Page 80 of Impossible

“The Coalition wouldn’t let you, right?” I scoff, unable to look at him. “So it’s a moot point. If you or I or anybody else wanted anything different. Which I don’t. And you don’t. So we’re fine.”

“Right.”

I said it first. So why does it feel like a rejection?

He doesn’t try to pick up his sandwich in the awkward silence that ensues. He just stares at me.

“I’m being serious, Leon,” I soften. “About the medical heat. I saw the videos this morning. The ones they show classes. I don’t know which is worse, being that vulnerable with a group of alphas,anyalphas, or being alone. I prefer alone though. I’ve done everything else hard in my life alone, and I’ve made it this far. I can do this too. Now, can we eat?”

He stares at the photo on his desk. He reaches out with his left arm, like he might try to pick it up. He grimaces, bringing the stump close to his body and circling it with his right hand. Finally, he looks at me again. “Sure, little bird,” he says gently. “Let’s eat.”

And just like that, calm, serene Leon is back.

He tells me a little more about the Coalition, the history of how it came about to protect omegas. I can tell he doesn’t want to discuss feral alphas. Doesn’t want to scare me any more than he already has. Ha.

I listen, but only with my ears. My body is watching his, like it always is, feeling the tightness in him, his scent beginning to leech from his de-scented skin. His voice is kind, but he is hurting.

I long to reach out and touch him. I ache, wishing that I wasn’t another person to pretend for. I want the real him. The one that rasped over me in bed last night. That builds a treehouse. That smiles on sunny beaches.

A stomachache comes on halfway through eating. The pain is familiar, sharp and high in my abdomen. I almost feel nostalgic for it. The launch point of my eating disorder, come back to haunt me. This is what I deserve.

I eat every bite of food, even though it’s ash in my mouth and acid in my stomach. I do it to please Leon, because there’s nothing else I can offer.

I don’t tell him that when he wheels me to the bathroom on the way back to class, I vomit up everything I managed to eat anyway. I have a sick sense of satisfaction that maybe, just maybe, I can starve off my heat a little longer.

23

Maudlin

Leon

IgostraighttoJoshua’s room when I get home.

Leaving him alone this morning after last night’s interrogation was wrong, and even though I kept texting and texting Risk, I got no answer. He usually goes to Joshua’s bed when he stumbles back after a bender, but my stomach swam with worry anyway. I never thought I’d rely on a bender.

If I hadn’t promised Indie I’d have lunch with her, I probably would have called in. My pack needs me. All of them. Indie-inclusive.

And, of course, Hollis, nowhere to be found. Running from Joshua’s sleepy smells and smashed-flat curls this morning. He couldn’t take it, being next to us.

I shouldn’t feel superior. I remember that pressure, when I was meant to be Pack Alpha. To be stronger, to always have an answer. I was eager to hand it to Hollis, when he entered our lives. He always knew what to do. When all I could give Joshua was myself, Hollis gave him a future. Both of us. And now it’s gone. Hollis is gone. My throat aches.

There has never been a point in my life when I wasn’t destined to be in a pack with Joshua. Yet still, alone in bed this morning after Hollis’s flight, I was anxious. He was too. Indie’s lingering scent danced with our sharpness as we fought our instincts. To get up and run or roll over and pull each other close, I couldn’t tell.

It took me until I was in the car driving to the Complex to realize: I should have held him. I should have been able to tell. He was dying for it, every inch of him needing, and I got up and left. If I had had the bond, I would have known. If I wasn’t fucking blind, I would have known. I should have known.

I take the stairs three at a time and open his door. Bed made, sheets clean, hamper empty. Joshua gone.

I go to Risk’s room next. The smell hits me before I even open the door. Bourbon and body odor.

A tornado has struck, and it takes me a moment to pick out their bodies in the wreckage. Risk’s knives are nowhere to be found, the bed dragged away from the wall, dresser knocked over, floor hidden under the debris from… whatever happened. Clothing and bottles and leather straps and fidget toys and scraps of paper are scattered everywhere.

They’re curled together, Risk using Joshua as a pillow. They reek of whiskey. Risk is still in his work clothes from last night, boots and all. He has a chemical smell cutting his woodsmoke and liquor. Noxious fumes. I kneel and press a finger to Joshua’s throat. His pale skin is nearly translucent, paper thin. His pulse is fine. He’s fine. My breath leaves me in a whoosh.

Risk snores. He’s fine too. A bender, not a suicide pact. Isn’t this what I hoped for?

I fall back on my ass, sitting next to them.

Drunk. Joshua’s drunk. It was a comfort to me, after the attack, that he never turned to the bottle. He didn’t need help to find his numb.

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