14. Jasmine

If I thought Erik was mad at me for leaving the car, I know for certain that Casper was badly hurt. His frightened cry still echoes in my ears, and I feel like shit when Kelly tells me he's upstairs with Xavier and the doctor. The cowardly part of me wants to go hide until they're done, but I know that's not an option. If he wants to shout at me, I more than deserve it. And if he wants to boot me out of his bed, then I'll just have to suck it up and deal with it. Somehow.

Kelly said they're in Xavier's office, so I duck into the bathroom attached to Casper's suite to freshen up. I wince at the sight that greets me, from the sweaty, tangled hair that's hanging lankly around my shoulders, to the purple egg blooming on my bloodless temple. I quickly splash water on my face, dabbing on some concealer and lip gloss. There's no time to brush my hair, so I pull it back into a high ponytail and then head into the closet. Someone has hung up all the garment bags and I swap the leather jacket for a soft green sweater, then trade my jeans for comfy leggings. I know Casper doesn't care what I look like, but it makes me feel better to leave some of that alleyway grime behind me.

I didn't pay much attention to Xavier's office earlier, except that I got the impression it's as elegant and sophisticated as the man himself. When I step over the threshold, I cast a quick glance around, taking in the dark polished floorboards, the visitor chairs in gray flannel, and the huge contemporary walnut desk. It's like climbing into the pocket of an Armani suit.

My gaze snaps to Xavier like a magnet. He's leaning on the edge of his desk, his feet crossed at the ankles. He's taken off his jacket and the sleeves are rolled up, exposing the bronze muscles of his forearms. It also puts his suspenders on display, which are a drool-worthy brown leather stretched against the crisp white of his shirt. But there's also a lot of tension in the way he's holding himself, and I follow his gaze across the room.

"I'll run these tests back at the lab," a middle-aged man in a navy suit says as he closes a black medical bag and turns towards Xavier. He has a kind face beneath a shock of thick white hair, but his brows are pulled together, and I can clearly see the concern in his eyes. "It's fine to take things day by day, but we're approaching the six-month mark. I'm not saying things won't progress naturally from here, but it's important we review the rehabilitation plan and make some longer-term decisions."

"Thanks, Peter. We'll schedule it with your office." The doctor nods, but Xavier is already striding across the room towards me, that tension in his body increasing with every step. When he reaches me, he captures my chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning my head to study the bruise under its layer of concealer. "You got out of the car, Jasmine."

I suck in a breath at the scowl on his face. I expected to get hauled over the coals by Erik, but I can feel my cheeks growing hot the longer Xavier glares at me. And then there's his scent, which swirls around me like spicy smoke. If my tear ducts weren't already exhausted, I'm pretty sure it would make my eyes water. "Yeah, I'm s-sorry," I stammer. "It was stupid. But I saw Violet and just reacted -."

He cuts me off by leaning forward and pressing his lips to the edge of my bruise. My skin tingles, and I feel my body sway towards him. But he steps back suddenly and any hope of him forgiving me evaporates as he says in an ominous tone, "You can debrief me on the mission later."

I nod, my eyes sliding past him as Casper steps out of the ensuite, wiping his hands on his jeans. His hair is sticking up in every direction like a messy crown, and there are pink blotches on his damp cheeks. I don't know if he's been crying or if he just splashed water on his face, but I want to run across the room and hurl myself at him. Only Xavier holds me back, nodding to the other man. "Jasmine, this is Peter, our pack doctor. I've asked him to assess your injury. Casper and I will be waiting next door to give you some privacy."

I don't see why that's necessary when the bump is right there on my head, but Casper is already turning and walking towards the door. His movements are jerky, and I reach out to grab his hand as he passes me. "I'm sorry," I grimace, hating that I'm apologizing twice in as many breaths. "I shouldn't have left you in the parking lot. It was a shitty thing to do, especially after I asked you to come along with me."

"It's okay," he says, squeezing my hand. "I would've probably done the same thing." He gives an abrupt laugh that chokes off in his throat. "I mean, if I could see a foot in front of my fucking face."

I flinch at the despair in his voice, but before I can pull him in for a hug, Xavier is leading him out of the room, leaving me alone with the doctor. I eye him warily, taking in his subtle beta scent and the deep wrinkles around his eyes. I'm not sure why a doctor has so many laugh lines, especially if all his patients look as upset as Casper.

"What did you tell him?" I ask, my voice harsh in the quiet room.

Instead of answering my question, he asks one of his own. "Has he talked to you about his rehabilitation?" I shake my head and his lips thin, none of those laugh lines putting in an appearance. "At the four-month point, we'd hope to see an improvement in his visual acuity, but a head injury is a tricky thing. Post-traumatic vision loss isn't unusual, but when there's no direct injury to the eye or orbit, it's often due to trauma to the optic nerve or intracranial visual pathways. That's a neurological issue, and while it's frustrating for the patient, there aren't really any effective medical or surgical treatments for traumatic optic neuropathy."

"What does that mean?"

"We have to wait and see." His lips droop down at the poor pun, and I realize those wrinkles around his eyes are sad lines, not happy ones. "I'm a trauma doctor, not a neurologist, but all the medical research says the same thing. He may get full, partial, or no return of his vision. And there's not a lot I can do to influence that."

I nod, because frustration at the medical world is something I'm more than familiar with. "Okay, thanks for explaining it to me. And I'm here to help if you think of anything that might make it easier for him."

"Lots of rest, good food, and gentle exercise. A few orgasms wouldn't hurt, either." When my brows shoot up, he smiles. "He was the happiest I've seen him until I gave him his ocular trauma score. I'm assuming you have something to do with that?"

I squirm, then remember the employment contract I signed right here on the corner of Xavier's desk. "We're friends. Plus, I'm helping the pack out as a paid companion."

It's the doctor's turn to look surprised and I wonder if it's because of my designation. He's probably used to the prissy kind of omega who won't lift a finger to help anyone else, and I certainly came across a few of them in the dorm. For some, life is one big competition for a pack's affections, while others are so spoiled they seem to have forgotten what human decency is. But then, the way my father and his scientists messed with my wiring, maybe I'm the perfect pack companion.

All the attractive aesthetics of an omega, with none of the ego.

"How about you sit on the sofa and let me give you a quick look over?"

I realize I've been staring into space, which is probably a red flag for a trauma doctor with a concussion patient. "I'm fine," I tell him quickly. "It's just a bump on my head."

"My bread and butter," he tells me, guiding me to the sofa and rummaging through his medical bag. "I'm just going to give you a basic check-up, and if we have any concerns, we can talk about some further tests."

I don't see that I have a lot of choice, so I perch on the edge of the sofa while he checks my pupils, my pulse, and my blood pressure. He then examines my neck and spine, asking me a bunch of questions to test for concussion, like the date, month, and year, and who won the last Super Bowl. I roll my eyes at that, and he chuckles. "Not a fan?"

"I just don't think this is a big deal. I have a headache, but that could be because of all the crying."

I'm not sure why I said that, but the doctor just nods. "Xavier said you might want to talk to me about your heats."

I jerk back, frowning. "There's no trauma there, if that's what you're thinking."

"I'm a regular doctor as well as a trauma specialist," he says in his mild way. "I can run the same tests you'd get at any heat clinic."

I shudder at the thought of this doctor getting a close-up look at my endocrine system. I don't know exactly what he'd find, since my father and Dr. Tampa never shared the details with me, but I can't imagine it would win them any humanitarian awards.

"Xavier said you've only experienced sedated heats," the doctor goes on. "Is that something you'd like to change now you're with a pack?"

"They're mild." I try to blank my face, since he's watching my reactions so closely. "I take suppressants, and they've always worked in the past. I know Xavier doesn't like that, but a doctor prescribed them."

Not that you can call Dr. Tampa a pillar of the profession, but I'm technically telling the truth. But Peter just chuckles. "Xavier is a dominant alpha with a highly compatible omega under his roof. Of course he rates heat suppressants up there with black magic." When I pull a face, he starts to pack up his bag, but then pauses to say, "I'm not saying that prolonged use of suppressants is a good thing, but most health side effects can be managed. It's the emotional benefits I'd like you to consider." He takes a card from his bag and hands it to me. "This is a website run by omegas, for omegas. Some are doctors, but mostly it's just people talking about heats and how to get the most out of them. It might be useful for you and Casper to give it a look."

He winces at his word choice but pats me on the shoulder as he heads out. I stare at the card – a sunflower print with the name Omega Bloom written on the front and a website address beneath it. I wish it was that easy. Chat with a few faceless people about my predicament, and then skip off into the sunset with my biologically compatible pack. But the truth is, I have no clue what the future holds for me. I'm due to have my next injection in a month, and my father never explained what would happen if I missed it, other than to say it would all unravel. Maybe my hormones will go haywire, and I'll end up humping the furniture. Or maybe I'll revert back to whatever designation nature intended for me before my father decided to sacrifice me to science.

I snort and toss the card on the sofa. But I've only taken a couple of steps towards the door when Xavier appears with a glass of water. He shoots me an intense look as he shuts the door behind him, then hands me two small pills.

"What are these for?"

He raises his brows at my suspicious tone. "It's Tylenol for your headache. Peter said there's no sign of concussion, but we should keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four hours." He waits until I swallow the medication and drink the glass of water, then says, "Casper is having a nap, Declan's at the club, and Erik is showing Violet the terrace. I'd like to speak to you while we have a moment alone, if that's alright."

Based on his potent scent, I'd be wise to turn him down and go curl up with Casper. But I give a reluctant nod and he leads me to his desk, nudging me back until I'm perched on the edge. When he steps in close, I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes and I realize this isn't going to be an easy little chat. "You didn't seem mad on the phone," I say, because I'm not in the mood to apologize again.

"I'm not mad. I'm…" It's strange to see him lost for words and he takes a deep breath, his suspenders pulling taut against his muscles. "I was worried you were in shock. Possibly concussed. And I was just so fucking glad you were on your way back to me."

My heart pounds, both at his possessive words and at the flash in his eyes. Not eyeshine, but something dark and hungry all the same. And when the first whisper of my arousal fills the air, he sucks it deep into his lungs, his gaze dragging down my body. "But now I've had a chance to see you in person, the relief is giving way to something else."

I brace my arms on the edge of the desk, wishing I could keep my mouth shut in moments like this. "Something good, I hope."

He smirks, and while it's devastatingly handsome, I'm not sure it bodes well for me. "That depends on your interpretation of good."

I gulp, and he reaches out to brush his fingers along my throat before coming to rest over my scent gland. I'm pretty sure he can feel the blood pounding under the delicate patch of skin, because his eyes darken as he asks, "How willing are you to put your body in my hands, Jasmine?"