Page 50 of Impossible

I’m stirring the gloopy mess and wishing we had an omega around to tell me if I’m doing it right.

I’ve been thinking about Indie since scenting her on Leon yesterday. We’re too out of it right now to consider bonding an omega, but it sounds like she isn’t ready for a pack yet either. Not if she’s sick. God knows we have enough to handle right now without adding another sick pack member.

I tamp down the pull in my chest that the memory of her scent draws up. Leon is strong enough to compartmentalize, but Risk and Joshua wouldn’t be able to. I have to protect them. That’s what love is. I’m making the right decision, I know it, even if it’s hard.

I won’t pretend I’m not nervous, meeting her in person tomorrow night and getting hit with the full force of her scent. My alpha instincts are strong, and I know the urge to care for her will be overwhelming.A fated mate. How ironic, to lead one of the packs lucky enough to experience such a thing, and have her appear in our lives now, of all times.

I’m just grateful she’s in the capable hands of the Complex. It wouldn’t be right, otherwise. But I know she’ll be taken care of, and I can take care of my own pack until we’re all ready to cross that bridge.

The sound of the front door opening jars me. This is weird, because Joshua is always in bed, Risk is usually passed out at this time after getting back from his third-shift patrol—or wherever he ends up after—and Leon is always gone before me for the early morning bootcamp he leads.

I figure maybe Risk decided to hit the strip club again—you would think finishing work at five in the morning that there would be nowhere in town to get a drink, but Risk always finds a way. Sure, his usual haunt is the seediest, most disgusting place imaginable, but Risk doesn’t mind. Taste has never been his strong suit.

It’s Leon who drags himself into the kitchen instead.

“Late night?” I ask.

My instinct is to disapprove; Risk is one thing—I’ve long ago given up on him—but Leon carries Midas Pack’s reputation on his shoulders. He can’t be out and about partying so soon after the attack. Then I think that maybe he was just distracting himself from being unable to be with Indie, and that’s slightly better, though still not great. It doesn’t even cross my mind to be offended he did it without me, even after we used to do all our partying together. It also doesn’t cross my mind to reallylookat him and see that he isn’t bedraggled, but scuffed and dirty and bruised. Not until he fixes his eyes on me and the full force of his exhaustion hits. I would have felt it, if the damn bond was open.

“Is Risk ok?” he asks.

“Why wouldn’t he be? Probably passed out upstairs after work. I thought you were him, coming back from the club.”

Leon stops in the middle of the kitchen. “You didn’t see him last night?”

“No. Leon, what’s going on?” I remove the oatmeal from the stove—I’m pretty sure I’ve ruined it anyway—and turn to face him fully. His lip is split. He reeks of Indie. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment, the weight of his exhaustion and resentment like an anvil in my chest. Then he’s gone, charging up the stairs.

I follow him, more confused than anything. He’s already slammed Risk’s door open by the time I make it to the landing, revealing his disaster of a room, empty. I scan the weapon wall and allow myself a millisecond of relief that nothing is missing—the wall is exactly what it sounds like, stuffed floor to ceiling with his collection of instruments of death. The nesting room is also empty, the pack bed inside musty with disuse.

Leon knocks on Joshua’s door last. No response, of course. He knocks again and I sigh and push past him, opening the door.

Leon practically topples over me into the room, and then we both stand there, dumbfounded.

Risk and Joshua are in Joshua’s bed. This isn’t too weird, in and of itself. But Risk is sporting a black eye so puffy it looks like a golf ball is sprouting from his face, with a giant gauze bandage covering his forehead. And he reeks of dirt, and blood, and vomit, and…her.

I turn to Leon. “What did you do?”

He ignores me, rushing to the bed. Risk is on the far side, so Leon has to climb over Joshua to get to him. He does it without thinking, lifting his massive frame on his good hand to get there and making the queen-sized bed look very small in the process. Then he’s crouching, his hand on Risk’s cheek, holding him still as he examines his eye.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against Risk’s shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s ok, I’m ok,” Risk whispers back to him, running his hands over Leon’s head, his back, the stained cotton of his shirt. I recognize smudges of dirt in the material, fanned in the exact shape his fingers make now. He did this to Leon. “Is she? Did I… is she ok?”

“Yeah, she’s fine, a little banged up. She sprained her knee, she’s got a wheelchair, but that’s it. She says she did it when she fell, before you found her. It wasn’t you. You didn’t hurt her.”

Indie’shurt? A low growl bubbles in my chest. I swallow it down, mind racing as Leon and Risk waste time cuddling rather than telling me what’s going on.

Joshua is glaring at me balefully, his pale grey-blue eyes full of something foreign.Energy, I realize. Anger. Something that’s been missing since the attack. Did he meet her too? Have theyallmet her now, except for me?

“I have to apologize.” Risk’s voice is frantic, already climbing. I brace myself for it—he’s going to explode. He’ll blow up, something will get broken or somebody will get hurt, then he’ll end up crying like a toddler, feeling like shit, a child in an adult’s body.

His vices used to be enough to cool him down—he could drink or smoke or fuck himself into okayness. I know there are other ones as well, ones he’s less prone to telling us about—there was a reason I checked his weapons. We’ve seen the scars. We’ve watched him drag himself back home when he’s run until his legs gave out, feet bloody and blistered. Hell, we’ve hauled him off poor beta assholes at bars who had no idea who they were tangling with.

But those are more shameful. He never wants us to see. Since the attack, it can’t be avoided. None of the old tricks work. He’s had a few meltdowns now, screaming, snotty, messy things. Befitting a toddler more than a grown man. I handled the first, when Leon was still in the hospital and Joshua was still catatonic. Pinned him to the bed with my body and waited him out while he thrashed beneath me. His degenerate friends brought him home after the next, streaked with vomit and smelling like metal and vinegar, blue in the face and rag-doll-like in my arms. Joshua’s had the rest. The only thing that gets him out of bed, I think bitterly. Though maybe Risk is courteous enough to bring his meltdowns to him.

“Shh,” Leon rests his head on Risk’s shoulder, his hand on the back of his neck holding him close. “She’d like that. She wants to see you. She isn’t mad.”

“She should be,” Risk’s voice is thick with self-loathing, and I shift uncomfortably where I stand, Joshua’s eyes never leaving mine. For once, I don’t need the bond to know he’s pissed.

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