Page 36 of Cold Moon

Now that he was dead, a lot of people in the pack complained about how old-fashioned and terrible Aspen Senior had been, but never in my life would I forget that day. The way he looked at her, then looked me over, head to toe, like he was assessing my value. I had the desperate fear that he would see what she did, a weakling and invalid who needed to go home and stop playing at being an adult. Finally, he’d asked me, “Think you can do the job he wants you to?” All I’d been able to muster was a nod, frantic and breathless and hopeful.

He’d looked at my mother, shrugged, and said, “You’ve got to let them go sometime, Marian.” Then he’d nodded to me. “I’m sure you’ll do fine, young man. Don’t let Linden overwork you. He’s distractible, that boy.”

And Linden was, sometimes. Not in a bad way, but in the way where he’d get to working and forget about lunch. I’d set up a new schedule for him within a week of starting, poking and prodding whenever he got engrossed in something instead of continuing with his other duties, and for almost a year, everything had run smoothly.

Because I was good for something, no matter what my mother thought. I was good at my job.

One of the waiting-room chairs fell into place next to the desk chair I sat in with a squeak, and Linden dropped into it.

“Did you need me to move?” I asked, bracing myself to stand.

He reached out and wrapped a hand around my wrist, holding it gently in place. “Skye.”

“What?” That came out a little sharper than I’d intended, maybe. A little more defensive.

I was good at my job.

“Those flowers are lovely,” he said, out of nowhere.

I nodded, but I didn’t look at them again. They were beautiful. The most beautiful. They were going to sit on the counter of my kitchenette until they dried completely out, withered and browned, looking like just the kind of mementos old maids in the eighteenth century had kept, to remember when they’d had half a chance at a future with another person.

I was worth something.

Suddenly, Linden’s hand was on my cheek, wiping at tears with his handkerchief. When had I started crying? Ugh, just like the weakling everyone thought I was.

“Dante gave you flowers?” was all he asked.

I nodded, but what could I say? How could I explain? Hell, howhadI gotten from a beautiful boy giving me flowers to crying like a little kid with a skinned knee?

“What did he say?”

I let myself fall forward onto my alpha’s shoulder. “He asked me to have dinner with him.”

“And you said...?”

“I said we shouldn’t,” I mumbled into his chest, but it came out sounding more like gibberish.

Knowing me as he did, Linden didn’t even have to ask for clarification. “And why did you say that, when you obviously wanted to go?”

Ugh. All I could tell him was the truth, and he’d go allLinden, and tell me I was as good as anybody, and other beautiful, sweet, kind words, but that was because Linden loved me. He didn’t want to see that I was sickly and weak, and what alpha really wanted an omega like that?

When I didn’t answer, he didn’t immediately prod, just held me against his chest, petting me like I was a cat. When I couldn’t take the aimless kindness anymore, I turned so my mouth wasn’t muffled by his sweater and sighed. “Mom’s right. No one wants an omega like me.”

There was a tiny hitch in his motions, just a slight increase in the tension in his arm, before he went back to the smooth, rhythmic motion. “Skye, you know I have the utmost respect for your mother and her struggles, right?”

“Of course,” I agreed. He’d been taking care of her occasional Condition episodes for as long as I’d been alive. He was always perfect and professional and respectful to her. I didn’t think he liked her too much, but he was very good at his job, both as doctor and as alpha.

“Then I’d like you to remember that, when I say that sometimes, your mother is an incredibly selfish person, and frankly, not a very nice one.” I tried to pull back, but he kept right on petting me. “I know, I know. I’m supposed to be nice. But Skye, if she told you no one wants an omega like you, she was either completely wrong, or intentionally lying.”

“She worries about me,” I answered, and it came out tiny. Like I actually was a small child again.

“Maybe,” he said, halfheartedly. “Or maybe she wants you to need her. And every step you’ve made in the last year has taken you farther and farther away from her.”

I was probably pouting, but I couldn’t help it when I immediately shot back with, “I can see her house from my living-room window.”

His chest shook under my head. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Everyone else leaves home. I mean, almost everyone. It’s normal. Their parents don’t...” And how could I explain it? The all-encompassing, absolutely smothering love of my mother?

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