.
"Fine," he huffs, standing from the chair. "But only because you're impossible when you're particular and picky about your coffee."
I smirk, sending him a mental thank you that I hope translates through our twin bond.
"Remember I like it black. Like my soul."
"Your soul isn't black," he calls from the hallway, but there's affection beneath the exasperation. "It's more like charcoal grey with glitter."
"That's oddly specific."
"Shut up."
His footsteps fade down the corridor, and I'm left alone with Cale.
Who's still hovering near the door like he's not sure he's welcome in his own girlfriend's—friend's?—hospital room.
The sight makes my chest ache.
"Where's your new man at?" Cale asks, attempting casual and missing by a mile.
I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of my skull.
"I don't have a new man. Last time I checked, I'm still a 'man' myself, so I'm not exactly going off with a whole ass pack I don't know about."
Cale grumbles something under his breath that I can't quite make out.
I lift my hand, gesturing impatiently for him to come closer.
"What? I can't hear you when you're mumbling like a coward."
He shuffles over reluctantly, each step clearly costing him pride.