Chapter Five

Ryan

It was craft day, a favorite of all of the children. Not so much for me, especially ones like today, because it was "glitter day." We had one every month, and they were the kids' favorite by far. Anytime they had the little sparkly bits, they were in heaven. Sally said it was magical, and Michael called it super-powered art.

Whatever the case, I was going to end up scrubbing glitter out of their hair, vacuuming it off the floor, and washing it out of their clothes pretty much until the next time it was glitter day. I didn't mind, not really. It gave them so much joy.

"You guys almost have your art clothes on?"

"Just a second!" Ruthie called out. And it wasn't much after that when they came out with their paint-covered clothes. I discovered early on that it was best to have a set of clothes just for arts and crafts, ones that didn't matter if they got paint on them. The kids loved it because it meant they could get paint on them. And yes, they were a lot messier when they didn't have to keep their clothes clean, but that was fine. They were having fun.

They were getting to the age when we were going to need to set up a second bedroom for them. I put it on my list of things to talk to Sloan about. They'd been so great about taking us in and letting us make a home here, I felt bad asking for more, but six kids in one room was getting to be a bit too cramped.

"Okay, let's get there so you guys can get first pick!" Not that they needed first pick. There were tons of glitter. Sloan got it all at some kind of closeout somewhere, and we had an entire shelf devoted to it. I wasn't sure how it came to be that glitter was only used every so often, since we had such an abundance. But I had a feeling it came from omegas—omegas who were sick of getting it out of their children's hair.

I ushered the kids down to meet everybody and was just about to walk them inside when Sloan tapped me on the shoulder.

"Hey, once you get the kids settled in there, come see me, okay?"

Nerves built in my belly. If he needed to see me, I must have messed something up. Maybe I forgot to put something away or missed a meeting. There were a thousand things it could be, and the longer I thought about it, the longer that list became. I wasn't even sure why I was so worried. It wasn't like Sloan had ever done anything other than show me a better way to do something. It probably went back to being a kid worried that every wrong step I made might lead to one more scar.

I guided the kids to the table and let the director know I would be back near the end of class. Six hugs later, I was off to find Sloan in his office. It had only been a few minutes since he asked me to go see him, but it felt like eons.

"Hey, what's up? Did I miss a meeting again?" Twice in the past month I had—both times because I was shifting and neither intentional. Each time, he assured me it was fine, but it would only be fine so many times.

"No, nothing like that. It's just… I'm worried about you." He gestured to a chair, and I sat down.

"Worried about me?" I was, too, but I thought I'd done a better job of hiding it than I apparently had.

"Yeah. You've been shifting a lot, your beast is really close to the surface all the time, and you're quiet—like you're keeping a big secret inside."

Why did he have to see me? Why did he have to see me so completely?

"I don't like talking about it." I wasn't going to lie to him. He'd been far too good to me for that.

"I know." He took the seat beside me. "I know you don't, and I also know you've been going to extra therapy sessions. Are they helping?"

"No because I don't like talking about it." I'd only gone to those sessions because I thought maybe it was a magical cure, but admitting the sickness—I wasn't ready for that—or at least I hadn't been.

"Please, Ryan, let me in. I can't help you if I don't…if you don't."

I wasn't sure what he said that made it suddenly feel okay to share. Maybe it was because I knew his life had been pretty shitty for a while too. Or maybe it was because I could no longer hold it in. But I told him everything—about my omega father, my alpha father, my grandmother, and how I got captured. All of it.

When I was done, cheeks wet with tears, he wrapped his arms around me and held me close. "Oh, my sweet boy, you've been holding this in for so long."

I nodded into his chest.

"But it's good news."

I pulled back. Surely I'd heard him wrong. "What do you mean, it's good news?"

"Did you ever wonder why your omega father left?"

I had—a thousand times—but I was pretty sure he meant something specific here, so I shook my head.

"The sickness—the one your grandmother talked about—that was a mate pull gone wrong."

I'd heard about that. It didn't happen to everyone, but some beasts couldn't handle scenting but not mating their fated.

"Your father scented his mate, and it drove his beast mad. I don't know why he didn't find his mate or how that happened, but your omega dad left because the bond they had no longer existed. True mates always top matings of convenience or love, or whatever had them getting together. Your father lost control of his beast because he scented his true mate and never found him again. He might not have even known what was going on."

Looking back, I was pretty sure he hadn't. If he had, he wouldn't have stayed with me. He'd have hunted them down and left the family himself.

"How is this good news?"

"Because that means what you're feeling—that's the mating pull."

"But I haven't gone anywhere, and there have been no new alphas. That doesn't make any sense." You need to scent an alpha to feel the bond. That much I knew.

"You just had a birthday," he said as if that answered everything.

I nodded. "Yeah, but only people I know came."

"You. Just. Had. A. Birthday." Enunciating every word.

"Oh shit." It wasn't just any birthday; it was an important one. "You mean, I just became old enough to scent my mate."

Fate was tricky like that—not letting us scent our mates until we were of age. But who? Who could it be? My mind wandered straight to King.

King was my mate. It wasn't a crush. He was mine.

Did he know? Did he care?

He was technically old enough to be my father. He saw me as a kid. Crap. Maybe the sickness was better after all. Rejection had to be worse.