Page 32 of Ready or Knot

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FAEDRA

I’m a decent flier. It’s not my favorite activity, but I’m not someone who dreads it like my father. For whatever reason, though, this flight was rough, and my nerves are stretched thin. My alarm goes off for the new suppressant medication, so I step to the side and dig it out of the small zipper pouch in my messenger bag. As I take it and then a drink of water, I look around—and then frown.

What the hell is wrong with Denver’s airport?

There’s some construction, but what’s odd is the lack of signage. Did they really take down all the information to accommodate whatever they’re working on?

I turn around, trying to get my bearings, pausing the music in my headphones as if that will make this weird terminal make more sense. Finally, a sign catches my eye, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the arrow pointing in front of me for getting to the main concourse.

Why is there only one little ass sign?

Grumbling, I turn the music back on and grab my bags, slinging the messenger bag over one shoulder and wheeling the other beside me as I make my way across the thirty something gates this concourse has. As I get closer to the central point, more people start to crowd around me, and I readjust my bags so I take up less space. The odd train that goes between the concourses isn’t any better, and I end up wedged between two people, holding one of the rails to keep from falling. By the time I manage to get onto the final escalator that the signs promise will dump me into the main portion of the airport, my skin is crawling and I’m filled with an unfamiliar anxiety. The feeling gets worse when a person shoves past me and knocks me off balance while I’m trying to walk out into the atrium, and I have to breathe slowly through my nose to keep from crying.

“Faedra?”

Carter’s familiar voice is a wave of comfort. The tension in my limbs releases, but the nervous energy I’ve been feeling for the last hour clogs the back of my throat. I glance up as a hand grabs my carry-on and blow out my breath when I lock eyes with Jude. His mouth is tipped down, the corners of his lips tight, and his eyebrows furrow as he takes me in.

“You alright?” he asks.

I shake my head before I even realize that I’m not fine.

The three of them move faster than I can process, closing in around me and helping me to a bench nearby. Carter guides my messenger bag off my shoulder and slings it onto his own while Jude sits next to me on the bench, moving my carry-on so that our legs press together. Logan crouches in front of me, his hands on my knees, and the look of concern on his normally smiling face has me leaning into him and resting my head on his shoulder. The contact calms me, a foreign need for them to hold me settling in my bones. After a minute, I’m able to lift my head and focus on the men.

“Better?” Logan asks, and I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Carter’s frown is deep, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks.

“That’s never happened before.” I explain while pulling my hair from its claw clip and readjusting it to fall around my shoulders and down my back. “I’m normally fine in crowds.”

“Did you start the new medication?” Carter asks.

When I nod, Jude curses, and I frown.

“Why is that bad? We all agreed to have me start weaning off of the suppressors.”

Logan murmurs an agreement.

Carter asks, “When did you start them?”

“Yesterday.” My answer is immediate. “Once a day for four days and then every other day for a week.”

Jude palms my thigh and presses his lips to the crown of my head. He murmurs, “Aspects of being Omega are becoming more pronounced with the new medication. Struggling in high contact experiences can be one of them.”

My mind catches on how they formed a barrier at graduation, and it’s like a layer of film has been pulled away from the memory. Logan pulls his hands away, but I’m quick to lace my fingers with his, that deep-seated part of me still craving contact.

Craving contact.

That’s what this is.

“Oh.” It’s all I can manage under the weight of the epiphany. Needing touch is one of the cornerstones of Omega nature. And it’s something I’ve never really experienced before—certainly not to this level. “Will it become...worse when I’ve gone off the suppressors completely?”

Logan shrugs and stands, helping me up from the bench.

“Probably,” Jude says, walking beside me, his hand on the small of my back as Carter leads us through the airport and to the parking lot. “But it’s possible this is presenting all at once and the other aspects will do the same. We won’t know until you’re off of them.”

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