Chapter 36
Choices
CORIN
No sense yelling hurry up when Dan’s already driving so fast, the zipzap’s protective shell rattles as much from speed as the bitter wind gusting along the street.
He whisks around trucks stopped to unload, turns corners at speeds that have me gulping, and races a tram down the incline from the heights to the city proper.
The safety harness pins me to the seat’s inadequate cushion, but I hold hard with one hand, anyway, as though that would keep me safe. The other grips my phone tight.
Little else I can do but shiver in the cold, despite my layers.
I can’t help Dan drive, can’t even navigate, until we get closer to home.
Can’t do anything for Johanna except listen as she makes Nathan say her name regularly. The way he says it keeps shifting—pleading, then snapping possessively, and now, moaning. Speculating about what she’s doing to distract him only fills me with dread, so I stop.
Helpless. Unable to advise when she first called for assistance. Incapable of contributing to our mad dash across the city.
Bitterness fills my mouth. Swallowing sends it down my throat to spread through my bloodstream.
A hint comes from Dan’s scent, his midnight-forest odor turning frigid, no doubt from fear, but I don’t delude myself.
Most of the bitter aroma is my own vinegary fear for Johanna, underscored by anger at my inability to help.
Reason argues that I never had an issue with ruts after my late teens, right after I presented.
Even then, my brief flirtations with rut weren’t particularly strong—more like an added layer of desire, easily quenched by extra cold showers while I learned how to balance my needs and when to use scent blockers.
For all my youngest daughter’s struggles after she presented, she had a stronger desire to fight than fuck, making rut less of a concern than brawling. I’d sent her to a well-respected gym’s alpha resistance-training program to supplement her instruction from the Alpha Center and at school.
Why should I know much about how to deal with ruts?
Arrogance, thy name is alpha. I’d assumed I didn’t need to know. Felt pride that Caity learned to control herself so easily and showed no danger of rut.
Too late now.
Yet Dan knew. When it was clear I was flailing, he’d stepped in seamlessly.
“How did you know what to do, what to tell her?” I ask.
He gives me a side-eyed glance. “I’ve been taking rut suppressors for over three decades.”
“But the medication keeps you from going into rut.” The wind whines and the tires squeal as we turn a corner. The harness prevents me going sideways but will probably leave bruises. “Why would you need to know?”
“In case it fails or I face a situation where it isn’t strong enough.” There’s an almost-bark-like edge to his reply. A bitter-tasting chill, above and beyond the cold wind, infuses his scent.
My mouth opens; then, I snap it shut and swallow my words. Tilt my head down and away, exposing my neck to him in instinctive apology.
“I also volunteer as a test subject for clinical trials of new medications, supposedly with fewer side effects, or to test lower doses, different combinations. Every single time, I have to go through another Rut Recognition and Awareness program.” Dan laughs, a short, sharp thing.
“I’ve got enough certificates of completion to paper a wall. ”
“Looks like they came in handy.” I hold the phone close to my ear, but Johanna’s stopped speaking. The only clear sounds coming through are low moans—probably Nathan’s, because they’re occasionally interspersed with his voice alternating between her name and “mate.”
“I took them seriously.” Dan sighs, gloved hands sliding along the steering wheel as he takes another sharp turn.
“Over three decades?” I shiver and squint through the fog spreading on the windows. We’re skirting downtown, and the houses are starting to look familiar.
“I’ll still be taking a maintenance dose on my deathbed.” Dan sighs again. “Even if … I’ll never not need that.”
“If what?”
“There’s a chance, if I had pack bonds, mate bonds, I wouldn’t need as strong a dose, or at least not supplements.” He gives me another side-glance as we wait for a tram to cross, then looks down and away. “I would’ve told you before bonds came up regardless.”
“Considering you told me and Nathan about taking suppressors first thing the other day, I believe you.”
I’ve daydreamed of bonding with Johanna for years, yet mostly ignored the potential for bonding with other pack members when Dan, Nathan, and I agreed to explore giving her what she’d always wanted—but now, the idea of more than one bond warms my belly despite the cold.
“Have you shared this with Nathan?”
“About bonds? Yes.” Dan smiles, a gentle thing, even as he wrenches the wheel to make another sharp turn as the buildings grow ever more familiar. “He said if we pack up, he’d be happy to exchange bites.”
“If two is better than one, put me down as well.” I stopped paying attention to a lot of lore about packs when it became clear I wasn’t headed for one.
As with ruts, I don’t know enough about truth versus legend.
One saying, however, comes readily to mind: some packs form quickly packs, because when you know, you know.
I wasn’t looking for a pack for me, but for Johanna, yet Dan’s strengths overlap some of my weak points. I hope to offer similar value in return.
“Thank you.” The zipzap slows enough for Dan to glance over with a sweet, almost shy smile, and the chill in his fragrance eases. “We’re close to your home—where’s the best place to park?”
The actual process of parking is a blur. We leave the zipzap somewhere down the block—all I know is it’s legal and there’s just enough space—then race back to the house. Dan’s several feet behind me because I leaped out the instant the zipzap came to enough of a standstill.
My shoes thunk against the pavement, but no louder than my heart beats in my ears. The cold air makes my lungs hurt as snow drifts down. Only a few flakes stick on bushes, but in the distance, dark gray clouds loom over the lake, suggesting a lake-effect storm is on the way.
At least the bleak weather means the sidewalks are mostly empty, even though it’s early afternoon.
I stumble up the walk—was it just last night Johanna and I stood on the porch kissing?
Pulling off my glove I fumble my first try at entering the code to unlock the door.
Usually, that’s Johanna’s issue, she almost always requires two or three tries.
I’m the calm, cool, capable enterer of codes the first time—except in this instance. Luckily, my second attempt works.
“Johanna!” I call as soon as I enter. No answer—only heavy breathing from the phone cradled in my hand; that, and crackling as the storm winds affect reception.
No sign of her in the living room or down the hall.
I race through the first floor, still dressed for the cold.
I’m steaming up, sweat dripping down my face.
No living, breathing beings in the dining room, kitchen, or bath, though there’s evidence Johanna and Nathan did meet here for lunch, as planned—good, because I hadn’t even considered she might be elsewhere—half-eaten food left cooling on the table.
Nathan’s and Johanna’s scents permeate the house, apart from a faint hint of Anamaria.
My daughter was definitely in the last hours before heat when she left, but at least she’s safe.
The text confirming her arrival at the Omega Center came through while we were driving.
My other daughters reported being snug in their dorms studying—or, more likely, partying.
Returning to the foyer, I find Dan stomping a few flakes off his feet as he closes the door behind him.
“Johanna?” he asks, panting.
Before I can respond, we stiffen as a distant moan echoes from upstairs.
It’s a race of sorts, each of us tossing off pieces of outerwear as we lurch up the stairs.
The higher we rise, the thicker the scents: heavy lust and alpha musk mingle with Nathan’s wax and snuffed wick, almost completely overpowering Johanna’s tangy cranberry.
Impossible not to notice that the door to Max’s room is open, as it’s never been since his death. Johanna’s bunny slippers lie abandoned nearby, but I don’t head that way.
The smell is stronger straight ahead, flowing from the guest room Johanna had been using until she started sleeping with me.
This close, I detect a particular sweetness to Nathan’s scent—a luscious note that arises from repeated sexual satisfaction.
The edge sets my blood heating and pounding in my veins.
Dashing in, Dan hot on my heels, we come to a stop right inside the door.
If not for the underlying cause, this scene could fuel personal fantasies in the future.
Nathan lies splayed out on the bed, mostly clothed, his back arched, and shirt and undershirt sticking to his chest. Long, dragging moans emerge from the taut muscles of his throat.
Sweat glistens along the smooth expanse of his head, and his beard is darker along his cheeks and jaw.
His pants hang open at the crotch. Johanna nestles between his legs in an almost classic omega presentation pose: kneeling, back rounded and head down—though instead of offering herself for fucking, she’s sucking Nathan’s cock with long slurps.
She pulled off her shirt at some point, so her bared back gleams with sweat, pink bra straps bright against her skin.
Jeans stretch tight over her ass, but shadows at her crotch and inner thighs suggest damp fabric—and not due to sweat.
The scent of her arousal is weaker than Nathan’s, but unmistakable.
Her back heaves with pants as she pulls off Nathan’s cock, cum dripping from the corners of her mouth.