Page 78 of Impossible

He takes the bottle. He sprays his neck, his wrists, and with practiced motions manages to spray the tops of his thighs—where I know hisotherscent glands are located—without making it look weird or sexual.

“Better?” he asks. I take a little sniff and then nod curtly. He isn’t completely gone—I don’t know if it’s possible to truly wash a scent away—but it’s close enough.

“I see you already dosed yourself.” His voice is wry.

“This bottle is my new best friend.” I take it back and let him roll me into the office. It isn’t much to look at—white walls, linoleum floor, general issue furniture, a few stacks of folders. The only thing that marks the space as definitively his is a single framed photo, next to our lunch tray on his desk. I reach for it without thinking.

It’s Midas Pack. They’re all smiles, on a sun-soaked beach. Risk is perched on Hollis’s back, like he leapt up right before the camera snapped. Joshua is between Hollis and Leon, his arms over their shoulders, though it seems like Risk’s jump onto Hollis unbalanced them all. They’re laughing, mid-moment, a perfect snapshot of joy.

My stomach pangs. Whatever happened six weeks ago, it stole this from them.

“That was in Mexico.” Leon’s voice is wistful. “Right after our first mission with Hollis as Head of Tactical Operations.”

“You all look so happy,” I whisper.

“We were.”

The Leon in the photo is younger. Alive. Golden skin and golden hair and perfectly built planes of muscle. His left hand, hanging at his side. Whole. Carefree.

I look at the Leon in front of me. There are lines in his face now. More from frowning than smiling. His remaining hand cups his stump, massaging circles around his wrist. Black ink peeks from beneath his collar. He is Atlas, bowed under the world’s weight.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

I chew on my lip. Leon hasn’t answered most of my questions about his past. Now I know.He was happy.

My voice is quiet when I speak. “I never got jealous of my friends when I was stuck at Adams every break and they’d go on vacation. They’d post all these glamorous photos looking like they were having the time of their lives and then get back and complain endlessly about bug bites or being forced to share a room or not having wi-fi on the plane. It didn’t make sense to me. Like their trips were one giant photoshoot. Why would I want to go through all that hassle when I was pretending every day already? I didn’t realize—you’re not posing.”

Leon looks at the photo for a lingering moment, his eyes traveling slowly over each glowing face. “No, we weren’t,” he finally says.

He drags the tray between us and starts divvying up the plates. “I need to start eating with you more,” he changes the topic. “The school did my lunch up extra special, to match my company.” He has a massive sub sandwich, a bowl of soup, a side salad, and an apple. I have a small bowl of soup, a bag of oyster crackers, and a clementine. I wrinkle my nose when I see it. It reminds me of Cam.

“Don’t like oranges?” Leon asks. “Funny, since you smell like them.”

“I do not smell likeoranges,” I retort.

“No, you don’t, you smell much better,” Leon acquiesces. “Oranges would be a gross oversimplification. Though, I have to say, all de-scented like this you are very,” he sniffs sharply. “orange-y.”

I roll my eyes. “Maybe I need to bathe in this stuff to truly get it all gone, huh?”

“You don’t need to erase your scent, little bird.”

No, just yours,I don’t say. I narrow my eyes instead, taking a sip of soup to give me a moment to come up with a response to that. I watch as Leon struggles to get his sandwich in his hand without spilling any of its contents. He doesn’t use his stump at all, even as a support.

“I’m officially signing up for the medical heat tomorrow,” I declare. “After that, do you think I can hang out with you and Risk without the Complex getting all pissy?” I don’t let myself think of the tiny, glassy-eyed omega hunched under the bed. I think about the treehouse. About Joshua’s black curls. Risk’s gold nose ring. Anything else.

Leon stares at me, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. He sets it down. I feel bad—picking it up was difficult. Now he’ll have to do it again. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“My options aren’t very appealing.” I thrust the pack sheet out so he can read it. He takes it from me and I watch his eyes scan down the names. I was expecting a reaction like Cecilia’s or Ms. O’Brien’s, a slight widening of his eyes, a groan, a little frustration.

Instead, Leon flies to his feet, a snarl ripping from his chest.

I flinch, cowering back into my seat. Sometimes I forget how large Leon is. The way he cradles me in his arms, his throaty murmur, the soft brush of his thumb over my lips… all of it is gone as fury swells his frame. Corded muscles stand out on his neck as he looms over me, his face contorted with rage.

For a moment it looks like he might punch something—a vein pulses at his temple, his jaw clenched and strained as his single remaining fist balls up in preparation. But then he notices me. He deflates.

“Oh Indie,” he huffs. “I’m so sorry.” He slumps into his seat, dropping the crumpled Pack sheet on the desk.

“Cecilia and Ms. O’Brien were surprised but… what was that?”

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