Page 7 of Double Kisses for the Omega
Every few minutes I would remind myself that I was stalling; that I was avoiding a major decision by focusing on something minor.
What did the color of my walls matter when I was faced with the choice to either have a baby or lose my womb? Could I be a single papa? I knew that plenty of omegas handled parenthood just fine on their own, but it made something in my heart ache.
But could I carry, then give up a baby?
I stood, walked to the fireplace and pulled a photo off the mantle. I carried it back to the couch, even as tears started forming at the corners of my eyes.
I stared at the photo, my fingers running over the familiar lines—the faces forever etched into my memory. My mate, Brian, grinned, leaning against me as my mother-in-law took a photo of us, and our newborn, in the hospital. Our daughter, Rebecca, was only a few hours old in the picture, and while I had plenty more of her and Brian over the next two months, this was the only photo with the three of us as a family.
We’d talked about doing proper photos once I was out of college. Then the accident happened.
I didn’t remember much from that day. I’d been getting ready for my college graduation, and was in a group near my classmates when I’d fainted.
I awoke two weeks later, my mom and dad in tears at my bedside.
My first words weren’t about Brian or Rebecca, somehow I already knew. No, the first thing I said after two weeks in a coma was: “What did you do?”
“We couldn’t lose you too,” my mom sobbed.
I didn’t have to ask, though my hand flew to my bond mark anyway. The new, jagged, scar confirmed it: my mating bond had been medically severed.
“Get out,” I’d demanded.
Mom wailed as dad escorted her from the room.
It was all wrong. There was only one reason that my bond would have been severed, and that was if my mate was dead and doctors were attempting to save me. Even then, the procedure was so controversial that they wouldn’t have done it without outside intervention.
I called Brian’s parent’s that evening. I knew what they would tell me, but I needed to know how, and where to grieve.
His mom told me about the funerals for my mate and baby, and how they’d fought with my parents about severing my bond. Then she told me how it happened. Brian had been on his way to the graduation ceremony, Rebecca in her carseat in the back. The police officer guiding traffic for the event had just waved him into the intersection near the school when a pickup truck from another direction failed to notice that police were handling traffic manually.
The signal for the truck’s side had turned yellow, and the driver had given it more gas in an attempt to make the light. He slammed right into Brian’s side, killing him instantly, and Rebecca was fatally injured when the car rolled.
Even as I’d fainted in the arena, the cop directing traffic was on his radio for an ambulance, hoping to save my mate and child.
I probably would have died too, if not for the medical students also preparing for graduation. They’d managed to keep me alive until I could be rushed to the university hospital.
Ten years later, I was mostly happy to be alive. But I hadn’t spoken to my parents since. They shouldn’t have severed my bond.
I kept in touch with Brian’s parents, but eventually I saw how much pain my presence still brought them, and we amicably reduced contact to phone calls a couple times a year.
It was around the time I reduced contact with Brian’s family that I moved to Mountain Springs. I couldn’t take the sympathetic looks from people who knew any longer. So I relocated, started wearing clothes that hid my neck, and avoided questions about my love life.
It wasn’t like any alpha would want me anyway. They all wanted omegas they could bond, and I couldn’t take another bond bite.
My goal had been to be as unassuming as possible, and live a quiet life. But it seemed that I didn't have that option anymore.
Finally I knew what I had to do. I pulled out my phone and dialed the familiar number.
“Rick?” Eleanor, Brian’s mother, asked.
“Hey mama,” I said, addressing her as she’d asked me to after I mated Brian. She’d become more of a mother to me than my own.
“What’s wrong dear?” she asked. “Did something happen?”
Two questions was all it took. The floodgates opened and I told her everything: how the suppressants were failing, what the doctor had said, and how I was now facing an impossible decision.
She listened, asking questions as appropriate, but otherwise letting me get it all out.
