here and back again

“No, I’m fine here.”

“It might be more comfortable if you just—”

“I’m comfortable here,” he maintained. “The truth is, I’ve been stuck between the same four walls for two days, so this change of scenery does me a world of good.” He paused, his lips shifting into a slow, knowing smile. “Besides, I like the view I have here now.”

As the compliment landed, a wave of warmth bloomed beneath your skin, catching you by surprise.

You were still acclimating to your newfound closeness to Nanami, still getting used to having inhibitions organically fade between you, particularly during private moments like this.

“Okay, if you say so,” you said, averting your gaze to his empty cup of tea on the coffee table, but not before catching his sly smile.

At least he seemed to be in slightly better shape than an hour ago.

Nanami had tried, fruitlessly so, to convince you not to intervene and risk catching his cold while he was still recovering. But a deep-seated certainty, as strong as the unwavering resolve in your voice, assured him that once you sensed the congestion he’d failed to hide on the phone, he’d be unable to convince you otherwise.

Sure enough, less than an hour later, you turned up at his door, equipped with a few ingredients and a care package you threw together to help him get through the worst of it.

Now here you were, taking notice of the teapot that sat on the coffee table, its lid discarded next to the book from which Nanami had yet to read, and its contents long gone. You crouched down to gather it along with his cup to prepare another tea.

“I’ll refill this for you. When did you last take the cold tablets?”

“The yellow pills, daytime.”

You paused to register and decode Nanami’s reply.

“Yes, the daytime pills, but when did you take them?”

Kento slowly blinked back at you, as if deciphering your question.

“Ah, around ten thirty, just before you got here,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “Sorry, I’m a little out of it,” he added with a nervous laugh, which you couldn’t help but mirror.

“No worries,” you said with a quick glance at your watch, “Alright, so just under an hour… How was your fever this morning? Did you take your temperature?”

“It was not bad.”

“‘Not bad’ isn’t a temperature, Kento.”

“I know it isn’t…” he trailed off with another nervous laugh.

“What are your worst symptoms now? Help me out here, how are you actually feeling? ”

Nanami suppressed a cough as if on cue, wincing before he offered a sheepish smile. “Better, now that you’re here. Though I do feel a bit guilty about that.”

His flushed face gained an even deeper allure, with a rosy tint spreading across his cheeks as he rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

“I won’t have it, Kento. That’s what I’m here for. And I want to be here.”

As your eyes met again, a subtle spark of amusement danced in his eyes, betraying nothing of his thoughts.

“Wait…What is it?” you cautiously asked.

“So you don’t think any less of me now that you’ve seen all this?” he asked as he extricated his arm with a rustle of the blanket and gestured vaguely towards himself and the space he’d claimed.

“You’re human, Nanami Kento. You know that, right? That it’s normal for humans to get sick sometimes? Even when they’re badass Grade 1 sorcerers?”

“Oh, good, she still thinks I’m badass,” Nanami said as he closed his eyes, a relaxed and liberated mirth escaping his lips.

Yet another unguarded moment that tickled you.

“Wow, I didn’t think you had such a vain side to you,” you stated with an air of feigned astonishment.

As you pushed yourself back onto your feet, you watched as Nanami brought a hand up to his hair, disheveling it further than it already was.

“I do have a vain side. It’s why I took that hair serum of yours with me the other day,” he said, his laugh only continuing.

Nanami’s words caused you to halt mid-motion, and were it not for the mischievously expectant gleam in his eyes as they met yours, you would have convinced yourself that you’d misheard him. He spoke again before you could react.

“I intended to return it before the week was out, but my immune system clearly had other plans,” he casually added.

“Kento… You stole my serum? The castor oil one?”

“I borrowed a flask. You did say you just stocked up. Your first mistake was putting that luxurious thing in my hair. I’ve never had such soft hair in my life. Smelling like, what was it you said, baobab?”

You let out a scoffing laugh as you processed what you were hearing.

“You know, this practically sounds like you stole my serum and are somehow blaming me for it…” you remarked as you finally rose the rest of the distance back to your feet, now towering over him.

At your newly assumed position, Nanami stopped running his hand through his hair and peered up at you.

He gave you a deliberate, lingering look, scrutinizing you as if he’d never seen you before. His eyes slowly traveled upwards, beginning at the cinched belt of your dress, tracing the line of detailed buttons all the way to your neck, and then finally settling on your face.

“This dress really suits you,” he murmured.

“I—thank you…”

“Is it new?”

“It’s new-ish… I bought it some time ago but never got the chance to wear it,” you cut off as you crossed your arms. “Hey. Don’t think you’ll be dodging this thievery business with flattery, sir.”

“You wore a new outfit to come see me, and I’m sitting here looking like this…”

As you observed Nanami’s lips twist into something approaching a proper pout, you wondered whether it was his fever haze, the loopy side effects of his medicine, or some diabolical third other thing that had rendered him in such rare form.

You laughed at his reaction, because whatever it was, you certainly didn’t hate it.

“I’d sooner judge that non-breakfast you told me you had. With your crackers and canned what was it?”

“Coughing and muscle aches.”

“Excuse me?”

“Those are the symptoms you asked about.”

It took you a moment to realize that he was answering your question from earlier in the exchange, to register how chaotically comedic this conversation was going.

You gave an amused scoff as you watched him avert your gaze and pretend to be engrossed in the book he had yet to open since you walked in.

He was messing with you. He had to be. You saw what this was now.

“Alright, since you have enough energy to be in such rare form, Nanami-san,” you said as you turned your back and crossed the distance to the counter towards one of the bags you brought along with you, before fishing a small container you were now happy to have acquired on the quick pharmacy run you made before coming here.

You found Nanami carefully watching you as you approached him once more, hazel lucidity pooling like honey in his irises as you casually settled astride his lap, bracing your knees on either side of him, causing this new-ish dress of yours to ride up, just enough to capture his attention and have him linger there for a short but no less noticed moment.

You smiled at this, keeping one hand tucked behind your back, fingers curled around the instrument of your small scheme. Only once he finally met your gaze did you speak again.

“Take your shirt off.”

“Pardon me?” It was his turn to let out a baffling laugh.

“You heard me,” you said, tone and expression all mischief as you leaned in by fractions. You gently pulled his readers off his face, placing them on the sofa’s arm before planting your hand by his face to brace yourself, all without averting your gaze.

“I’m more than likely contagious, love. This isn’t wise…” he murmured, his voice lacking conviction as his hands, warm and familiar, settled on your hips.

You let a lingering moment pass before you extended your hidden hand, maneuvering it into the narrow gap between you to reveal a tiny jar of VapoRub.

“Relieves coughing and muscle aches, just as you need. I’ll apply it for you, but you’ll have to take your shirt off first.”

With a chuckle and a shake of his head, his demeanor seemed to ease.

You shifted your weight backward to allow him the room to do as instructed. Kento worked to remove his shirt and undershirt while you opened the small tub, and the unexpectedly loud pop of its lid emphasized the peaceful quiet between you, punctuated by the soft simmering sound of your soup in the background.

With your fingers, you carefully gathered a small amount of the mentholated balm, feeling it warm against your fingertips as you lifted your gaze to find his. You were so close now, close enough to take in the light layer of overnight stubble that had emerged along his jawline, granting him a rugged edge that softened his sharp lines.

There was no confusion, no drug-induced haze in his eyes anymore. As you fixed him, taking in this rare display of earnest vulnerability, your own words echoed in your mind.

You know you’re human, right, Nanami?

When you'd asked that question, it was both rhetorical and tongue-in-cheek, but as you watched Nanami Kento now, as he slowly lowered a certain wall you hadn’t realized him to hold until this very moment, all you wanted was to drill the statement into his mind until he truly accepted it.

Your lips must have inadvertently tugged into a smile because you found Nanami cautiously mirroring it before he spoke, his voice low.

“What are you scheming now?”

“No scheming. Not at the moment, at least,” you replied as you slowly reached for him, bringing your finger to the center of his chest, feeling it yield to the warmth of his skin, cooling as it slowly absorbed. With your palm flattened against him, you traced a path from his sternum outwards, continuously gauging his expression for any discomfort.

The contrast of your cool touch over his untouched surfaces made Nanami twitch ever so slightly on contact, so you went light and careful, taking in the shape of him as you applied the ointment in measured strokes, slow enough to be gentle, firm enough to create the friction needed to maximize the treatment’s effect.

By now, the scent of menthol had dominantly taken over, tickling slightly at your eyes, but still you remained focused and unhurried, reapplying enough product to allow for a thick layer to form on Nanami’s chest, as he sat back, gradually relaxing under your touch as he quietly watched you.

You worked your way up to the base of his throat, where your touch lightened further, and you slowed the further up you moved. Nanami tilted his head just far enough to grant you better access, but not so far that he couldn’t keep his gaze on you.

“I like this…” he breathed out, his umpteenth confession of the morning, perhaps his most sincere.

“You like being sick?” you teased, playfully peering at him to gauge his reaction.

To this, Nanami chuckled and momentarily closed his eyes, as if to contemplate his response.

“If that’s what it takes…” he trailed off.

“You know it’s not.”

“I know, I know…”

An easy silence found you once more, and you continued like this for a while, watching him more than your own movements, adjusting instinctively to every small twitch, to every shifting breath of his.

“I like this too,” you heard yourself say, the words slipping out after a moment. “I know you’re trying to make light of all this, and that you don’t want me to worry. But let me worry sometimes.”

Let me take care of you sometimes.

The last portion of your reflection would remain unspoken. But as your hand lingered with each pass, as you sought to support the man who was always grounding others, ground himself, to wordlessly but no less sincerely convey through your acts that he wasn’t alone in carrying any of his burdens, big or small.

Once you were done, you didn’t pull away immediately, resting your palm back on his chest again, just over where his pulse felt the strongest, your certain gaze searching his as you allowed for the moment to sink in before finally withdrawing and grabbing a tissue to wipe any excess ointment from your hands.

When you reached for his shirt, Kento moved to lift his arms unprompted, allowing you to slip his shirt back on, carefully easing it over his body so as not to smear the product out of place.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his hands moving to your hips once more as you readjusted to lean towards him and gently pressed your lips to his forehead, finally pulling back with a smile.

“I’m here, so rest up, big guy. The soup will be done in a bit. I’ll bring some more tea.”

“Can I ask you something?” His eyebrows drew together in a furrow of uncertainty.

“Anything.”

“Can you bring that serum over from the bathroom? Now that the cat’s out of the bag, I think I could use some just about now…”

You wanted to get up to finally rinse.

To feel like a person again.

But his calloused hand came down flat on your hip the moment you moved, before your knee had even cleared his leg.

"Where?" is all he managed, voice wrecked and low and gravelly with sleep, the word barely fully formed on his tongue.

"I'm disgusting," you complained, a whisper.

"Mm." His thumb moved across the jut of your hipbone, finding crust of himself there. His eyes hadn't opened yet. The corner of his mouth had, though, dragging up at one side. "Yeah… y'are."

"I'm glad you're happy with yourself," you huffed sleepily.

His hand kept going, palm dragging down over your hip and around the back of your bent thigh, and then up again into the real mess of you, fingers finding where you were still half-open and swollen from last night, slipping through the sticky wet, the pad of his middle finger circling your sensitive entrance. It was too much and not enough at once — the drag of him over flesh that hadn't settled, a wince folding straight into something hotter, your hips pushing into his hand.

He made a sound; pleased, throaty, his brows pulling in for a second.

"Look at that," he murmured against your temple. "Bet you don' even wan' it cleaned up, do you?"

"Shut up," you half-heartedly murmured.

"Mm-mm," he protested.

Then he rolled, the whole heavy heat of him coming over you in one move, knee shoving your thighs apart before you'd even agreed to anything, and the air between your bodies went humid and ripe, his chest sticking to yours, the dense hair on it dragging over your tender nipples. And your body answered him — thighs falling open the rest of the way, some primal part of you glad of his weight, glad to be pinned under it, glad he was solid and here and breathing on you. He braced up on a forearm and looked down at you, cyan eyes cracked open and bloodshot, lashes still gummed together. He looked like hell. But so did you, you were sure, and he was staring down like you were the best thing he'd ever seen.

He spat into his own hand without breaking from your eyes, crude, and reached down between you to slick his cock with it. You spread more open for him, your hands coming up to his back where sweat was gathered at the base of his spine.

He sank all the way in on the first stroke, stretching your sore walls, an obscene wet crackle of air pushing out to make room for him, Your whole body remembered him in one shoved open rush. He dropped his forehead to the side of your neck and let out a long breath through his nose.

"Four months," he rasped, almost to himself, the syllables coming apart as they fell. "Four months this was the only thing in my fuckin' head." Then, against your mouth, the gravel coming back into it, his throbbing cock bumping your cervix, your nails scrabbling over his sweaty skin for purchase: "That's it, dove. You can take it. You can take it, look at you, you've had worse than this off me."

You could hear his grin.

"Since last night?" you managed to get out. "Or— generally?"

A huff against your lips, almost a laugh, his hips not stopping. "Both."

He fucked you like he hadn't slept it off at all, like four months of going without you had only stored it up, his cock dragging thick and deep through the wreckage he'd already made of you. Every push of it pressed the sweat-slick of his furry belly against your clit so you got it both ways at once, inside and out, until your spine wanted to leave your body.

He talked the whole time — clipped, half-swallowed, filth pouring out of him like silver.

"Feel that," he asked. "That's last night still in you, that is. Didn't go anywhere." His teeth caught your jaw, dragged, overgrown beard scratching at your skin. "Gonna add some more to it." A deep grind of his hips that pushed the breath out of you. "Was lying there, every night, in the dark thinking about this. You under me, made a mess of, soaked through and still begging for more. Had to think about something else quick or I'd've embarrassed myself." His mouth is in your ear, hot and foul. "Four months of that. And now here you are. Wetter than the inside of my own head."

"John— you're so—," you couldn't get anything else out before he'd angled up and a moan tore out of you instead.

"Gross? Annoying?" he offered, hips snapping now, the bed knocking the wall, his hand slipping between you and the mattress to cant your cunt to his liking. "Yeah. And yet you're clenched down on me like you've never been happier. Funny, that."

It built faster than it had any right to. You'd stopped being able to do anything but hold on — one hand fisted in the wet sheet, the other clamped to the flexing muscle of his ass, your heels skidding down his back for purchase that wasn't there, every thrust knocking another broken little sound loose from a throat you no longer had any say over. And when you came you spasmed around him with your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders and your mouth open on a noise you'd have been embarrassed by if your brain hadn't been simmered down and reduced to nothing. He cursed and pushed his face into your throat and licked the salt off it, tongue flat against the tendon, groaning into your flesh as you fluttered and squeezed and dragged him over the edge with you.

He spilled deep with a groan you're not sure you've ever heard from him before, and then stayed there. Heavy. Crushing. His heart going hard against your chest, his breath sawing at your collarbone. Neither of you moved — both of you a single disgusting glued-together animal. Roadkill, maybe.

Underneath the slowing wreck of your own pulse, the feeling you'd been fending off since he walked through the front door finally claimed you — he was home. Your throat went tight, and you turned your face into his damp hair so he wouldn't catch the sound that squeezed out of it.

He exhaled a warm gust against your throat, then he dragged his lips to the corner of yours and kissed you — sloppy, tasting of sleep and salt and the both of you mixed past telling each other apart.

Making sure you were in his line of sight, you call out to him.

“Hey, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to move along. I live here. There’s a shelter that might take you in, two blocks down, one street over on Broadway. Night’s still early…you should get a bed for the night if you head there now.”

The man stirs, groaning a little in discomfort. He opens his pain-glazed eyes to gaze up at you.

For a few long moments, the both of you attempt to take the measure of the other. Unable to stand the burgeoning silence any longer, you take a step closer, realizing he had a hand pressed to his side, poorly concealing something dark trickling out between his fingers.

Juggling your umbrella, takeout bags and your purse, you free up one hand to get at your phone in your coat pocket.

“Hey mister. You look like you’re in bad shape. I’m going to call an ambulance for you, all right?”

The man’s gaze, now focused and alert, flicks up to you.

“No ambulance, no hospital,” he rasps out, voice rough and gravelly from disuse.

“Well, I live here,” you gesture to your apartment doorway, “and you need medical help.”

“I guess we’re at a stalemate, then.”

You instantly peg his accent as British. This man was far from home, and the list of questions you were compiling to ask him was getting longer by the second.

You sigh, trying to appeal to him with the obvious while keeping your rising temper in check.

“Listen. It looks like you’re bleeding out. You might not be long for this world if you stay this way.”

He lets out a tired grunt of resignation as he glanced down at his injury, then at his feet.

“Maybe it is my time to go...” he muses absently to himself.

Anger, bright and explosive, bursts through you at his words.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you half-roar at him. “I just finished a very trying day shift in the ER dealing with entitled, narcissistic whiny man-babies like you. And it wasn’t only with the patients. You’re not going to fucking die on my doorstep because you caught a case of the sads. Pull yourself together and Get. The. Fuck. Up.”

His shoulders shake slightly, as if he found something terribly amusing in the way you gave him the business.

“You know, you remind me of someone I used to work with. She would’ve read me the riot act like you did.”

“Well, if she’s the one who stabbed you, then good for her,” you jeer back.

This time he lets out a full-bodied laugh, but the sudden movement causes him to wince. He clutches his side, still making no attempt to move, let alone stand up. He closes his eyes briefly, lost in thought before he puts two and two together.

“You said you worked at the ER? You a doctor?”

He nods in confirmation when you take too long to respond.

“Yeahhh...you’re definitely an ER doctor. Can tell by your bedside demeanor,” he continues derisively. “How about this...maybe you could patch me up, and then I’ll be on my way?”

Opening his eyes, he peruses your Chinese takeout bags. The barest hint of a smile etches the corner of his mouth before he decides to push your buttons again.

“That smells awfully good, and I’m suddenly famished. Got any egg rolls in that order of yours? They’re my favorite, especially with those little plum sauce packets. Happy to split the bill with you. And then I’ll be out of your hair. After you patch me up, of course. I promise.”

“The audacity. The fucking audacity and assumed privilege on you,” you breathe, outrage spiking at his high-handedness.

He grins, teeth flashing bright in the dim darkness.

Eased down onto the dining room table, John cranes his neck to watch you draw the front window curtains shut, then disappear out of sight down a side hallway. Listening to the sounds of drawers and closet doors opening and closing, he sighs.

Finally, a few moments of respite.

Running a finger along the edge of your phone, he turns it off and tucks it into his inner jacket pocket. He’d lifted it off you when you helped him inside...it was the only way he could be sure that you wouldn’t...couldn’t call the authorities. But not before scanning your recent texts and work emails popping up on your lock screen.

And now he had an idea why you’d had a terrible, no good day today.

He scans the layout of your apartment. Delineating the kitchen from the dining/living room was a breakfast counter bar. Off to the side of the living/dining area was the hallway where you’d disappeared to, likely where the bathroom and bedroom were situated. Overall, your place was functional. Minimal. Transient. The type of place that offered little more than shelter and a space to store your meager belongings. A place in a big city where people could truthfully claim: “Yeah, I lived here for a few years. For school, then for work. But then I had to move away because who can actually afford to live somewhere nice here?”

At your incoming footfalls, he turns his head to see you appear in the hallway entryway, holding several bags of medical supplies and a flashlight.

Wordlessly, you pull a chair from the table, organizing the items on the seat. He tracks your movements to the kitchen, turning on the faucet to wash and scrub your hands. You moved with intention and precision, clearly ingrained from your years on the job. You exuded competence, maturity, and you suffered no fools with the way you spoke to him.

But around those sharp, defiant edges, he saw flashes of exhaustion and weariness. The world wasn’t a kind place, of that he’d seen firsthand, but he had to admire how you carried yourself despite it all.

Pulling another chair from the table, you sit down. You snap on a pair of nitrile gloves to begin your examination.

“Okay. Let’s get your jacket and sweater off and get a better look at you.”

Carefully rolling him sideways towards you and then the other way, you eased the garments off him. You suck in a breath, senses ramping up on high alert.

Healed scars, old and recent, littered his hairy, muscled torso, with a variety of small tattoos of dates, names, and cryptic symbols trailing up his sides. Mottled bruises dotted across his thick forearms, ending with fresh scrapes on his knuckles and fingers. And on his right side were the two stab wounds that had him ending up slumped against your doorstep.

This man was accustomed to violence. Both in the giving and receiving of it.

Unease and anxiety churns in your gut. Taking a few deliberate breaths, you focus on calming yourself, tamping your emotions down.

He’s not in a position to hurt you. He’ll only make his injuries worse if he does, and he knows it.

Momentarily troubled by the direction of your thoughts, your gaze darts upwards to his face.

He had dark brown, almost black hair, cropped short at the top and sides, with chunks of gray and white streaking his temples and thick beard. He wasn’t a young man — his forehead was lined with wrinkles and crows feet etched around his piercing cerulean eyes. Likely in his early to mid-forties, only a handful of years older than you. He was...handsome, in a rough-hewn sort of way.

“Like what you see?” he murmurs with smug condescension.

“Fuck off,” you mutter almost reflexively.

Snapping back into examination mode, you grab the flashlight and flick it on. You slap it into his left hand, yanking his forearm up and over like an adjustable stand to get a good view of his right side. You derive a small, sadistic thrill as he grunts, not expecting you to handle him like that.

“Hold this up for me so I can work hands-free. Yes. Okay, perfect. Right there. Now don’t move.”

He hisses, his grip on the flashlight wobbling for a moment while you palpate around his wounds.

“Maybe I should’ve offered to pay for all of your takeout if it meant you’d go easier on me.”

Despite yourself, you bark out a laugh.

You asked him questions about his medical history, which he appeared to answer truthfully, but as you probed him about how he got into his current state, he kept shaking his head, refusing to elaborate.

Wrapping up your examination, you take the flashlight from him, shining one last close-up inspection at his wounds before flicking the light off.

“So what’s the prognosis, doctor?”

You push your chair back, looking him square in the eye.

“It’s a miracle that whatever stabbed you didn’t go too deep and that it didn’t nick any organs or arteries. Fortunately, your jacket and sweater took the brunt of the damage. I can get these wounds cleaned up and stitched closed. I’ll give you some over-the-counter pain medications and some bandages and dressings for when you need to change them, but I strongly recommend you go to a hospital for a follow-up, just to be safe. Infection risks with wounds like these can—“

“I told you already. No. Hospitals,” he grits out.

You roll your eyes. “All right, Jason Bourne. Simmer down.”

“‘M not a spy,” he rasps, sounding irrationally annoyed that you’d pegged him as that, of all things.

You shrug, unbothered.

“Well, unless you want to give me your real name, I get to call you whatever I please. Now, let’s get you cleaned and stitched up. And then you can have some egg rolls.”

He ate more than just the egg rolls. He ate over half of the house special fried rice, sweet and sour pork, spicy wontons, and chicken chop suey. Despite your protests, he insisted on eating while sitting up on the couch, promising not to aggravate or undo your handiwork.

He leans gingerly against the couch’s padded back, patting his stomach, satiated at last. While his jacket and sweater were in the washer, the oversized sleep shirt you lent him kept him decent and covered. But just barely.

“I was hungrier than I thought. But I’m not complaining. Best meal I’ve had in a long while, I’ll have to admit.”

You squint at him, confused.

“You’re welcome, I guess? For helping yourself to my food?”

“Well, you ordered a lot. For just one person.”

“I was planning to eat it over the next few days, so I wouldn’t need to cook, but I didn’t plan on having unexpected company over,” you gesture at him.

You take a swig of your Coke. Exhaustion was creeping up on you, but you needed the added caffeine to keep you awake and your wits about you for a little while longer.

“How long has it been since you last had a proper meal?” you ask him gently.

He shoots you a brief side glance, deliberating before he answers.

“Couple days. My current line of work has me working unpredictable hours. But I suppose I’ll need to take some time off to heal up, get my strength up again,” he sighs. He huffs out a self-conscious laugh. “No wonder I felt like I had to sit down and rest. Wasn’t from my injuries. Been running on fumes all this time. Well, that’s fuckin’ embarrassing.”

“Hey, it happens. But is there someone who can come pick you—“

He shakes his head vehemently. “No. No more questions,” he answers tersely.

“Like why there’s way more blood on your clothes than what seems normal for just stab wounds?”

He grunts, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah. Questions exactly like that.” But then he sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I know you are just doing your job, and my social skills have been rusty of late.”

“Okay. I won’t ask again.”

“Like I’d believe that,” he mutters under his breath. He opens his eyes, his gaze softer, more conciliatory now. “But, before I forget what’s remaining of my manners, thank you.”

You slow blink. Feigning deafness, you cup your hand to your ear.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear that. Might’ve been a figment of my imagination. Could you repeat that once more for me?”

“I said, Thank. You. For all that you’ve done for me,” he enunciates slowly and evenly, amused.

“I’m just doing my job,” you reply sardonically, throwing his words back at him. “It’s what I do. That’s all.”

Carefully leaning forward to the TV tray you’d set up for him, he takes a few moments to tuck the cutlery and napkins onto the plate. Figuratively and literally tidying things up before he spoke again.

“So it sounds like you had a hell of a day today, capped off with finding me bleeding on your doorstep. Dealing with what was it—entitled, narcissistic whiny man-babies like me. And it wasn’t just with the patients?”

“Oh. So you’re working on your social skills now?” you drawl.

“Yeah. You could say that. Humor me.”

You let out a small harrumph.

“What’s there to talk about? It’s a tale as old as time. My job has me overworked and underpaid. Dealing with a nonstop stream of patients, most of them who should’ve gotten preventative care well before they showed up at the ER but didn’t because they couldn’t afford to. The bureaucracy and red tape and administrators who are all about their KPIs and metrics that benefit them and not so much about patient outcomes. Dude bro colleagues who decide to make my life difficult because I’m better at what I do than they are. I can deal with one or some of those things at a time, but all of those things in one day? Ughhh...”

“Oh? Colleagues making your life difficult? How?” he asks, tone oddly curious.

“Look at you go on with your questions,” you jibe back. “Put yourself in my shoes. I’m in a still largely male-dominated field. You fill in the blanks with what someone like myself would run across every day, even in this day and age.”

“Surely you can file a complaint or a report to their supervisor?”

You laugh, both at his apparent naivety and the simple absurdity of his suggestion. “Oh, trust me, I’ve dutifully followed all the proper steps. I’ve been by the book. I’ve documented everything. It’s all on the hospital and what they choose to do at this point. Which has been nothing.“

“Sounds like they’re more concerned about siding with whoever will cost them less legal exposure and reputational damage,” he replies sarcastically. At least your explanation corroborated the texts and emails he saw on your phone.

He grunts, thinking about it some more.

“If you ask me, it sounds like the system’s broken. It failed you. Not the other way around. I saw that a lot in my former line of work. A lot of good people I knew...” he says, trailing off before stopping himself, unwilling to divulge more personal details. “But…sometimes you’ve got to shake up the system.”

You shrug.

“It’s always easier said than done. I’ve done all I can. But I’m going to keep showing up. Every day to help others. It’s the only thing I know how to do and nobody gets to decide how I’m going to feel about it except me. It will pass. It always does. But I’ll still be here.”

He stares at you for a few seconds, appearing to come to some kind of internal decision in his mind before finally nodding at you with approval.

“Good. Don’t let those fuckers win.”

“Thank you for everything. And things will get better, you’ll see soon enough.”

Those were the last words he spoke to you before he left.

True to his word, he left you cash, generously covering your entire takeout order plus the cost of the medical supplies and medication you gave him several times over, despite your protests of taking any money from him.

Checking the dining room table area one last time to make sure you’d cleaned up everything from when you treated him, you crouch down to pick up your phone lying underneath a chair.

“Huh. Could’ve sworn it was in my coat pocket this whole time.”

5 days later

So much for sleeping in on your day off.

Sighing, you roll over, grabbing your phone off the bedside table, wondering what was going on as your phone started to blow up with non stop dinging sounds.

You scan the message previews:

Paul >> Wake up! Hot tea incoming! Jen >> Did you see the hospital wide email just now? May >> Holy fuuuuck. Harris and Tomaso? Robin >> Fired. Fucking finally!

The two doctors who'd been making your life difficult were...gone? Just like that? You continue reading the rest of the messages.

Steve >> Now others are stepping forward about them Rob >> Heard heads are rolling in hr and admin rn Unknown number >> Sometimes you have to shake up the system, you know?

You pause at the last text. Sent less than an hour ago.

Despite what your gut was telling you, you click on the unknown number entry to read the rest of the messages.

>> Thank you for your help >> Grateful for what you did >> But really, you’re too trusting >> You should be more careful about who you let into your apartment and your life >> Hope things have gotten better at the hospital now >> Sometimes you have to shake up the system, you know?

No. Was that from him? He didn’t, did he? Just what did he do?

With unsteady hands, you immediately delete the texts and block the number.

You mute your notifications for the next few hours and toss the phone back onto your bedside table. You pull the covers over your head, hoping the initial, crazy set of conclusions your mind leapt to was just that.

And then... someone started pounding on your front door, followed by the doorbell buzzing. At first, you tried to ignore it, but whoever it was wasn’t giving up anytime soon.

Exasperated, you roll out of bed, unbothered and unconcerned with the state of your hair and sleeping attire. Storming through your apartment, you yank the front window curtains aside, unlocking the screen window and opening it to give your unwanted visitor a piece of your mind.

“Listen, it’s my day off. And the sign on the door clearly says No salespeople or soliciting allowed, so go fu—”

You jump back with a small yelp, heart pounding, as the large man looming in the front doorway turns to face you through the window. The man wore dark, nondescript tactical gear, topped off with a faded skull mask. Was he intimidating? Yes. Scary as fuck? Absolutely.

But you double down, deciding to commit to the bit because you couldn’t help yourself.

“It’s...um...it’s about 3 months too early for Halloween. Come back then,” you bleat out, with a lot less heat and bravado than you intended.

But the man doesn’t go away. Instead, he digs into a side pocket in his pants, producing his phone. He swipes a few times on the screen before he shows you a military ID photo of the dark-haired man you’d treated several nights ago. A younger, cleaner-shaven, mutton-chop bearded version in uniform.

“I’d like to speak with you about him.” He gestures at your front door. “May I come in?”

The skull-masked man introduced himself as Captain Simon Riley, from the SAS. He was also British, but spoke with a thicker, rougher accent.

Sitting across from you on the now sagging living room couch, he fills in the missing blanks about the man you’d treated the other night.

“His name is John Price. Former SAS captain. He’s wanted by international authorities—basically all of ‘em at this point. And I’ve been put in charge of bringin’ him in.”

Your curiosity wins out over your cautiousness.

“What’s he wanted for, exactly?”

Flat brown eyes lock onto yours as he lists the litany of crimes John had committed, beginning with the pre-meditated murder of an American four-star general.

“Let’s just say…life in prison for what he’s done and done since would be a kindness for him at this point.”

You swallow, a mix of fear and dread settling in the pit of your stomach, for once at a complete loss for words. You nervously lick your suddenly dry lips.

“Why—why did he kill that general?”

Simon hesitates before answering. “He thought he was doing the right thing,” he finally replies.

You search his eyes, catching the slight shift in his demeanor and body language.

This feels oddly personal. He must know John.

Simon launches into what brought him to your doorstep. CCTV cameras had tracked John to your neighborhood the night you found him. Then, there was the body of a man found few blocks away, a known contract killer, in possession of a stiletto that you realized was probably what caused John’s injuries. And likely the source of the extra blood on his jacket and sweater.

“We knew Price was somewhere around here, but there was a gap of a few hours where we couldn't confirm exactly where he was. But then, it was what happened after that night that narrowed things down for us.”

He rattles off the timeline of events.

“Two days ago, there were reported incidents at the hospital you work at of some staff members being threatened in the underground parking lot. Then yesterday, two male doctors were physically assaulted in their own homes. All by the same man.”

Your eyes widen with shock and dismay as he played footage from several security videos off his phone, each escalating in intimidation and then to violence.

You knew all the victims.

John didn’t need to lay a hand on the hospital administrator and HR rep you’d been dealing with, but it was clear with his size and presence that whatever he’d said had its effect. Cornered and cowering in fear against their cars, nodding rapidly in acquiescence to whatever he’d said.

Then the brutality and the violence that he inflicted so casually and dispassionately on each of the doctors, leaving them mangled, bleeding messes.

A part of you had revenge fantasies about exacting justice on the people who’d done you wrong, who dismissed and diminished your claims of how you were being treated, but they were just that. Fantasies. But this man actually made it happen, meting out his brand of justice in a universal language that anyone could understand.

“We ran background checks on each victim and found that one thing they had in common was you. And that you lived here, in the same neighborhood that Price had been seen in.”

You gesture listlessly at Simon’s phone. “But why would he...it was only for a few hours that he was here...I barely said anything to him...”

He leans forward, taking advantage of your bewildered state.

“Tell me everythin' he said and did when he was here. Any detail you can remember will be helpful in locating his whereabouts.”

Haltingly, you recount everything you could remember of the few hours John had spent here in the apartment. Including the text messages he’d sent this morning before you blocked his number.

Simon stares at you for an indeterminate time, thinking and mulling over all the information you shared with him. Flicking open a front pocket on his tactical vest, he pulls out a notepad and a pen. Tearing the top page from the notepad, he scribbles something on it before he hands it across to you.

You lean forward in your chair, reflexively taking the scrap of paper from him.

He dips his chin at you. “Call me at that number when he comes 'round or contacts you again, yeah?“

The couch groans, almost in relief as Simon stands, heading straight for the front door.

Snapped out of your daze, you also stand up, scurrying to follow him as he rests his hand on the doorknob.

“What makes you think he will?”

He opens the door and looks back at you, dark eyes glittering.

“You showed him kindness. And he likes to fix things. Broken things. But he fixes them his way. You’ve already seen what he’s done for you. How he’s done it, to those people. You don’t want him back here. You don’t want him takin' an interest in you, the way he is now. Trust me. I speak from firsthand experience.”

He nods at the paper in your hand once more.

“Call me,” he repeats, before closing the front door behind him.

"You've found it, haven't you?" Garrick asks quietly, his grip on your hand gentle as he looks at you, ignoring the paper. He clearly hadn't seen what you had.

"I think so," you barely whisper as you look back at the note again. "I need to," you start, huffing a bit as you try to get out of the chair.

It's too soft for you to get purchase and one of your legs had fallen asleep in the position you were in. Garrick gives you a tug to help you out, and you stand, wobbling for a second as pins and needles shoot up your leg.

"I just need to double check," you mutter, gathering up the duvet to move it out of the way before leafing through the mussed piles of paper on the floor. "The defined terms," you continue as you shove away your notes and discarded post its.

You find what you are looking for and just fall back onto your ass from the crouched position you were in to sit and read. You can feel Garrick still standing there, and you glance up at him after a second. It's clear he has no idea what dots you've connected, and he's curious as hell, but he doesn't want to get in your way.

"Sorry," you say after a second, "I just want to be absolutely sure."

"No need to be sorry," Garrick answers as he kneels down behind you to look over your shoulder at what you're going over. "Care to walk me through it?"

You twist to look at him, he's directly behind you. So close you can feel his body heat and smell the lingering cigarette smoke on his shirt. You swallow, eyes meeting his as he looks at you sideways before his eyes cut to the contract you're holding. It's the first page, the first article. You know he has no idea why you are looking at that. You try not to think about what would happen if you just leaned back against his chest, to feel the stability and grounding presence as you go back to reading. You needed to be right, needed to be sure, before you got distracted.

You flip the page, finger running down to Article three. Then four. It's all there. It all fits.

"He excluded me," you barely whisper, twisting back to the addendum and the little scribble of a note you left yourself. Just a small one you made offhandedly, however many days ago. Nonviable. You remembered writing it, it had been a moment of anger and spite. But this was going to be your out. Their out.

You point at it, before going back to the very beginning and pointing at all the lines it ties to. Or doesn't in this case. You don't want to say anything so as not to taint his thoughts. You want to see if he comes to the same conclusion. Afraid that if you lay out your idea, he'll jump on board with it out of desperation.

Garrick is quiet for a few moments, putting together what you are trying to tell him. You watch him work, watch his eyes glide over the pages, and let him take the contract out of your hand. He still leaves it in your view as he reads over your shoulder, arms around you, as he flips a few pages back and forth. It doesn't take him long. You can see when the puzzle piece clicks into place.

"Oh shit," he says and nearly laughs, from relief or the simplicity of it, you aren't sure.

"You see it, right?" You ask, trying to not sound too excited.

"We need to tell the others," Garrick replies quickly, standing up smoothly and going to his desk to get his phone to send a message.

"What, right now?" You ask as you look over at the clock, three thirty in the morning was an indecent time to wake anyone.

"Riley and MacTavish are up," Garrick says dismissively. How he knows that, you don't know. "Price will be pissed if I don't wake him."

You nod, you know he's right, but it feels suddenly weird to be in Garrick's room like this. It looked like you had moved in, and you know the rest of the pack is going to pick up on it instantly and get the wrong impression. Or was it really the wrong one? You had enjoyed these days with Garrick, genuinely, even if they were frustrating as you tried to find the answers.

That was too much to unpack at the moment.

Garrick's phone buzzes with a response, and you hear him let out a small laugh.

"Price said if I am waking him up this late, someone better be dead. If they aren't, someone is about to be." He flicks his eyes up to you and can see the look of shock.

"He's not nearly that scary," he reasons as you look at him doubtfully, "not once you get to actually know him. He's just a grouchy old man."

"Comforting," you mumble as you stand up yourself before jumping as a loud bang hits the bedroom door.

You instantly move toward Garrick for safety, and he notices it, putting a hand out in a comforting gesture for you to get even closer if you want.

"Open the fucking door, Garrick," comes MacTavish's voice.

Fuck. That makes you even more nervous, and you dare to take a step closer to Garrick now, reaching for his hand. For as intimidating as the rest of the world saw Price, you were much more skittish around MacTavish. Perhaps it was because he was the only one who was outright icing you out, even if you had that small moment together when he was in his wolf form.

"Did you lock the door?" Comes Simon's voice as the handle rattles. "Fuck you doing in there?"

"To keep you nosey pricks out," Garrick calls over his shoulder before turning his attention back to you. "You're safe," he says calmly, taking note of your wide eyes. "The worst they'll do is complain."

"Right, I, yes," you mumble, squeezing Garrick's hand before pulling your fingers away, feeling silly. You know they wouldn't hurt you. It had to be the exhaustion wearing you down.

"You told us to come to you," MacTavish grouses as Garrick looks you over for one more moment to make sure you're okay before going to the door. He flicks the latch and pulls the door open to reveal the two men standing there.

They are so broad that you can only see half of them in the frame. Riley's eyes instantly flick to you, as if he could sense your presence. He glances at Garrick for a moment, as if checking something, before pushing into the room. MacTavish follows a second later, barely looking at you as he takes in the mess of papers everywhere.

"What have you been up to?" MacTavish asks Garrick, turning so his back is to you, consciously or not. He doesn't want to hear from you.

"We've been working on the contract," Garrick answers, and you can see the small frown on his lips as he talks. He's picked up on MacTavish's intentional disregard of you.

"You've been working on it for weeks," Riley says as he pulls out Garrick's desk chair and sits down in it heavily, picking up a random piece of paper to look at it. "What did you need us so early for then?"

"We think we, well she, has found a way out of it," Garrick says with a small smile as he looks at you.

"Think, or know?" Comes Price's voice as he walks into the room.

You have to swallow hard as you look at him to keep yourself in check. He is not his usual put together self, the one everyone in the world sees. Instead, he's still half asleep, eyes still a bit heavy, and his hair is a mussed mess. Luckily for your own sanity, he did sleep in a shirt and shorts, or he had pulled them on, unlike the time you woke Garrick. You aren't sure what you would have done if he had walked in shirtless.

"Know," you finally speak up, hating your voice sounds a bit of a squeak, so you clear your throat. "I know I found it."

At that you can see the smug look on Garrick's face, he's proud of you for what you've been able to figure out that no one else could. You give him a small smile back before looking at the rest of them. Riley has let the paper he was examining flutter to the ground, and even MacTavish has turned around to look at you. Price doesn't hesitate to walk into the room and take a seat on Garrick's bed like he owns the place.

"Alright, little wulf," Price says, gesturing for you to continue, "tell us what you found."

You nod and immediately crouch down to gather up the pages you need, doing your best not to think about the fact that they are all staring at you.

"Okay, so," you start as you flip back to page one and look at it for a moment longer to give you strength before looking back up at them. "The contract only works because everything revolves around definitions and literal translations of words."

"That's every contract," Riley answers. His words aren't harsh, but you narrow your eyes for a second before continuing.

"Right, but my father was obsessive about it," you say as you glance down page one and begin reading off words. "Contracted Omega, heirs, affiliation, succession rights," you scoff, "even what makes a failed mating."

Those last words you see MacTavish shift a bit on his feet and cross his arms over his chest. He hasn't dismissed you like all the other times, but you can tell this is making him uncomfortable.

"And?" MacTavish asks pointedly, and you swear you can hear a growl of warning from Garrick. Everyone's eyes shift to him for a second before going back to you. If you had blinked, you would have missed it.

"And he never defines me as an Omega," you reply, your own note on the page glaring at you.

No one responds, you know you haven't explained it well enough just yet, so you keep going.

"Here. I'm a dependent, nonviable," you forge on, doing your best to just stare at the paper and not the weird power dynamic happening between MacTavish and Garrick. You can feel your confidence wavering beneath the weight of four agitated Alphas staring at you.

"He doesn't just call me nonviable once. He does it repeatedly. Over and over. He specifically excludes me from every Omega classification, in an effort to make it very clear I am useless."

Riley shifts in his chair and reaches out for the contract, and you hand it over.

"He says I'm not a contracted Omega, an affiliated Omega, an heir bearing Omega," you say, bringing back the terms you listed at the beginning of the conversation to make a point.

Riley continues flipping pages, and you can see him working through it, his eyebrows drawn, making the scar that runs through one of them more pronounced. Price shifts, and you can see the expression has changed, not excitement or a eureka moment, he's calculating, putting it together in his mind, trying to stay two steps ahead.

"Meaning what?" MacTavish asks. He's the only one who hasn't shown any other signs of understanding. Not that you think he's unable to grasp it, but because he doesn't want to.

"The contract only forbids additional Omegas," you reply, bending down to grab another piece of paper, a contract that had been scribbled through so many times between you and Garrick it looks like scrap. It's the article about exclusivity. You hold it out for MacTavish to take and read if he wants, but he doesn't budge, he only looks at you.

Garrick instead steps up and takes the paper from you to cover up the sticky moment. "Edith is our contracted Omega," Garrick states as he shoves the paper into MacTavish's chest, forcing him to take it.

Riley suddenly lets out a sharp breath as he lifts his eyes up to look at you. It's the closest thing to surprise you've ever heard from him.

"Oh," is all he says as he flips his packet back to page one and vaguely holds it out for someone else to take.

"You see it then," you say, a bit excited because this was yet another person following your train of thought.

"What am I missing?" Price asks as he snatches the packet from Riley, clearly annoyed with himself for not catching on as quick.

"It's in the wording," Riley answers for you as Price reads. "The contract doesn't forbid another Omega."

Price looks up, mid page turn, clearly ready to argue. The whole contract was about only allowing a singular Omega.

"It forbids another contracted Omega," Garrick clarifies.

The room is quiet for a moment as Price flips pages, and you feel yourself on tenterhooks. MacTavish has read over the page he has, more of a distraction, you think, than actually going through it. It's almost as if he hopes this wouldn't work, like he still has some reservations about the whole thing.

"He excluded you from every one of his Omega definitions," Price finally concludes as he looks at you.

"Because he never thought I'd present," you answer a bit resentfully. "He wanted it to be made well aware that I was just leftovers and a gift they were giving you. I'm a contracted dependent by these writings."

"And when he was trying to erase you," Garrick steps in, catching your tone, "he accidentally removed you from the contract provisions."

The room falls silent as the information fills the space. It was a heavy silence. One that could make or break your victory if someone were to find a way to rip the small loophole apart.

"That can't be enough," MacTavish says finally. "He'll argue that you were a liar. We were liars," he continues, "that they were tricked. We'll lose if your whole solution is just playing with his words."

"It isn't enough. But it's the start of the solution," you answer after a second, feeling the excitement from minutes before drain fully from the room. You wish Garrick had waited until morning to tell everyone to meet. Give you a chance to sleep on your solution and review it again with fresh eyes. You weren't ready for a battle of wits now.

"You found another problem," Riley fills in as he watches you move to sit back on the edge of the papasan chair.

"More like the main problem," you reply weakly.

"Explain then," Price says as he eyes you.

You glance over at Garrick and you know he already knows. His brain works faster than anyone you've ever met, and you wonder if he got there before you and didn't want to tell you, ruining your excitement.

"The loophole only works if I remain outside the contract," you start and no one speaks. "If I'm still considered a dependent, my father...Alaric can argue that I am irrelevant."

"So what changes that? If we tell them you're an Omega, that breaks the contract about you and they can take you back," Price states as if he's working through it as he talks.

"A bond," Garrick fills in, and you're grateful everyone looks away from you to him for a moment so you can breathe.

"It can't be a contract or an arrangement," he pushes as he goes to his desk and nudges Riley a bit as he digs around for a book. "It has to be a bond. Following the old laws, bonds outweigh everything because they are the natural order of things. It still keeps her out of the contract. We are still contracted to Edith, but we would be bonded to an Omega."

"No one follows the old laws anymore," MacTavish argues. "Hell marking with a bite these days is considered old tradition, most people don't bother with it anymore."

"Because bonds haven't been around in generations and were written out of existence because of this very thing," Garrick shoots back. "But a true recognized bond cannot be fought against, there is no way to. Edith remains the contracted Omega, but once a true bond is recognized, the contract becomes impossible to fulfill."

"The contract will fail because we can't produce heirs with Edith," Price fills in. "We wouldn't be obligated to even try and fail. It's an instant end."

"If we bond," Riley tacks on simply, though his tone is more ironic than pleased.

The pronounced silence that follows Garrick's words leaves everyone to ponder the implication. You suddenly wish you could be anywhere else. In your room, in the woods. Hell, the sea. Anywhere but here, where you were all thinking the same thing, no one was sure they were ready for. Or even wanted.

"No," MacTavish says, his voice firm and curt.

You look up at him, uncertain if you want to see his face and the instant rejection. He's watching you, really looking at you, and you feel yourself sink a bit into yourself to avoid his scrutiny. There isn't hatred there, something you were so used to seeing from others, but there is another thing that you can't quite figure out.

"Johnny," Garrick interjects, and you look at him, surprised at the name change. The intimacy of a first name between Alphas was something that was always behind closed doors. Even Alpha fathers didn't address their sons by their first name in public when they came of age.

"No," MacTavish says again, and the anger he had been holding back is visible as he rakes a hand through his hair. "We're not doing that."

"Doing what exactly?" Price asks.

"You know what," MacTavish says, a small, humorless laugh leaving his lips.

"Spell it out," Price challenges. You all know what MacTavish is talking about, but it seems that Price has grown tired of his general avoidance of anything to do with you.

"We are not forcing bond with her because of a fucking deadline," MacTavish answers, looking at you when he says her, but his attention is on Price the rest of the time.

"You think that's what it is?" Garrick asks with an eyebrow raise.

"That's exactly what this is," MacTavish shoots back, pushing up off the wall.

"Then you're an idiot," Garrick answers.

"Watch yourself," MacTavish nearly snarls, and you see Riley sit up straighter, but he doesn't get up to intervene just yet. He is going to let this play out.

"No, you watch yourself," Garrick snaps back as he steps closer to MacTavish, enough that if either of them reached out, they would strike one another.

You hadn't seen Garrick angry, not really. You had seen weeks of frustration, but never actually true anger. MacTavish seemed to always be angry, the emotion just below the surface. But it seems Garrick has finally been riled up enough that he's not going to let MacTavish's words slide off his back again.

"You think I'm talking about forcing anything? That I would do that?" Garrick asks, cocking his head to the side in a sarcastic gesture. "Because Riley of all people would allow that to even be a possibility?"

"I think you're desperate. Desperate to be right, to keep proving yourself," MacTavish shoots back, and it may as well have been a slap. Knowing Garrick's history and where he came from, it was a low blow.

"You're one to talk about desperation. How long has it been? Yet you still cling to hope that just maybe she'll change her mind." Garrick says and laughs derisively, waving a hand in dismissal as he turns away from him.

Even though there was no name, you know the she Garrick referred to isn't you. And something in you tells you that it's not Edith either. The realization that there was someone else catches you off guard. Someone important enough that both men immediately knew who was being discussed without having to say their name. Of course, you knew there were Omegas before you, but this woman was still a sore spot. Someone MacTavish still cared about.

You can feel the wave of fear pulse through you that Garrick has turned his back on an angered Alpha, and you almost launch yourself out of your chair. You know that you'd make no difference if the Alphas got physical, but you couldn't just sit there. But a look and a hand gesture from Price telling you to sit keeps you in your place. He knows them enough, knows there isn't real danger, but if you were to interfere, there might be.

"We're not desperate, but we are up against a wall," Price says, smoothing over the moment.

Garrick heads to the window, pushing through piles of papers and the discarded comforter. His hand gently brushes your shoulder as he slips past, a soft reassurance, but all he's willing to give with everyone there watching.

MacTavish is still glaring daggers at Garrick, and Price follows his eyeline before looking back at him.

"Enough," Price warns. He doesn't raise his voice, but the single word settles the argument. At least for now. "We found a way out, which is more than we had yesterday."

"Yes, just found a few more things to deal with," Riley chimes in as he lounges further back into his chair. The tension in the room didn't even make him flinch, this seemed like a typical night to him.

"We don't need to make a decision tonight," Price says as he looks at you, wringing your hands in your lap.

"But we need to decide eventually," Riley replies, as if it were all that simple.

"Eventually is going to get here faster than we think," Garrick says from the window as he flicks ash out into the rain.

"The twins have been hounding us daily," Riley explains as you look around the room for an explanation. "Sometimes more than once a day. Your family wants some sort of formal announcement to the world by fall."

"Fall?" You ask, feeling your eyes widen. That was only a few weeks away.

"Sooner if they have it their way," Price says.

You had to decide if you wanted to bond this pack in mere weeks to end this whole mess. But could you? They were your fated mates, it was ordained by some sort of celestial bullshit. But was it the best thing for you? Your whole life has been decided for you since you were born. Being an Unable had almost been a blessing in disguise because you would finally be free of all of this. Yet the Gást-Cyning had other plans that flipped your life upside down. Again.

And what if you decided you accepted it, but the rest of them didn't? You are certain Garrick would, but was it for true feelings or because you're his fated mate. And the rest of them? MacTavish looks like he would prefer to just ignore you for the rest of his life. Maybe Price would do it to keep his pack together, but it would be for safety, not for feelings. And Riley? You had no idea. Perhaps he'd do it for the status, power, that came with it. And perhaps all of them would just for the offspring.

But was that all you were? A power source and breeding factory? Was that what you wanted? Did you want to bond for safety and security, forsake any hope of love and go for convivence? You had heard people contracted to one another eventually fell in love, but that was far and between. A huge risk to take for a maybe.

This is too much. The exhaustion you've been trying to fight off all night has finally caught up. Your eyes burn, and a headache has formed in your temples. Each doubt is amplified, and every emotion is turned up too loud.

"I need to sleep," you say quietly, almost to yourself. But they all hear you. You feel all their eyes on you, assessing. They don't argue or try to convince you to stay, as you tumble out of the chair.

You scoop up just your notebook of questions. The rest can stay in Garrick's room until the morning or afternoon. Maybe a few days until you are ready to look at it all again and face it.

Price stands as you straighten. Not to stop you, it was just something he did anytime you entered or left the room, something you picked up on a while ago and just assumed it was some long lost manners drilled into him as a child.

"Get some rest," he says as you walk past him, giving him a halfhearted smile.

MacTavish doesn't move as you get closer and you will yourself to meet his gaze, to show you aren't timid. But you can't. Your eyes make it to his lips before you instantly drop them to stare at the floor as you shuffle past. You don't know if he's watching you out the door, but before you can get to the handle, Price says something.

"Hilde will be by in the morning to give you the medicine the doctor dropped off," Price says, and you turn to stare at him, bewildered. Medicine?

"Medicine for what?" You ask, and you can hear Garrick groan. He had clearly not passed along some sort of message.

"The Chelsea gala," Price says, and when there is no look of recognition on your face, he continues. "We have to keep up appearances with Edith," he starts, and this time it's you who groans. "And we want you there. The medicine is heavy duty suppressants for your scent."

"Why?" You ask, instantly feeling anxious.

"Because where we go, you go," Riley answers as if it were that simple. "Your family may be pushing their agenda, but they will learn they don't get everything their way."

"So I'm a pawn to piss them off," you snap back.

"No," Riley replies, not rising to your anger. "You are part of this pack now. Not theirs. And we are a unit."

"Wonderful," you muttered, not nearly coherent enough to process this.

Before they can add on another disaster to your list, you head out the door and toward your room. You see Callum sitting in a chair across the way from your room, positioned perfectly to see your space but also Garrick's room, where he knew you were. He's reading a book but looks up instantly when he hears your footsteps.

"Are you coming this weekend?" You ask him as he places a bookmark in his book.

"If you want me to," Callum replies, already knowing what you are talking about, as he stands up to get your door for you.

"Please," you mumble, rubbing your temples as you slip inside. "I can't face them all alone."

He smiles and says goodnight as he shuts the door behind you. You don't even bother with changing. You toss your notebook on the desk and collapse face first into the bed, barely shifting up into your nest of pillows before you start drifting. Your room feels oddly stale and empty compared to what it had been in Garrick's room.

As you doze, you contemplate what would have happened if Garrick hadn't woken you. Would you have slept in there all night? Comfortable and safe enough to be that vulnerable with him watching over you? Not worried about the saving grace and the new shackles you had found. Not worried about what was coming next. Just warm and content with your mate.

The final thought makes you wince. You thought of him as your mate. Not Alpha, not Garrick, not even Kyle. Mate. You know you should correct yourself, push the thought away before it takes root, and it becomes something you think every time you look at him. But you let your body relax again, too worn out to argue with yourself tonight. Somewhere deep down, you already know why Garrick's room feels more like home than your own. And for once, you just let the thought exist.

----------------- So we found one solution to only uncover yet another problem. No one knows if they are ready for a bond. They barely know one another but the longer they wait the worse things could get. The 141 would be forced to keep up the charade with Edith even if they don't want too, to keep reader safe...even if they know it will further strain relationship with reader. They also know if they bond they'll be powerful and near untouchable, but they also aren't going to force it on reader or themselves.

What a mess.

And now we have to see Edith face to face. I may or may not have already started writing the next chapter and forced myself to stop to do edits on this so I could post 😅 Teaser...we get angry protective Price.

----------------- Old English Words: Gást-Cyning - spirit king, God

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