Chapter 7 - Cade
Three days since I brought Mara home, and I’m starting to think she might just be a hallucination.
Or, perhaps more likely, a bomb with a really long fuse.
She moves through my house like an apparition; she’s silent and everywhere all at once, leaving little traces of herself behind like a mug with half-drunk tea, the faintest print of bare feet on the polished concrete, a paperback left open on the arm of the couch as if she’ll be right back.
I haven’t decided if she’s leaving these trails of clues to fuck with me, throw me off, or if this is just her nature.
I’ve moved the pack clinic to my home office so I can keep an eye on both her and see to pack affairs, and the incoming calls from Grey, who’s taken over all my patrols.
That alone is driving me crazy. Not because I don’t trust my beta, but because standing watch is how I burn off the kind of energy she’s been bringing out in me.
Instead, I’m stuck at home, and it feels like a cage, running phone triage, waiting for news about the test Willow ran on Mara, and trying to figure out if she’s telling the truth.
She’s adamant she doesn’t know anything useful, but my wolf knows with absolute certainty that she’s lying. But I also don’t think she’s one of the hunters; there’s some truth to her words, but trying to decipher where the lie is isn’t proving easy.
Grey’s mate, Sara, dropped off a care package for Mara the second morning.
Not food, because I’ve stocked the pantry like I’m expecting a siege, but clothes in a range of sizes and styles, and a whole basket of toiletries.
I watched Mara unpack it at the kitchen counter, her face shifting through disbelief, suspicion, and something almost like awe.
I’d never seen anyone so fascinated by a bottle of shampoo.
She lined up the little bottles by size and color, sniffed each one, and then looked right at me, eyes huge and wary, like I might snatch it all away if she seemed too grateful.
She tried to switch back to being nonchalant immediately, but I saw it. The sign of a girl who hasn’t had much of anything for a hell of a long time.
She spends most of her time reading. I didn’t realize how many books I had in the house until I started noticing the stacks migrating from the library shelves to the living room.
I’ve only read maybe a third of them, but Mara seems to be working through the whole archive, one after another, devouring even the dense philosophy texts that used to belong to my father and haven’t been touched since I unpacked them when I moved in.
She’s always reading, even when I walk in the room; sometimes lying down on the couch, sometimes curled up by the fire, sometimes at the kitchen table with her feet tucked under her.
She doesn’t look up when I enter, but I know that she always knows exactly where I am at all times.
I try to keep my distance, for both our sakes.
Her scent is still a punch to the gut, and I’m not proud of the way I find myself standing outside her door at three in the morning, listening to her breathing through the heavy wood.
Not because I think she’ll escape—I know she can’t—but because I can’t stop thinking about the way her eyes met mine during the alliance meeting, the way her pulse jumped in her neck when I got near to clean up the water she spilled.
I keep telling myself I’m just being careful, but it’s getting harder to believe.
She’s looking for ways out. I know it, and she knows I know it, and we’re locked in this stupid dance where we pretend this stalemate is normal.
She’s good at sneaking around, better than most humans, better than most hunters.
I’m not sure if she’s aware that she’s showing her hand in the little tells as she studies the potential exits, listens to conversations while so clearly committing information to memory, and catalogs names and faces as my betas come and go.
I know she’s gathering information, and it’s smart…too smart for a girl who apparently just works behind a bar.
I’m at the kitchen counter, sorting through the week’s supply orders, when my laptop dings.
The screen flashes with a secure comm request from Willow, which doesn’t happen unless it’s urgent.
I grab the laptop and duck into my office, shutting the door with a sharp click that echoes in the otherwise quiet house.
Rowan’s face is already on the screen when I sit down, looking like every new father, tired but somehow calmer than I’ve ever seen him.
Willow is beside him, hair pulled tight, eyes even tighter.
Nobody says hello. I feel a strange sense of anticipation, like I can tell they’re about to drop something big.
Willow speaks first. “We ran the panel. Twice. I even called in a favor to have it cross-checked at the university lab we’ve been using.” Her voice is so flat that it makes me anxious. “Cade, there’s omega DNA in her blood.”
I don’t react at first because it doesn’t make sense. Mara is a human. A host, maybe, but not a shifter. There’s no wolf in her, not even a hint, and she’s never presented. I say as much.
Rowan’s voice is low. “We know. But the markers are there. Dormant, but present on both the genomic and the methylation layer. An old line. Maybe she doesn’t even know, and someone tried to breed it out of her line, or at least keep it from surfacing.”
I stare at the wall behind the laptop, trying to process. “So, she’s a failed shift, or a recessive?”
“She’s an omega, Cade,” Willow says. “She’s either lying to us or genuinely doesn’t know.”
I shake my head. “No. I know what an omega smells like, and she’s not one. She’s…” I realize I don’t have a word for what Mara is. There’s no wolf, no anything, just a faint, constant sense of hunger that she brings out in me.
Willow glances at Rowan, who nods for her to continue. “We also found traces of other compounds. Chemical signatures consistent with experimental hormone therapy. Something very weird is going on here. Do you think she knows what she is?”
I lean over the laptop, forehead in my palm, and pick apart what they’re really asking.
“No,” I say. “If she’s hiding it, she’s Oscar-level.
The way she talks about her life…she’s not lying about thinking she’s just a human.
She’s not faking the fear. But she’s not stupid, and she’s not innocent, either.
” I look at Willow, at the way she’s pinched her mouth shut, like she’s already five moves ahead and doesn’t want to say it out loud.
“She doesn’t know what she is, but the question is, do they? ”
Rowan’s eyes flick toward Willow. “The Order handed her over without a fight.”
“They practically forced me to take her.” I remember the cool, deliberate way the woman in charge had smiled, the way the men had averted their eyes.
“If they thought she was some omega-in-hiding, wouldn’t they use her?
They know what omegas are to us; wouldn’t they want to control or destroy one? So why throw her at me?”
Willow glances down at her notes. “Maybe their research isn’t as far along as we think. Maybe they didn’t know.”
“Or maybe she’s a plant or a ticking time bomb,” Rowan murmurs. “You said yourself she didn’t smell like an omega.”
“She doesn’t,” I say. “Not in a way I’ve ever known.
There’s nothing about her that says ‘omega’ except for the way my wolf reacts to her.
It’s not even just an attraction. It’s…territorial.
Like if I let her out of my sight, something bad will happen.
I can’t explain it.” I push my hand through my hair, feel the heat in my palm.
“But I don’t think she’s a plant. I think she’s exactly what she says she is, a girl who got unlucky. ”
Willow looks at Rowan, but it’s me she addresses. “Keep her close. I want to run more tests. If she’s from an old line, the odds are she’s got something we haven’t seen before.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Just what I needed. A ticking time bomb and a house full of breakable furniture.” I go to close the laptop, but Rowan’s face lingers a second too long, like he’s waiting for me to say the thing we’re all thinking.
“They traded her fast,” I say quietly. “Too fast. The Order is all about protecting humans, right? That’s their propaganda, anyway. So why serve up a young human girl to a monster? It doesn’t add up.”
Rowan’s voice is faint, as if he’s already half gone. “It’s not about protecting humans. It’s about power. If she’s an unknown, even to herself, she’s a liability. The question really is, did they know what they had? Are you going to tell her?”
The question hits because I hadn’t really considered that aspect yet. “Er, yeah, I guess so. She has a right to know,” I say, realizing that is the truth of it. “Send over the report, and I’ll let her read it for herself.”
Willow nods as they both sign off, and I’m left just staring at the blank screen again, wondering how to tell a human they’re not entirely human.
I decide to hold off on telling her until Willow’s report comes through, because Mara is either the best liar I’ve ever met or she genuinely has no clue what’s inside her.
Either way, she’ll need the proof in black and white if I want her to believe it.
I leave the office, the echo of Rowan’s last words still buzzing in my ears, and head back to the kitchen.
She’s at the island, perched on a barstool with her knees drawn up, shuffling a deck of battered playing cards.
She’s wearing sweatpants and one of my old shirts, and her hair is twisted up in a knot on top of her head, a few strands falling down to frame her face.
She looks impossibly young like this, too small for the stool, her toes barely skimming the polished floor.
She glances up when I walk in, her eyes wary, but the rest of her doesn’t flinch.
I pause in the doorway, watching her for a moment.
She lines up the cards in perfect rows. Solitaire.
The old-fashioned kind, the kind my grandmother used to play on Sunday mornings, except Mara’s version is faster, almost aggressive, as if she’s racing the clock or trying to beat back a tide of nerves.
She doesn’t acknowledge me, but her shoulders hunch a little, like she’s bracing for a fight.
I want to tell her there isn’t one coming, not today at least, but I don’t have a script for this.
I pour myself a mug of coffee and lean against the counter, pretending not to notice the way she’s watching me from the edge of her vision.
I sip the coffee, thinking about how I’m supposed to break the news.
Hey, you’re not just a bartender with a tragic past and a mean right hook; you’re genetically engineered to drive wolves insane.
Congratulations, you’re an omega, whatever that means to a girl who’s never shifted, never even known she could.
The thought is so ridiculous I almost laugh.
She lays down a card, then another, and then sighs and flings the rest of the deck onto the counter. “I’m stuck,” she says, her tone flat but not quite annoyed. “You know how to play this?”
“I do,” I say, and walk over. She pushes the cards toward me, challenging.
I scan the game. She missed a black eight, buried under a queen. “Right here,” I say, freeing up the card and moving it into place. “You’re playing too fast.”
She frowns, clearly offended, but then lines the rest up, and within a minute, she’s won. I expect her to gloat, but instead she just sits there, running her fingertips across the backs of the cards, as if waiting for the right question to ask.
She finally looks up and asks, “Why are you babysitting me all the time? Don’t you have, like…important alpha things to do?”
I set my mug down slowly. “I’m protecting my house,” I say, but it comes out wrong, and she cocks her head, lips curling.
“From me?” she laughs.
“I think you’d do a pretty good job of breaking something as you escape,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee before adding, “which we both know you’ll try to do if I turn my back.”
She doesn’t deny it, simply shuffles the cards and begins a new game, indicating for me to turn the first card. And that’s what we do, standing in the kitchen with her scent wrapped around us and the weight of everything we’re not saying sitting heavily as we see where the cards will take us.