Chapter thirteen #2
He leans back, considering. “It would probably arrest the decline almost immediately. If the connection’s as strong as I suspect, she’d stabilize.
Her scent would return, her symptoms would lessen.
It’s what her body is screaming for. To undo the years of damage suppressant abuse and deprivation have caused. ”
I shut my eyes, just for a second.
“Why did the registry let it get this bad? Why didn’t they force a placement sooner?”
Arden’s brows furrow slightly. “I admit that is unusual. Dr. Turner sent Lily’s file over for reference and there was… unusual activity listed.”
I lean back further in my seat. “Unusual?”
“She had many requested meets in her file. But her records show that she only attended a meet and greet with a handful of packs over the six years she was at the registry.”
“So she turned them all down. She was being picky.”
Arden shakes his head. “That’s the thing. The only ones she turned down were a couple of packs she met at events and apparently didn’t care for. The others all withdrew their requests shortly after placing them. She likely doesn’t even know she had the requests.”
“Why did they withdraw?”
Arden shrugs. “There aren’t any reasons listed.
They just… did. It doesn’t make any sense on paper.
It’s almost like someone had access to view the requests and then contacted these packs asking them to back off or gave them a reason to not pursue.
It looks to me like someone was working against Lily. ”
“Who would do that and why?”
“I have no idea. Maybe you should ask her.”
Silence again as I let it sink in. Why would someone do that to an omega. Especially for this long. Until she started deteriorating physically. It’s cruel.
“I know it’s complicated, Garrett. But she’s not going to survive this if you keep her in limbo.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
He stands, opens the door. “Take her home. And tell Gabriel to hurry up. You’ve either got to place her permanently or help her yourself, but you can’t wait much longer.”
I find Lily at the check-out desk. Her cheeks are paler than when we got here. Her hands shake as she signs the form. She thanks the receptionist, then follows me to the truck in silence.
The air in the cab is different this time. Charged, heavy. She buckles her seatbelt, then leans her forehead against the window. I start the engine, let it idle for a second, then pull out of the lot.
I’m supposed to go straight home. I’m supposed to keep my hands to myself. I’m supposed to pretend that the ache in my chest isn’t going to kill me.
Instead, I reach across the console and take her hand.
She goes stiff. Looks at our hands, then at me. I keep my eyes on the road. I don’t explain. I don’t justify.
After a moment, she relaxes. Her fingers close around mine, strong and desperate. She holds on like she’s drowning and I’m the last thing above water.
I do the only thing I know how to do: I purr.
It’s not loud—barely more than a vibration in my chest. But it’s real. It’s for her.
She takes a breath. Then another. With every inhale, I feel the tension slide out of her.
Her face smooths out. Her scent, dead and gray all morning, starts to come back—faint, but there.
Peaches, ozone, something clean and clear.
I could cry with relief. It’s almost amazing how fast it works to repair her.
We drive like that for twenty minutes. I take the long way, slow, never in a hurry. I want to give her this for as long as I can.
When we get close to the house, I let go. She doesn’t move for a second, then gently sets her hand in her lap.
The loss is instant. I see it in her, how her body folds in as the gray starts to come back into her scent.
It may be worse than before because I gave her a taste of what she could have but won’t. Not in any sustainable way that matters.
She turns to me. Her eyes are wet.
“Thank you.”
She’s not talking about the ride.
“Anytime,” I say. I mean it. I shouldn’t, but I do.
She nods, gets out, goes inside. I watch her until the door closes, then sit in the truck, hands gripping the wheel so tight I think it might crack.
I purr, just for myself, until I can’t anymore.
***
When I walk in, the house is still and dark.
It’s the dark you get after a power outage, where every shadow is a reminder of what’s missing.
Gabriel’s truck isn’t in the drive, so he’s still at the office, or wherever he goes when he doesn’t want to be found.
I think about calling him, but what would I even say?
The urge to confess, to get ahead of the guilt, flickers and dies. I’m not ready to own it yet.
I leave my shoes at the door and walk down the hall, careful not to make noise. There’s a light on in the kitchen above the stove. The digital clock says 5:17 p.m. Technically it’s still afternoon, but the sky outside is a muddy blue, and the house feels as tired as I do.
I should check on Lily. I want to. I need to see if she’s sleeping, if the purr made any difference that lasted, if the color in her cheeks is back. But the guilt is a physical thing. It lies heavy in my stomach. Instead, I head for the pack room.