Page 15 of All Saints Day
It’s either make our move or sit around until we go mad or Louise meets her end at the hands of the Windmill—whichever comes first.
Of course, there’s another layer of complication in this mess—Quentin’s approaching heat.
Our ability to keep Quentin supplied with the appropriate suppressants has been patchy at best since we’ve been on the lam. Last month we had a scare when his normal dosage seemed to run out ahead of schedule. I’m not sure if it’s because of the separation from our bonded mate, if it’s accelerated because Louise hasbeen our Pack lead or because of Quentin’s status as a designation-shifted omega with Zeitnot antibodies. At a certain point, it ceases to matter—whatever the reason, if Quentin enters heat, as it stands, we do not have a sigma or alpha to knot or lock him. Without a proper knot or lock during his heat—there’s a very good chance he could succumb to heat sickness.
To me, the solution seems obvious. I make my bid to tell Dennis right away that he is one of our fated mates—but Sébastien and Quentin convince me we should wait until we are really certain that his heart and his head are in the right place. After everything with Frank, all of us are deeply shaken and don’t know what to trust anymore.
However, I think that Dennis has more than proved himself by this point. Hell, we’re about to meet to decide whether Dennis might go on a goddamn suicide mission to get Louise back… I think it’s high time that we tell him, but the others have been harder to convince.
Revealing to Dennis that we are fated mates is bound to cause some friction, considering we’ll have to explain that we have been intentionally obfuscating this information—keeping it from Dennis in order to protect ourselves. I doubt that he’ll be thrilled about that revelation, but I also doubt that he’ll hold a vendetta against us either. He’s just as invested in Louise’s safety, wellbeing, and happiness as the rest of us. Once he sees we were operating in what we believed to be her best interests—to ultimately keep her and our pack safe—I have a feeling that he’ll come around and then some.
If we bite Dennis in now, before we make our moves on Compton and the Windmill; we will be able to communicate along the mating bond, Louise will be able to feel our growing strength and with luck—get an infusion of hope from knowing we’ve brought Dennis into our sacred ring. Not to mention, Dennis is an alpha. If the unthinkable happens, and Quentin goes into heat while we’re still trying to reunite with Louise, we’ll be able to keep him from being consumed by heat sickness.
Sébastien and Quentin shut down my attempts to broach the subject again while we wait for Dennis to arrive at the motel.
The three of us sit on the shitty little balcony in the metal frame, in vinyl strap patio chairs that were once shades of white and baby blue, but have faded to dingy yellow and a sickly blue-green. Sébastien chain-smokes while Quentin buffs his nails to a mirror-like shine for the third time in as many days out of nervous habit. I do my best not to annoy either of them by the constant jouncing of my knee—toes tapping anxiously on the concrete as we await the knock on our door.
“I swear, he takes just long enough to make us fucking sweat,” Seb gnaws anxiously at his cuticles—trying not to destroy the oxblood nail polish he painstakingly laid down this morning while killing time for our little rendezvous this evening.
“Dennis is nothing if not professional,” Q says evenly—scuffing the buffer madly across his index, middle, ring, and pinkie nails with verve. “He’s making sure that he doesn’t bring anything nasty to our doorstep. Even though we haven’t heard any rumblings of anyone catching wise to him, it would be foolish not to assume that there is always the possibility of a Fed or Windmill threat following close on Dennis’ heels.
“Ah yes—a professional cop.” Sébastien rolls his eyes and stamps out the butt of his cigarette in the sun-bleached blue melamine “Value Suites Plus” printed ashtray.
Quentin, looking for a fight to distract himself is quick to snap back, “You’ve got nothing to be high and mighty about Seb, your CV includes hot wiring the cars of little old ladies in Seychelles when it suited you—selling drugs, making drugs, scamming other drug lords by making then selling them fake drugs. It’s not like you’re some blameless innocent.”
“You used to be brass too, of course you’d excuse him,” Sébastien volleys back, fidgeting with his lighter as he lurches forward in his chair.
“Sébastien, darling—if you refuse to stop talking about thatwhich you do not understand, I will be forced to shut you up personally.” Quentin is quick to lob the threat back at Sébastien.
Seb rankles, baring his teeth and letting out a low growl, and I have to insert myself into the situation—physically placing myself in the space between the two of them and reaching out along the mating bond with a soothing touch to keep the pair of them from rising out of their chairs to start squaring off.
“C’mon, you two,” I groan, scrubbing a hand back over the blond fuzz against my scalp. “We can’t afford this kind of in-fighting right now.”
The pair hold their ground—poised to strike.
“Dennis is gonna be here any minute; we don’t want to look like a bunch of bickering idiots who can’t be trusted to helm this rescue operation. It’s not just about what we think about Dennis—it’s about him agreeing to be the keystone to this entire extremely dangerous mission.”
At my words, some of the fight comes out of Seb and Q—the pair grudgingly backing down from their near confrontation.
Before I can think of something else clever or moving to say, there’s a knock at the door, and then I’m the one losing his cool—tripping over myself to scramble for the door to our motel room.
The door opens to reveal Dennis, clean shaven—a pair of oversized wire-framed glasses perched on his nose, a plain corduroy ball cap pulled down low over his face; a gray hoodie and stone-washed jeans rounding out his norm-core wardrobe along with a pair of dad-tastic new balance running sneakers.
I have to fight the urge to launch myself at him like I did back in Boston, greedy for the comfort that his arms and the fated bond provide.
Instead, it’s Dennis who reaches for me as soon as the motel door has closed behind him.
“Everyone ok?” he asks, his voice a breath above a whisper as he folds me against him with strong arms—one of his big, warm palms finding the back of my buzzed skull, cradling my head against his shoulder for a moment as we embrace.
I close my eyes and breathe in his scent; clean, crisp, herbal, fresh.
“Yeah, we’re hanging in there. Even if we’re all emotional wrecks,” I laugh on the heels of a sob.
His eyes find Seb and Q as they slip through the sliding doors—shoulders rounded, dark circles of sleeplessness beneath their eyes.
“It isn’t easy, knowing that every second we’ve left her to the devices of the Windmill is filled with new horror, that’s for sure,” Dennis sighs, pulling off his hat and running a hand through his strawberry blond hair.
Now that I can see him in the light, Dennis looks awful. His cheeks have hollowed since the last time we saw him—puffy dark spaces below his eyes, their usual vibrant sea-glass green dulled with resignation.
