scant hours, felt filled up in ways I never had before. There’d been no cracks inside me, no aching need. I’d been complete.
Which should’ve warned me.
This probably seems confusing to you, dear reader. If I was to have a screaming breakdown, like I was now, why in the confines of James’ bedroom? Why not at Mum and Dad’s? Why not at Apothecary? It was because my brain had been trained very, very early as to when, where, and if it processed pain. Not in front of my parents, that was a guarantee of pain and shame. Not in public, for the same reason. Not around the servants, that wasn’t done. Not at school, at parties, not anywhere anyone could see, and where could an omega go that was safe from that? I wasn’t allowed locks on my door, so a long parade of Helens, both past and present, could waltz into my room without impunity.
So where then?
In the early days, it was with my sister, burrowed down in her bed, with her piling the comforters and blankets on top of me to make a proto-nest, then curling her own body around me as I sobbed. Then there was Tris.
The first time he found me like this, he’d dragged me out into the yard, something that just had my nervous system screaming, until we were inside the little cottage his parents used, then into his room. It had smelt of boy and cut grass and musk and the earth just after it rained, and I would forever associate that with comfort. He drew me closer, then as now, inside James Chadwick’s bedroom that smelled strange and familiar all at the same time.
“Here you go,” Brendan said, standing at the doorway, the nesting materials in a bag held at arm’s length so he wouldn’t taint them with his scent. “Get her locked down tight and she’ll come good. Call us if she doesn’t.”
“Thanks,” Tris said, snatching the bag from him and tearing it open, throwing fabric around the room wildly with hands that shook until he found that place inside him, part memory, part instinct, that told him which were the right fabrics and which were the wrong ones. I was laid down on the bed, still shivering, until the first length of fabric was wrapped around me, then another, then another.
“Soft ones,” Tris told James. “No, really soft. We can use the other stuff to shore up the walls, but on her skin they have to be as soft as a baby’s bum. She gets so bloody sensitive. Princess and the pea, I call her when she’s like this. Can feel a tiny bit of roughness from a mile away. Yes, that one. That’s good. More like that.”
My limbs twitched, needing to help them, to control things, the shape of the nest, but that wasn’t happening right now. I was raw, too fucking raw by half.
Later, after I’d stopped imploding, I scolded myself for losing my shit, for being so bloody dramatic about it all, but back then? I’d been told by my therapist that people who were brought up in more functional households dealt with disappointment and pain quite differently. Even harrowing experiences were mitigated by the solid base they’d received growing up. If they could hold onto that, the feeling of being enough, of being fine just the way they are, of being loved, cherished, having their needs attended to and respected, as well as their boundaries, it didn’t make recovery necessarily easier, but it gave them a better set of tools to tackle that process.
My brain? It joined all the dots between the other experiences just like this, all the times I’d been mocked, reviled, criticised, put down, dismissed, hurt, ignored, or worse, when I’d gotten the full brunt of my family’s attention. It pulled up all the times I’d needed something so much and no one had even recognised that, let alone attended to it, then waved them frantically in the air.
This is you. This is your life, it screamed in my ear. This is your future.
“No,” Tristan said, settling down beside me, wedging me tighter into the nest. “I won’t let it be.”
“Can I come in, omega?”
“Stay clothed, hold her really fucking tight, and keep your knot to yourself. She’s not ready for that, not ready at all.”
And then the last piece of the puzzle slotted in place. I felt the fabric shift, bending to allow him entrance, but while that made me feel like whining, the press of his body, his scent, along with Tristan’s, it gave my body time to do what it needed to. I was made to take more than an alpha or a beta, my body able to stretch around a knot without pain due to the massive flood of endorphins and serotonin that came from moments when I was pushed. My thoughts and feelings didn’t stop, they just grew more and more muted until finally, my consciousness gave up and let go.
Chapter 34
“You’re OK, princess.”
That deep raspy voice… I lifted my head up slightly, feeling the muscles shriek in response, but when an omega heard her alpha, she answered.
“Len…?” My voice was hoarse, rusty, but the reply was immediate. Hard bodies clutched me tighter, and him? He acknowledged me down the phone line.
“Here, baby. We’re on our way. It’s gonna be OK. Don’t go up St Martin’s Road, it’ll be bloody packed this time of day. We’ll cut through the suburbs.”
“Got it,” Jackson replied. “Is she doing OK? You OK, princess?”
I wasn’t and I was. I also needed to answer them. When my barriers were down, my susceptibility to suggestion got so much more intense. Words rose, sentences formed in my brain but were discarded before I got more than a squeak out, but that squeak got their attention.
“Stop asking questions,” Tris snapped, his hand smoothing my hair back. “She can’t do that right now.”
“Got it,” Len replied. “We’re gonna do what we did last time, right? Tris has got his hands on you. I know he does. As he strokes that hand down your body, your mind is gonna follow it, because it’s not just him that’s stroking you. That hand, it’s his hand and my hand and Jackson’s hand.”
“Damn right,” came the fainter beta’s contribution.
“We’re stroking you as he’s stroking you. James is holding you. You are holding her, alpha?” That last bit was a growl, but it made me shiver in a good way not a bad way, my eyes falling closed again as my muscles began to uncoil.
“Of course I’m fucking holding her,” James’ shot back, voice crisp. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to bring myself to stop.”
“Good, then that’s all of us holding you, baby, until we get there and we can do it for real. Not long now.”