Page 42 of One Last Chance

Tightening my jaw and balling my fist, I glance toward the staircase before going the opposite direction, further down the hall to where the kids’ rooms are.

Mina, while trying to be and feeling like the most unique individual on planet earth like any teenager does, is fitting right into most of the basic stereotypes. Her door, painted dark purple, has a yellow ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign over it, and loud pop music almost constantly vibrates from the inside of her room.

Trying to fight an amused smirk, I knock. There’s no response for a while. I knock again and hear moving fabric. Then the music stops. “Leave me alone,” she shouts.

“I’m coming in,” I announce, and open the door before she can react. When I do, a potent scent of expensive candles that smelllike lab-made candy hits my nose. There are clothes all over the floor like she was going through them and gave up halfway through, and a few more new posters on her walls than the last time I got a brief look into her little cave.

Mina sits on her bed, phone in hand, and gives me the meanest scowl she can muster.

“What?” she snaps. She could do—and had done before—much better when it comes to the intensity of her unpleasantness, which leads me to believe that me being in her space makes her a little less confident than usual. Good. I can definitely use the advantage.

I could use any advantage, really. Lord help me.

I make only one step in before leaning against the wall with my shoulder. Maybe a chat from someone who isn’t her dad is exactly what this girl needs. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I say slowly, thoughtfully. Even if she’s intrigued, she keeps that frown on her face and lips narrow into a straight line. She doesn’t respond, so I continue, “Must be tiring always acting like this, no?”

Her frown deepens. In a weird way, she resembles Rowland more when her eyes darken and her cheeks puff out ever so slightly.

“I can guarantee you it isn’t worth it.”

“What doyouknow?” she says, words loaded with an irrational amount of irritation. “You’re just a stupid omega,” she adds, muttering so quietly I think she doesn’t really want me to hear her.

A corner of my mouth rises. “Am I? Well, so are you,” I say, and watch the color completely drain out of her face. She parts her lips, staring at me without blinking for a few good seconds.

“Wh…what?” she almost whispers.

It’s been eating at me for the past two, three weeks. At first, I talked myself out of it, of course. It was ridiculous. I was seeingthings. But then the more and more little things I’ve noticed, the more sure of my insane conspiracy theory I became. And her reaction right now is the last confirmation I needed.

“Notthatstupid, hm?” Not the most mature thing to do, but I can’t help a little smugness. “I do wonder how you made your test results show as beta, though. Well, even in my day, there were talks going around about ways to muddle the test so that it comes back inconclusive or even give false positive readings…and I guess these days there is a lot more information out there, so you probably found a way. But the fact itself that you would think about doing it preemptively, like youknew, is the fascinating thing.” I use a low, neutral voice because I can imagine how hard this is for her to hear.

I feel a lot of sympathy, too. Even without understanding the anti-venus garbage her mom must be feeding Mina, I could empathize with the feelings of coming to terms with your second gender. Some people claim they didn’t realize, but looking back, I also always knew, somewhere deep down, what I was. Even long before I got my tests or presented in any way. Just like I always deep down knew I liked men.

“H-How would you…?” She can’t even finish the sentence before her voice quivers. Mina bites down on her bottom lip, darting her eyes across the floor in panic. “You’re wrong. No! You’re wrong, an-and…it’s not true,” she mumbles, shaking her head.

I narrow my brows, sighing deeply.

How deep in self denial and self hatred is this poor girl?

“You’re too young and you haven’t had your heat yet. So you don’t have a scent, but you’re starting to recognize pheromones of people around you. Like mine, for example. A pretty unusual smell. Most people are definitely not fans of it, believe me,” I say with a little self-deprecating chuckle. If it weren’t for Rowland, I would still be self-conscious about it. “Neither are you, as I’venoticed. It’s kind of hard to hide a split-second, subconscious reaction to something like that.”

She can’t deny it. I’ve seen her try to hide her disgust and discomfort the time I spent here when it was my heat and I was hormonal; my pheromones out of control with lust. She sensed it then. Just as she smelled my pheromones as they rolled out of the bedroom this morning after Rowland wound me up in bed.

It’s normal to be adjusted, and sometimes even ‘blind’ to pheromones of one’s family, which made my scent stand out even more.

“You’re lying!” she blurts out suddenly and stands up from her bed. If she was shocked before, now her gear has switched into full on counter strike.

No fawn or flight here.

“Your dad should know, Mina. How long do you think you can hide this—to run from this—and what benefit do you think it will have?” I genuinely try to get to her. Unfortunately, that seems to fire her up even more.

Mina makes a couple of heavy steps toward me, trembling hands balled into fists, and gives me a sharp, almost feverish glare that is unyielding. She almost looks like some rabid animal that’s been run into a corner. Just waiting for the hand to come a little closer to strike.

“Youwon’ttell him. You can’t,” she muffles the threat through her clenched teeth, knowing we’re standing by the open door and Rowland could hear if she’s too loud.

“It’s not my place to, no,” I admit, and that seems to make her tense shoulders ease a little. Running to Rowland to tell him would have been a sure way to lose any kind of relationship with Mina forever. And consequently, maybe even with him. “But you should. You have to. Your dad is doing everything in his power to get to you, and of course he can’t when you’re not even honestabout something so innate to you. With him, with yourself, in therapy…”

Her expression grows more hostile again. There is something dangerous flickering behind her eyes, like a can of gasoline waiting to explode. I can almost see her thought process, how she’s evaluating how much of a danger I am now to her secret and to that little bubble of lies that’s her life.

“You won’t tell me what to do. You won’t do anything.”

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