41. Wet Blankets, Sad Rosie
Chapter forty-one
Wet Blankets, Sad Rosie
No longer mourn for me when I am dead.
My body floats on a blissful haze of emptiness, and I let myself sink into the sensation like a warm, fluffy blanket.
Give warning to the world that I am fled.
No air sits within my lungs. No phantom collar tightens around my throat. Nothing exists but this moment, and me, and the faint, dulled memory of what it feels like to hurt.
I would rather be here. Wherever here is.
In the distance, a voice is shouting. It’s annoyingly persistent. I’m rather enjoying my peaceful, floaty exit.
Exit—
Where am I going?
The voice shouts again, and I am… peeved.
Who is that?
It doesn’t belong here. It invades my peace with a bloom of freshness that feels out of place, because I should feel nothing at all.
But this scent makes me feel something, and I… don’t like it.
I reach for it, embrace it, claw at it with nails of rage—
My face bursts from the water on a choking, burning gasp, my hands clawing at the air and the arms holding me.
“I have you,” Lauren gasps. “Rosie, breathe.”
When I try to pull in air, a bubbling sound echoes off the tiles around us. My body thrashes, water flying everywhere before I twist and vomit across the shiny, water-filled floor of Carter’s bathroom.
“Let it out.” A hand slicks back my wet hair, another rubbing at my back. “I’m going to call for help.”
Help.
I need help.
I need—
My hand shoots out, wrapping around Lauren’s fingers. “No.”
The words don’t sound like they belong to me. My vocal chords sound like they’ve been used as a chew toy by something with very large teeth.
“You’re in heat.” Lauren tries to pry my fingers away, but I tighten them. “You need a hospital, Rosie!”
I do. The haze is already threatening again, a few precious minutes of clarity brought by the freezing cold water in Carter’s shower fading rapidly. “If you call, the NOC will ban him for heat abandonment.”
They’ll separate us. Permanently.
Lauren’s face appears. She’s pale, her pupils blown out. “Right.”
My competition. My sister wife.
Her hand slips from mine, and a sob sounds in my throat. “Please.”
Don’t call them. Don’t leave me.
“I’m not leaving you.” Her hand runs over my wet hair. “I’ll be back.”
I take a deep breath—
And hiss. “Scent.”
“I know,” she snaps. “I’ll fix it.”
“Don’t snap at me.” I throw my arm over my eyes and fight to breathe normally, trying to filter out the scent of another omega so close to me. “I’m in heat.”
“You’re a pain in the ass,” she mutters. Somehow, it helps.
Hands land on my shoulders several minutes later. “Woah. No. You can’t go back in there.”
I reach for the comforter with a low, sorrowful keen. “It’s wet.”
“Yes.” Lauren sounds weirdly nasally as she hauls my soaked limbs away from my tiny little heat nest. I eye it mournfully as she nudges me back against the wall. “Because you padded the bottom of the shower with every piece of fluff you could find and turned it on. You nearly drowned.”
I frown hazily at the room around me. “Is that why everything’s wet? Why is there a peg on your nose?”
“Because you smell like hormones and sad vibes.” She holds up a can of de-scenter. “Why the hell does your closet have an entire wardrobe filled with empty bottles of this crap?”
Touché. Wait. “What the fuck were you doing in my closet?”
We stare at each other in a way that makes me think this could be a very long twenty-four hours.
My face crumples. “I—”
She crawls up beside me and wraps her arms around me, squeezing. My fingers tangle in her damp, elegant, crumpled mess of a dress, clinging to her. “You came back.”
“Yeah.” She strokes my hair again, and more tears squeeze out of my eyes. “It’s been what, four hours since we left? When did it start?”
“Right after you left.” I close my eyes. It’s not the same as Carter, but it helps. “It’s going to get a lot worse.”
“Right,” she croaks. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to get you into your nest. Get you changed and settled. And we’re going to get you through it.”
“I apologize in advance for whatever I say,” I mumble.
“I’m petrified.” She slips her hand over mine. “It’s going to hurt like hell, but it’s not forever.”
I can feel the haze dropping already. “Hurts.”
“I know,” she says grimly. “Time to move.”
***
Agony.
Unending, unceasing, increasing agony as my body bucks and twists and begs for something that isn’t there.
Cool hands force water down my throat. Painkillers. A hot water bottle when my body starts to shake, and ice packs when sweat rolls off my skin in a feverish dream.
There are words. Soft, and quiet, and coaxing, and occasionally snappish as I fight and buck and twist against every raw pulse of need, begging for relief that isn’t coming.
But I am not alone.
My scent soaks into the bedding, the walls, the blankets tucked carefully around me that I snatch and tear and rip and scream at because they smell like too much and not enough, faint echoes of cloves and leather and vanilla brandy that grip my throat with icy fingers of fear until they’re far away from my safe space.
I scream at her, too. The interloper. She smells strange and sterile and metallic.
But she stays.
***
I can’t see.
My hands flail out. Oh my god—
Oh. Never mind. They’re actually… crusty.
That is disgusting.
With great effort, I manage to peel one open while patting down my body to check I’m still in one piece. It feels as if someone shoved me into a meat grinder to make little Rosie patties and then tried to slap me back together.
When I’m reassured that all of my body parts are accounted for, I manage to focus.
Lauren is asleep on the pillow beside mine, soft snores coming from her open mouth.
She’s a mouth breather. Ha.
I let myself sink back into my own pillow as I take stock. For about a minute.
Lauren’s eyes fly open as I’m trying to nudge her jaw up to close it. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Um.” My finger hovers. “Mouth breathing can cause tooth decay, you know. It’s really bad for you.”
She points at the peg on her nose, still eyeing me suspiciously. “I assume it’s safe to take this off now?”
I nod.
She tugs it free, and I wince at the deep red ridges embedded into her skin. “Shit. That looks painful.”
“I think they’re designed for chip packets, not noses.” She tosses it over her shoulder and rubs at the sore skin. “How are you feeling?”
Awkwardness seeps in. “Better.”
She nods. I take in the mound of blankets and sheets that bury her. Very messy, very chaotic, very unlike the omega who doesn’t meet my eyes. “Did I…make you come in here with me?”
She presses her lips together. “You seemed highly concerned about me being in the corner.”
Holy shit. I did. How embarrassing. “Wow.”
“I was very flattered,” she adds. “If it helps.”
“It doesn’t.”
Kind of does. “I should clean up.”
“Already done. Although I think the drain in Carter’s shower is blocked with pink fuzz.” She rubs a hand over her eyes, stifling a yawn. “Everything’s in the wash. I had to use both machines to get everything in, though. Sorry.”
I can’t really be mad when I forced her inside my protective little heat bubble. “Thanks.”
She looks like she’s dozing off again, and I clear my throat. A single blue eye cracks open. The disapproving look makes me strongly suspect she’s the older sister in her family.
“Did I…” I fiddle with the seam on my pillow, avoiding her eyes. “Say much?”
“Not really.” Both of her eyes open fully. “A little.”
I wait for her to expand. “I tried to give you clothing. From the pack. And you… you didn’t react well.”
I have a vague memory of tearing into what might be Liam’s favorite sweatshirt. “Oh.”
We stare across the bed at each other.
I rub my hands over my face. “I need to speak to Carter. He’s probably worried.”
“I’ve been messaging him. I said you had a fever, but you’re doing better.” Lauren is watching me closely. “Why didn’t you call him when it started? I tried to find your phone, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
She picks over her words, choosing them carefully. “So I thought about it. We left first, but Jonas came down after us.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
“Did something happen?” Lauren studies my face intently. “Your phone isn’t in this apartment. Did he take it?”
The urge to shake my head, to throw her off, to lie, wraps around my throat in a vice.
So I don’t say anything at all.
“The dinner,” she says, almost to herself. “Liam’s asshole dad uses a bark on his omega. In public. Probably more at home.”
I draw in a quiet breath, watching her. And I say nothing.
“A pack should be a safe space,” Lauren says eventually. “I don’t think this pack is safe for you anymore.”
It feels as though we’re on a precipice, my sister wife and me. And I can’t tell her everything, but I can tell her something. And something else tells me that it won’t go any further than this room.
In a few days all of this will be over. My hand reaches for hers. “I need him not to find out about this, Lauren.”
“But he needs to know—”
“We’re leaving.” The quiet confession eases my soul, as if voicing it makes it more real. “Carter and me. He’s dissolving the pack structure, filing for separation with the NOC. The last game of the regular season is on Saturday. And then we are… done.”
Two days, and that’s it.
I swallow. “He doesn’t know everything. But enough.”
Enough to get me out.
Her deep sigh sounds very much like… relief. And something else that I can’t put my finger on. Her gaze shifts from my face. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that.”
“At least you can have your scent matches all to yourself, right?” I try to smile. “It should make things easier.”
I might despise them with every inch of my blanket-loving soul, but they don’t treat her like they treat me.
She’ll… be fine. Right?
A heavy stone sinks to the bottom of my stomach.
But she doesn’t smile back. My eyes fly wide in growing horror as a sob shakes in her chest. “Lauren?”
She shakes her head, almost frantic, and pushes herself upright. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Realization smacks me in the face like a wet fish.
You’re an idiot, Rosie.
“Oh my god,” I breathe in shock. “You don’t want them.”
She doesn’t look at me. “But they’re your scent matches.”
“I know.” Lauren tucks her hair back, trying to tidy it. But her hands are shaking. “That’s how it goes. Meet your scent matches. Have the happy ever after, right? Nobody ever tells you what to do if your scent matches are assholes.”
She glances at me. “More than I know, I suspect.”
This isn’t just about me. Not anymore.
“Every omega wants this.” Her voice cracks. Crawling upright, I bat her hands out of the way, seize the hair tie she’s attempting to use to plait her dark hair back and take over, braiding the tangled strands into place. “I mean, they’re hockey players. NPHL. Good looking. That’s the dream.”
Except it sounds more like a nightmare.
She runs her hand over the fishtail braid when I’m done. “I have two choices. It’s them or a facility, Rosie. If I reject the match, my body’s going to start giving up on me in a year. Two or three if I’m lucky. I’m twenty-seven. What would you do?”
I’m getting out. But she can’t leave.
She turns to look at my face. “No crying.”
I nod rapidly.
“This is how it is,” she says, as if she’s talking to herself. “I can’t change it, right? I have to make the most of it.”
“There has to be a way around the scent match.” But I remember the online searches through my wine-induced haze. I’d looked for a way to make her leave. To separate them, and I hadn’t found one. The NOC had been clear enough about the consequences.
“If you find one, I’d love to hear it. Look, I’m going to make you some tea.
You’re going to be woozy for a while. Something to eat.
” The rapid change feels like emotional whiplash as Lauren scrambles out of my blanket trap and smooths down her pants.
Her eyes are bright. “It is what it is, Rosie. No point in crying over it. But I’m glad you’ll be away from here.
Build a new life with Carter. A better one than whatever’s happening here that you’re not telling me. ”
As she heads to the door, I scrape words together around the lump in my throat. “Lauren?”
Her cheeks are wet when she turns around.
And mine are too. “You’re not a bad sister wife.”
Maybe she’s actually a pretty good one.
Lauren gives me a horrified look. “Sister wife?”