Page 48 of Knight Life In Vegas

I shook my head, stilling instantly as the dizziness grew worse. “I’ll eat later.”

My poor Sammy had so much worry in his eyes.

“Come here, baby. We can all have a cuddle.”

Sammy wedged himself in, and I tried to purr for them, but the vibration made my queasiness unbearable. They whispered among themselves, but I was too far gone to catch many of the words.

Ollie fed me dry cereal from a bowl and every so often shoved the straw of a juice box against my lips. My sweet boy. That wasn’t his job. I had to get up, take care of myself, take care of them. Sammy put cartoons on the tablet and I floated in and out of awareness, startled by more cereal or something loud in the cartoon.

By lunch time the mom guilt was stronger than my symptoms and I managed to get myself vertical, balancing against the walls to navigate my way into the kitchen. What on earth was going on with me? I’d heard about bonding sickness, but that was supposed to beaftera bond took place. Maybe I’d simply been without for so long every cell in my body was launching a protest over having a taste and it all being yanked away.

Boxed mac and cheese seemed potentially manageable and had the bonus of the boys loving it hot or cold, so leftovers would sustain them for a bit. Sammy dragged a chair into the kitchen for me before settling himself and Ollie in the living room to watch a movie. Bless them for actually being calm today. Usually when I felt horrendous, that was the day they chose to pick thirty fights that devolved into screaming and wrestling. I didn’t have it in me to deal with that today.

I dumped two boxes of pasta into the boiling water and clung to the countertop while I fetched milk and butter to make the sauce. Beau was probably on his flight back to New York. Why hadn’t he hurried up and moved here already? How was I supposed to succumb to my pitiful omega needs when he was across the country? We’d already been vulnerable with each other, and he had the added benefit of wanting the match as little as I did. We could help soothe each other’s instincts without either of us worrying about it meaning more than that.

Reaching out to the others… No. They wanted more than I was capable of giving them. Even if they hadn’t said it outright, I could see it in their eyes. Now that they knew we were scent matches, they wanted everything that was supposed to go along with that.

My boys sat down to their mac and cheese, inhaling their portions while I picked my way through a half serving. Determined to be present, I slid onto the floor next to my kids, halfheartedly collecting some of their numerous toys into a basket, if only so I could curl up on my side and assuage the dizziness for a moment.

“Mommy,” said Sammy, “where’s your phone?”

“Hmm? Hamper.” My vision swam.

I just needed to…close my eyes…for a minute.

Dylan was trying desperately to beat me in our racing game, but he always got too excitable. He didn’t have the clarity to strategize and win with anything besides speeding. His phone rang on the coffee table in front of us, an unknown number rolling across the screen.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

Dylan shrugged. “No idea. Scam caller probably.”

He let it go to voicemail, but then the call came through again. I paused the game, letting him answer it to see what warranted a double call.

“Hello?”

“Um, hi, this is Sammy.” I could faintly hear the voice on the other end of the line and leaned closer to listen. “You said to call for anything.”

Dylan’s spine snapped straight. “Charlotte’s Sammy?”

“Yeah, um, I didn’t get permission from Mommy to call, but she’s sick, and, um…”

“Shit! She’s sick? Oh, fuck, I shouldn’t be swearing in front of you. Damn it! Sorry.”

I plucked the phone out of his hand. “Sammy, it’s Eduardo. What’s going on?”

“I dunno. She’s been sleeping most of the day. She fell asleep on the floor after lunch.”

Panic shot straight through me. “Do you know your address?”

“No.” Sammy whimpered.

“Okay, it’s okay. Can you check the fridge? My mom always had our address written down and stuck on the fridge. Maybe yours has done that too.”

I heard him rustling around, his footsteps presumably leading him into the kitchen. “It’s there!”

“Dylan, get a paper and pen,” I whispered, nudging him into motion. When he returned a few seconds later, I grabbed both from him. “Okay, Sammy, read me the address, please.”

He did so, and I dutifully wrote it down.

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