Page 119 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

The scores are in range because I made them that way. There’s no circumstance where I’ll allow them to label me as defective.

The stiff pleather couch creaks as I shift my position. For a therapist’s office, the place is fucking uncomfortable.

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” I say brightly. “I’ve passed all of the med checks.”

The invasive testing they’ve required confirmed what I already knew.

I’m perfectly fine.

I might be a “geriatric” omega—their phrase, not mine—who spent my entire adult life on suppressants, but all my oh-so-valuable omega parts and their auxiliaries work fine.

Honestly, the detox from the suppressants has been low-key the worst of it. My thoughts still occasionally slide into the erratic, and being surrounded by so many bright lights and strong scents frequently overwhelms.

That first night after the game, I woke up screaming several times. Nothing felt safe, and the sheets were so harsh I broke out in hives.

Jolie created a mini-nest for me in their guest room. Every night, I sleep on a twin blow-up mattress in a little pup tent that’s been filled to the literal brim with soft blankets, stuffies, old clothes, and pillows. It’s like sleeping in the middle of a cloud and is the only way I can survive the night.

A big piece of that survival is that I have several of the guys’ shirts tucked in with me. The scents have faded, but they’re still there.

Jolie might’ve retrieved them, but I’m 100% certain she’s talking to my parents because that has Bennett written all over it.

Now, almost three weeks post-outing, I’m finally able to numb myself to the world. Mostly.

“But tell me how you are, Izzy,” the therapist goes on. She leans forward when she says “you” to emphasize she’s empathetic and concerned.

“I’m contending with the changes in my life fine. I wouldn’t choose things to be this way, but I recognize there is no point fighting the Admin.”

Not yet, anyway.

“All I want is to move on with my life,” I continue. “I’ve been wandering for a while and I really need a goal. I can’t think of a better purpose than submitting to my omega instincts.”

Gag.

The therapist—I don’t even remember her name—frowns and scribbles something on her notepad.

“Not right away, of course,” I add quickly. “I only mean that I recognize the futility of running.”

“The futility.”

“Did I say futility? I meant in like a, uh, finality kind of way. Being an omega is part of who I am. I’ll never be happy if I can’t accept that about myself.”

I should stop talking.

“Of course,” the therabitch says. “I understand what you mean. Fulfillment comes from accepting all parts of ourselves and the biological urges that come with them.”

I nod my head very convincingly.

She carries on lecturing me about omega urges and how submission to an alpha will help me find “completeness.”

Throughout the speech, I maintain my innocent agreement face. Proud of me.

“Well, you don’t need me to explain it to you, I suppose,” she finally says.

No, I do not.

I am well aware of what the Admin expects of me.

The therapist leans forward with a conspiratorial air and a sly smile on her face.

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