Page 36 of Mating Mia
Kane sighs heavily, but I can see the bulge in his pants betraying his arousal. Despite how annoyed he looks, I know he wishes he were the one knotted inside me right now.
A couple of hours later, we’ve found an adoption agency, and it feels like the white walls of the adoption agency are closing in on me with each passing minute as we wait for an answer.
I shift uncomfortably in the plastic chair, my swollen ankles throbbing despite the brief rest.
We’ve been waiting for over an hour since they took my fingerprints, and the clock on the wall seems to be moving backward rather than forward.
Kane sits to my right, his large hand resting protectively on my thigh, while Finn stands by the window, his serious gaze fixed on the parking lot as if expecting trouble. Jace flips through an ancient parenting magazine, but I can tell by the way he keeps checking his watch that his patience is wearing thin as well.
“What’s taking so long?” I mutter, rubbing my lower back, where an ache has taken up permanent residence over the past few weeks.
“This might be the day for answers, little omega,” says Kane, rubbing soothing circles on my thigh with his thumb.
I glance around at the other waiting couples- a young pair holding hands nervously, an older man with graying temples filling out paperwork with methodical precision, a woman sitting alone whose fingers never stop tapping against her knee.
We are all waiting for news that will reshape our lives, one way or another.
“This is another dead end, isn’t it?” I whisper. “They’re probably in there trying to figure out how to tell us they have no records matching my description. Again.”
Jace abandons his magazine to kneel in front of me, taking both my hands in his. “Hey, don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe they’re just being thorough.”
I want to kiss him for his eagerness to make sure I’m happy, but anxiety fills me instead.
“They took your fingerprints. That’s different from the other agencies,” says Finn. None of the previous places had asked for my fingerprints, so he had a point.
Another half-hour passes, and just as I’m about to suggest we leave and come back tomorrow, the door to the inner offices opens.
A middle-aged woman in a sensible navy suit emerges, the same adoption counselor who took my information earlier. But she’s not alone. Behind her is a woman in a police uniform, her expression grave as her eyes scan the waiting room and land on me.
My heart lurches painfully against my ribs.Why is there a police officer? What could possibly warrant law enforcement involvement in my simple records search?
“Mia?” the counselor calls, looking directly at me as if she knows exactly who I am. “Would you and your... companions please come with us?”
Kane helps me to my feet, his arm immediately circling my waist in a protective gesture that I’m grateful for as my legs suddenly feel unsteady. The four of us follow the counselor and officer down a narrow hallway to a conference room with a large table and several chairs.
“Please, take a seat,” the officer says, gesturing to the chairs.
We arrange ourselves around the table—me between Kane and Jace, with Finn taking the chair closest to the door, positioning himself as our first line of defense should anything go wrong. The counselor places a folder on the table but doesn’t open it immediately.
The officer remains standing, her hands clasped in front of her. “Ms. Jenkins, my name is Officer Reynolds. I’m with the Special Victims Unit, specifically the child trafficking division.”
“Child trafficking?” I repeat my voice barely a whisper. “I don’t understand.”
The counselor, whose nameplate reads Ms. Winters, opens the folder on her desk. “When we ran your fingerprints through our system, we got a match to a case file from twenty-three years ago. According to our records, you weren’t legally adopted, Ms. Jenkins. You were kidnapped from this very agency when you were two years old.”
The room tilts sideways, and Kane’s hand finds mine, squeezing so tight it almost hurts, anchoring me to reality when everything else seems to be floating away.
“How is that possible?” I ask, my mind racing to keep up with this news that I never expected to hear. “How could they just... take a child? How did no one notice?”
Ms. Winters exchanges a look with the officer before continuing. “You weren’t the only one. There were six babiesreported missing from various agencies in the state that morning—August 5th. All of you disappeared within hours of each other.”
“A trafficking ring,” Officer Reynolds explains. “We’ve been trying to crack it for decades, but the trail always went cold. Until now.”
My hand moves protectively to my belly, the horror of what they’re saying finally sinking in.
I wasn’t adopted. I was stolen.
Taken from the system before my birth mother could find me, or I could find her. The people who raised me, who beat me, belittled me, and made me feel worthless had actually kidnapped me.
