Page 33 of Impossible

I have to struggle to keep myself from joining the chaos. Two months ago, I would have been the one standing in front of the group with my own proposals, which would have caused their own commotion. The Coalition is losing favor among our constituents. Feral alpha packs are on the rise, having gone without omegas for so long they’re becoming militant in their desires to find one. We say we defend against them, but militarizing our omega Complexes is a far cry from seeking out and taking down the greatest threats.

Like the mob that took us down.

It’s a sick kind of irony that the exact threat I warned against so fervently is what made my pack a subject of ridicule, unlikely to even be invited to the meetings where attacks against them might be coordinated.

My attendance here today is like a pipedream after the last six weeks of desk duty only. And I still saw Anthony’s eyes narrow when I entered the room and sat down—technically, Midas pack is still part of the Board of Governors. I have as much a right to be here as any of them, even if I have been formally demoted from my former position as Head of Tactical Operations.

Gold Pack was all too glad for the chance to boot me, once it became clear how starkly Midas Pack’s agenda differed from their own. Wilder and Phoenix Packs’ have acted much the same, with John Wilder running the Complex and Marcus Phoenix acting as my ‘supervisor’ for my new analyst position. Now, Marcus waltzes by my desk each day, gloating as he dumps stacks of printed out spreadsheets on my desk for me to ‘analyze’ and write reports on. Biting my tongue, I drag my eyes across every damn row and write the reports he asks for. And each evening, when I deliver them to Anthony’s office, I watch him scrape them off his desk and straight into the recycle bin, unread.

They’re kind enough to include the mission reports from current tactical operations with the daily delivery to my desk, however—like Anthony wants me to see how poorly they’re written. How the mission success rate has dropped. How badly my job is being fucked up, now that it’s been wrested from my control. He’s a very noble leader.

I swallow the bitterness, beginning to enjoy the chaos of the room as I realize absolutely nothing will get done in this meeting. Calls for a vote on the issue are drowned out by demands for omegas to participate in the drafting process. Nobody is listening to anybody. It’s reassuring to know that my pack isn’t the only thing falling apart right now.

Leon is waiting for me when I get home.

“How’s Joshua?” I ask as I take off my coat and shoes.

“We need to talk.”

Something is wrong—his voice sounds different. He’s been the only pack member I haven’t needed to worry about since the attack. I know he disagrees with my choice to close the bond, but he hasn’t felt the depths of Joshua’s despair like I have. Risk is fragile right now—I know Leon could handle it, but Risk might fly off the rails more than he already has. And he’s been airborne since everything went down.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Come a little closer.”

Why does his voice sound almost hopeful?

I start to cross the kitchen to where he sits on a barstool at the island. It hits me when I’m only halfway across the room.

Instantly all the blood in my body rushes south, my mind fogging over in a purple haze as the scent of bergamot and black tea and sweet pea washes over me. I stagger forward to lean against the island. I fight the urge to mob Leon, to throw myself at him and rub my neck into the scent, collecting it all for myself.

“What have you done?” I choke out.

I didn’t think my mental state could get much worse than it has in the last six weeks, but immediately a cavernous hole opens in my chest, a gaping tear where the source of that scent should be.

“Her name is Indigo.” Leon’s voice sounds like a man who’s drunk on sunshine and sex and love. Has he slept with her already? Without us? I fight the urge to dominate him, to make him cower and tell me everything.

“Where is she?” My voice is frantic.

“The Complex. She’s new, she just manifested.”

“Achild?” I snarl.

“Shh!” Leon glances up the stairs, to where Joshua is. “No! She’s nineteen. She’s… sick, Hollis. Really sick.”

“Sick?” I echo, concern bubbling into nausea in my stomach. Jesus Christ, I need to calm down. My emotions slingshot around my chest, one extreme to the next.

“She’s anorexic. Totally emaciated. She starved off her own awakening for years. Her hormones are a wreck and she could go into heat any day now.”

Something twists my heart in an iron vice as reality sets in. She’s at the Complex. The Complex run by Wilder Pack, who hates us, and governed by the Coalition, where every ounce of prestige and respect Midas Pack once had has been stripped away. Including our placement on the vetted list for omega pairings.

“They’re going to pair her.” My voice is hollow.

Leon nods. “If it’s any consolation, she’s apparently dead set against having her heat at all, much less with a pack. Dahlia O’Brien told me she’s planning on doing a medical heat.”

It’s not any consolation. Not by a longshot. The thought of our omega alone in a locked room, desperate with need for us and trapped far away? Unbearable. I feel something wet running down my hands and realize I’ve driven my nails through the skin of my palms, the crescent-shaped cuts trickling blood. I unfurl my fists slowly, grimacing as my nails come free.

“I need to see her.”

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