Page 68 of Omega's Fire

I set the phone aside and close my eyes, emotionally drained but somehow lighter than I’ve felt in weeks. The baby settles too, her movements slowing to gentle shifts.

“Your papa’s trying,” I tell her softly. “Maybe that’s worth something.”

Nash

My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I’ve set it so that only my contacts actually make a sound, but I can see the screen lighting up yet again as I drink my morning coffee.

I let it go to voicemail again as I stare at the headline spread across my laptop screen. “Thorndike recants.”

I’ve gotten forty-seven calls since the apology aired. Colleagues who think I’ve lost my mind. Reporters who smell blood in the water. Rowe at the Bureau. I’ve spoken to one reporter, a contact I trust. We had a half hour interview that aired this morning. I’ve let everyone else go to voicemail.

My phone rings again, this time making a noise and I glance over at the screen. It’s Halvorsen.

“Morning.”

“What the fuck, Thorndike.” His voice crackles through my phone speaker as I pace my apartment. “You just publicly torpedoed your entire career on national television.”

“I apologized to Leo,” I correct, pausing by the window. “That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned everything I believe.”

“Nash—”

“I still believe prime matches are real, Ben, and that we need to support them. What needs to change is how they’re handled.”

I can practically hear him rolling his eyes through the phone. “You’re omega-whipped.” Then he bursts out laughing.

“Very funny.”

“It’s not. The Bureau doesn’t see it that way. Rowe left me three messages asking if you’ve had a mental breakdown.”

“Now thatisfunny. What did you tell her?”

“That I hadn’t spoken to you,” Halvorsen sighs. “Did you mean the apology or not?”

“Of course I meant it. Every word. It’s not a big thing. I can apologize if I’m wrong. And I’m not wrong about all of it.”

My phone buzzes with a text notification. Leo’s name on the screen makes my heart skip.

“Ben, I need to go.”

“Hot date?” he asks dryly.

“Something like that.”

“Fine. Go. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when this all goes to hell.”

I end the call and open Leo’s message with embarrassing eagerness.

I have a prenatal breathing class at 10:30. Would you want to come?

I stare at the words, reading them three times to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Leo is inviting me. To a prenatal class. To prepare for our daughter’s birth.

My phone rings again. The Bureau’s HR department this time. I let it go to voicemail and type my response to Leo:Yes. Should I pick you up?

The response takes a few minutes:I’m at my mom’s house.He sends the address.Is 10:00 okay?

Perfect. I’ll be there.

I abandon my coffee and head to the shower. By the time that I’m out, I have twelve new voicemails. I grab my keys.

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