Chapter 10
Silas
“Can you hand me the tomatoes?”
Graham reaches blindly across the counter for the colander of sliced tomatoes I prepped for the salad. He topples the salt and pepper grinder as he fumbles about.
“Maybe look away from your computer for thirty seconds before you knock them onto the floor.”
He winces. “Sorry. I’m really excited by this new data on scent matches.”
He nudges the bowl closer, eyes moving back to his screen.
“Tell me about it.” This is our thing. I prep dinner every night. Graham reads some new research that’s just published. He gets excited and wants to talk about it. I listen.
It’s usually interesting, just not something I’d pick up myself. Graham makes it make sense. Connects the dots until the implications are obvious.
“According to some new data, statisticians have predicted that seventy-six percent of omegas have a scent match.”
I add the tomatoes to the bowl of toasted bread, onions, and basil.
“If that’s true, why are there so few scent-matched packs?”
Graham adjusts his glasses. “Because omegas and alphas are bound by geography. The earth is a big place, and we are little dots on its surface. Even the most well-traveled, well-connected alphas can only interact with less than one percent of the world’s population. The numbers are stacked against us.”
Graham’s wanted a scent match for as long as I’ve known him. Since we were kids, even. Too young to understand what a scent match was, but he wanted one anyway.
It’s never been a dream of mine. It would make things simpler, but it’s not required. My family’s pack is not scent-sensitive. But my mom and my dads are as dedicated to one another as any pack I’ve ever seen. Three alphas, like us. But bonded to an omega who chose them for them.
The right omega doesn’t have to be written into our biology. Just needs to be ours.
We’ll find her. There’s no rush. I’m inching closer to forty, but I haven’t felt the pressure that he has. His upbringing was different. Alpha parents who treated their marriage more like a business merger than a partnership. He’s always wished for more.
The pack.
The omega.
The fairytale.
“Connect the dots for me.”
A smile pleats his face. “This means that my research could literally impact half the world’s population. An omega from the Himalayas could match with a pack from the Andes.”
Graham’s filed more patents than I can count, but this research is different. It’s personal. He wants to make scent matching easier. More accessible.
“That’s really great,” I say. And I mean it. I’m proud of Graham. Proud of this pack. My eyes snag on the empty chair next to Graham.
“Have you heard from Saint today?”
He shakes his head before looking back at his open computer screen.
Pack meals are non-negotiable. My pops made the rule for his pack, and I set it for mine. Graham brings the research. Saint used to bring the war stories from the station. Since his injury his chair's been empty more nights than I like.
I haven't pushed. He'll talk when he's ready. Maybe I need to remind him why the rule exists. He usually texts me to let me know when he’ll be late, though.
“Maybe he’s working overtime.”
“He’s still on desk duty. He can’t pull extra shifts until his shoulder heals.”
Graham shrugs.
I move to the sink to wash my hands. My phone rings. A number I don’t recognize flashes across the screen. I contemplate letting it go to voicemail, but my sister’s been extra sick this week. Maybe it’s the hospital.
I wipe my hands on the dishtowel and answer.
“Mr. Caron?”
“Yes?” I don’t recognize the soft, feminine voice on the other side of the line.
“My name is Alice and I work for Riverside Elite Heat Clinic.”
I go still.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was hopeful you could connect me with your packmate, Santiago de la Cruz? He listed you as his emergency contact and pack alpha.”
My alpha senses flare.
“Saint’s not here right now. Is there something I can do for you? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine, or he was when I last saw him. Mister de la Cruz had an appointment today with an omega. He left abruptly, before they could be formally introduced.”
What is she not saying? And why didn’t Saint tell me he had signed up for a clinic? He knows he can tell me anything. So why didn’t he?
I drag my hand across my jaw.
She clears her throat. “Normally I wouldn’t share these things, but we’re in a bit of a predicament.”
“What kind of predicament?” I turn away from the sink and wave my hand to get Graham’s attention. I place the phone on the counter and hit speaker so he can hear.
I mouth ‘Saint. Heat clinic. Today.’ Graham blinks.
“They are scent-matched,” the voice on the phone explains.
Graham’s eyes pop. It takes my brain a few seconds longer to process what she just said.
Scent matches are rare. The kind of thing Graham reads about and I’ve never let myself think too hard about. Nearly impossible to find. And Saint had just stumbled upon his? At a heat clinic?
And left?
“Scent matches?” I ask. “Saint and the omega?”
Graham stands, bracing himself against the counter.
“Yes. I know it’s not a guarantee, but—” She hesitates. “I thought his pack should know. In case you are also matches.”
It doesn’t always happen, but sometimes scent matches extend to the entire pack.
Scent-sensitive pack.
Shit.
“We want to meet her,” Graham answers quickly. “Did she ask for us?”
“Not exactly.” Her voice pitches higher. “That’s why I’m calling. Meeting her scent match caused her to go into a heat spike. Unfortunately, she can’t. She’s in a lot of pain right now.”
Graham nods as though he understands. I’m glad someone does because I’m still missing something. I don’t like this.
“I understand. She can’t find relief. I’ve read about this. It happens sometimes when an omega meets her scent match. Being rejected would make everything worse.”
My dazed brain is finally catching up. An extended heat spike can turn dangerous fast. Even I know that.
A low growl escapes my throat. “We’ll be right there.”
I hang up the phone and turn to Graham. He looks so damned hopeful it hurts to look at him.
“I’ve waited so long,” he says more to himself than to me.
A low rumble builds in my chest before I can stop it. Not a warning, just steadiness. Something to anchor him.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I warn.
He nods, eyes bright. “You’re driving.”