Page 57 of Impossible

Hollis’s doubt disappears from his face quickly. He is a shallow pool, glinting in the sun. His doubts are well-camouflaged. Mine are all over my face, chewed lips and furrowed brow.

It almost makes me want to laugh. I don’t think Midas Pack has ever needed to question our appeal before. We stopped going to mixers ages ago because we were tired of omegas throwing themselves at us, and the envy their advances inspired in other omega-less packs. There are so few omegas to vie for, it was better to opt out of the game altogether. It made it easier to gain allies in the Coalition—or at least, that’s what Hollis said. Fat lot of good it’s done us now.

“She’s a little fragile,” Leon breaks the silence. “Don’t overwhelm her. Proper hellos, not too many questions. She doesn’t know we’re her fated mates.”

“How could she not?” Risk asks.

“I was the first alpha she ever scented. She knows others don’t smell as good, but she never had a baseline, so she can’t tell the difference. It might be that meeting all of us together makes it obvious, but if not, don’t tell her. She’s still not bought in to the whole omega thing. It might push her away.”

“Is she mad at me?” Risk’s anxiety buzzes, his smokiness fogging the SUV’s cramped quarters.

“No,” Leon repeats for the millionth time. The man is a saint. How has he not fallen apart like us? He probably needs to.

“Come on.” Hollis moves to get out of the car, but Leon reaches out to stop him. He’s in the passenger seat, so it’s just his stump that rests on Hollis’s arm. Hollis looks down at it. He swallows.

“You might be… surprised, when you see her,” Leon says. “She’s really sick. I forget sometimes, when I’m around her for a while. I just seeher.“ His voice is almost wistful, and I fight the urge to touch him. I miss tracing the lines of his tattoos. I miss when he talked to me.

He’s weary now. He gives and gives and gives, to me and Risk and Hollis and now Indie too, and nobody gives to him. My fault. I take a deep breath and shut that train of thought down. Not now.

We walk into the Complex a united front. Midas Pack, back from the dead. A re-animated corpse, though nobody but us can tell.

The mixer is already in full swing, and the scent of omega hits me like a brick wall. I brace myself for the temptation, but it never comes. The room is swimming with scents, but none of them are hers.

I want to slink off to a corner to wait for her, but our arrival has caused a stir—it seems like every pair of eyes in the place is on us. Hollis and Leon are impervious to the pressure. Risk doesn’t even notice it, he’s so in his own world. I’m the only self-conscious one. I steel my gaze and stay behind Hollis and Leon. Let them lead. All I need to be is calm and quiet and nobody will have any idea what’s going on in my head.

Leon spots Dahlia O’Brien and leads us over, ignoring the eyes. His movement breaks the seal and people begin talking again. They’re still watching, though. “Did you hear what happened” and “such a shame” and “I wouldnever”.

The omega attention is mixed. Some scoff. Most eye us up and down, their instincts driving them to evaluate for themselves despite the gossip echoing around them. I forget how dominant we are, sometimes. Compared to Hollis and Leon, I live with my tail tucked. No omegas approach us. I don’t know whether to be thankful or upset that we’ve fallen so far from grace.

Dahlia is holding one of her packmates’ daughters on her hip, bouncing up and down and cooing at her.

“Leon! And the rest of Midas Pack too!” She looks from face to face, her earnest smile contagious. Her curls bounce along with the baby on her hip, who clings to a tiny plush cow in a red hoodie. We were never close with Dahlia before the attack—she’s always been a teacher, and she’s soon to mate with Dawson Pack, all of them doctors or professors. Not much political advantage there, so Hollis was always apathetic but friendly. A commensurate politician.

Regret pangs in my stomach—we shouldn’t have stopped coming to these mixers. Shouldn’t have planned all our friendships around what could win us the greatest political victories. Sure, the omegas could be a lot, the alpha politics exhausting, but we missed out on so much more. I wonder if that’s part of the reason for the Coalition assigning Leon and I here after the attack. Were our deficiencies that obvious?

“Hey Dahlia.” Leon leans in and gives her a hug. “And who is this?” he asks, holding out a finger for the little girl to squeeze. She obliges, her chubby little hand unable to reach all the way around his single finger. My heart swells at the sight of it—I want that. I want Indie’s baby on my arm.

Jesus, calm down, Joshua, I command myself.You haven’t even met her yet.

“This is Lylah,” Dahlia coos. “And this is her first mixer! You looking for Indie?”

Leon nods.

“I think she’s been on the fence about coming. The wheelchair has her exhausted. Her first therapy session yesterday was rough as well. Poor thing’s been through a lot. Let me pop over to her room and see if your arrival can’t entice her.”

“Are you sure?” Leon falters, his forced bravado for the room wavering. “If she needs to rest…”

“Shh, I’ll go get your girl.”

She’s gone before Hollis can protest.Our girl.

We shuffle about once she’s gone. Hollis is too proud to apologize. I’m too angry to forgive. Leon is too tired to mediate. Risk is… well, Risk.

“Drinks?” he asks. He’s already moving towards the beverage table. I can only hope since the mixer is Complex-organized that there won’t be any alcohol. Not with whatever is already in his system.

Hollis follows him, leaving Leon and I to survey the room.

“Hello?” a little blonde omega approaches. “I uh, I’ve never seen you at one of these before. Which pack are you?” She’s speaking to me, ignoring Leon. Like she can’t tell we’re here together. I watch her for a moment, forgetting how to speak. She bats her lashes and leans forward to give me a view of her ample cleavage.

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