Page 46 of Your Wild Omega

She smiles in relief and thrusts the basket into my hands. “These are for you.”

I glance down. Red roses and white baby’s breath nestle beside brilliant purple irises, the yellow-splashed centers bright as sunny smiles. I pluck the card from its clear plastic skewer and read Callisto’s message.Knock them dead, gorgeous.

I grin. All my alphas are cheering for me.

Chapter eighteen

Red

I stroke Rickon’s parrot on his smooth cheeks, caressing over the transition from egg-yolk yellow to brilliant green down the feathered neck. “Repeat after me,” I tell the little critter. “I’ll. Come. Back.”

Ozzie tilts his head. “Hello. Fuuuck?”

I cover a giggle. “No. I’ll come back.” I deepen my voice, imitating the famousTerminalphaquote.

The parrot squawks and leans into my pats.

Footsteps shuffle across the floor behind me, and Rickon leans on the back of the couch. “I see what you’re doing there.”

I grin and lift Ozzie so the parrot can climb from me to his favorite person. Rickon places him on his shoulder, idly scratching the feathered head. Ozzie nibbles his ear and Rickon hisses in warning, but although the parrot can get cranky, he’s only playing right now.

Zack, who’s been watching a kids’ educational program on the TV, rises from his seat on the floor by my feet and the bird flapsand shrieks again. Our alpha bares his teeth, but he’s gotten used to the bird’s antics by now. Not that I’d trust his big hands around the slender parrot just yet.

“He’s sure got plenty to say,” Rickon says, walking toward the cage. “Ready to go?”

I scoff dryly. “Maybe I should take him with me, so at least someone talks.”

Rickon throws me a pained smile over his shoulder before depositing the bird in his home. “This therapist might not be all bad. At least give her a chance, yeah?”

I keep my snappy comeback to myself. Rickon’s not the one who has to endure an hour with some world-renowned psych-gabbler. No, the poor sod going in would be me. But we both know better than to complain because this is part of our deal with the Omega Center.

“Well, let’s hope she’s better than Doc Woods,” I mutter under my breath, although I’m not sure whatbetterconstitutes. No way do I want to end up back in the head psychologist’s office at the Omega Center.

On a positive note, at least Doctor Leanne Gunry agreed to see me around my hectic filming schedule, which means an evening visit.

We pile into the car with Rickon driving and Agent Josef covering a yawn as he tags along. Zack must sense my nervousness, because he lies down on the back seat and links his arms around my waist as much as his cast allows, refusing to let go. The strength in his grip reassures me, and I stroke his coarse hair, gradually calming down. Worst case scenario, I can sit in this woman’s office silently for an hour before hightailing out of there.

We pull up in front of a cottage set back from the street. Porch lights throw a soft orange radiance over the wrought iron fence and tiny garden jammed full of flowers.

I crane to look down the dark street. “Do we have the right address?” This cute but crumbling shack does not ooze renowned therapist vibes.

Rickon checks on his phone. “I think so?”

We pile out and tromp our way through the squeaky iron gate and onto the porch. Rickon slams an antique iron knocker a few times while we exchange confused glances.

“Come on in,” a cheery voice calls from inside.

The place is definitely an old house, but the inside has been converted and looks a tad more like an office space, with a few official plaques and certifications. I smirk as I notice most of them hang crooked.

The woman’s voice floats through an arch to the side. “On your left.”

She swivels on a stool as we enter, backed by a large canvas splattered in paint. “Welcome, blessed girl. Let me take a look at you now.” The smiling woman pulls glasses from out of her nest of frizzy orange hair and pops them on her nose.

If she was given a stereotyped role to play, she’d be the boil-and-toil crazy hedge witch, or the head-in-the-clouds literature teacher whose eyes light up at the mention of Shakespeare while wearing socks that don’t match. Definitely wouldn’t have pegged her for anyone with a degree that took years to complete.

Okay, I’m being terribly judgy, but this is my way of adjusting my expectations. She doesn’t give me Dr Woods vibes at all, and that’s a good thing.

“Booyah!” she exclaims, grinning at me as she finishes her inspection. “What a charmer you are. Would you do me a favor and put on an apron?” She waves the long paintbrush in her hand toward a set of pegs on the wall. “I can get a bit enthusiastic sometimes and the paint gets everywhere.”

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