Page 49 of Waiting for Fate
“If I untie you, are you going to go in there swinging?”
“No,” I promise, my lips thinning at the mistrust in his eyes. Maybe I need to go to the Alpha Academy’s clinic and get their input about my outburst.
Danny cuts the ropes away, stepping back while I rub feeling back into the reddened skin. He stays several steps away, his body tense, as we walk back into the house. Our pack is gathered in the kitchen. Cedes presses against Jameson’s chest, her hand over his where he holds a bag of frozen vegetables to his cheek.
I wince seeing the tears still trailing down my omega’s cheeks. “Baby doll,” I croak, rounding the island slowly. She jolts at the sound of my voice, shying away from me with a whine.
The others growl in warning, and I freeze. With my hands raised to tell them I won’t approach her again, I drop to my knees and hang my head. “I’m so sorry, baby doll. I don’t have any excuse for the way I behaved earlier. Scaring you and hurting our pack are the last thing I ever want to do.”
She’s quiet, still avoiding looking at me. Danny meets Jameson and Leo’s eyes over her shoulder. Sharing some internal conflict I’m not a part of.
“I want you to leave,” Cedes finally whispers.
The words cut me to pieces. Her sky blue eyes find mine, the ferocity in her gaze knocking me to my ass.
“We’ve tried to make this work, Shiloh, but you don’t belong here. Fate doesn’t want you here.Idon’t want you here. You’ve been struggling for months to share me with the others, and it’s tearing me apart. They are my Fate matched mates, not you. Please, just leave. Before you hurt them in a way we can’t come back from.”
The elevator dings, the doors opening, and shocking me back to reality. My lungs hurt, eyes burning from the pain of those memories. Pressing myself into the corner, my resolve to stay away from Miss Powell strengthens.
Seeing her bodyguard’s arm around her shoulders, I want to shove him away. To steal her for myself. I won’t subject her to the same pain I put Cedes through all those years ago. I’m not an alpha meant to share his mate with another. She’ll be better off without me.
“Are you good, Mr. A?”
I startle, blinking several times before the room comes back into focus. Spencer, the young man I mentor from the local group home, has his guitar resting on his knees. He’s staring at me, eyes wide with concern. We meet once a week for music lessons and dinner at a restaurant of his choice, and at least once a month we go out to do something fun together, like seeing a movie or going to an arcade.
“I apologize, Spence. It seems I am out of sorts today,” I admit with a sigh. “Play the piece again. My listening ears will be open this time, I promise.”
He nods, his shaggy red hair falling down across his face as he focuses on the chords he’s playing. Spencer is one of the many future alphas failed by social workers. After losing both his parents, he was tossed into a group home and left to deal with his grief until he presents in two or three years.
It angers me to see any child or teenager go unloved, shoved aside by the system built to help them. They deserve better than the cold treatment this country shows them.
Of course, it could always be worse. He could have been placed into a foster home that sees him as nothing more than a paycheck, or been adopted by one of the many gangs in our country and forced into membership.
After accepting my promotion to executive and leaving my former pack, I needed something to occupy my time outside of working my ass off at the label. That’s where the Alpha and Omega mentor program came in. While we have the option to work with Academy age youths, I believe it is those on the verge of presentation who need us the most. The academies have a staff well equipped to help them through their transition into their designations. These kids are often on their own.
Spencer isn’t the first kid I’ve mentored, and he won’t be the last. Using my money to sponsor these kids is another way I can help make this world a better place without finding a pack to bond with.
“You’re progressing wonderfully,” I admit when he finishes another run through of the song he’s been practicing. Playing guitar was something his father started to teach him to do before he passed. It is an honor to help him connect with those memories.
“Thanks. I, uh, wanted to play it for someone.” His face tinges red and he stares down at the floor. “For one of those things where you ask someone out in an extravagant way.”
I can feel my eyebrows hitting my hairline as they jump in surprise. I don’t know that extravagant asks are my thing, but if he’s confident enough to use his musical talent to woo his potential date, I’ll help him any way I can.
“Let me know when you are going to ask and I will send flowers to the group home for you to take with you.”
Spencer is quiet for so long, I’m afraid my offer has upset him. Then he clears his throat and awkwardly rushes out “doguyslikerecievingflowers?”
It takes me several seconds to understand what he asked. My lips twitch into a smile. “Everyone enjoys receiving flowers, Spence, but if you think they might make him uncomfortable, we could order something else instead. Donuts? Pizza? Energy drinks?”
“Thanks, Mr. A!” His grin bright enough to melt my heart. This is why I will never leave the mentor program.
A thought strikes me as we leave the studio and head to my car. I stop with my hand on the roof, meeting his eyes. “You know I don’t care if you like boys or girls, or if you don’t like anyone at all? All I care about is your happiness. Whatever that looks like to you, I’ll have your back.”
Most kids in the system are used to hearing the homophobic, packphobic bullshit this world spreads. I will never let them think I will judge them for the future they want to create for themselves. As long as they aren’t actively harming others, why does it matter who or how many people they love?
“I know,” he grumbles, embarrassed again. I chuckle and climb in the car, directing our topic of conversation to dinner instead. A safe choice since teenage boys are always hungry.
“What are your plans for senior year?” I ask a while later. We’re sitting at a local steakhouse, waiting for our main course to come out. Spencer and I have already finished a trio of appetizers. The empty plates are piled neatly at the end of our table, waiting for our server to collect them.
