Page 9 of A Cobbled Conspiracy
“And I don’t care.” I meant it—every syllable. “I need to see him, Penny. I need to know he’s okay, that he’s not giving up hope. This bond… it’s like part of me is missing. I can’t help but wonder what it’s doing to him.”
Penny nodded seriously. “Then you go. Let Blake worry about security. You just focus on Dominic.”
I forced myself to eat half a croissant, though everything tasted like cardboard. The tea helped settle my stomach, and Penny’s chatter about shop gossip and district news provided a welcome distraction from my anxiety.
By the time Blake arrived to pick me up, looking crisp and professional despite probably having been up and out since daybreak, I felt marginally more human.
“The car will be here in twenty minutes,” he said, pouring himself coffee and studying my face with clinical assessment. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“I’m serious. The separation symptoms are getting worse. Dr. Westfield wants to see you again. Maybe I should?—”
“After I visit Dominic.”
Blake’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. We’d had this fight already. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“And you,” Blake turned to Penny. “You and Jake stay here for now. Security protocols are in place. I’ll have someone monitoring communications. If anything feels wrong, call me immediately. You can check on your shops later this evening.”
Penny saluted with mock seriousness. “Aye aye, Alpha Blake.”
Despite everything, I found myself smiling. A week ago, I would have bristled at being managed like this. Now, with my world turned upside down and my mate locked away, I was grateful for people who cared enough to worry.
I finished getting ready in Blake’s guest room, choosing clothes that would hopefully look presentable under harsh prison lighting. My hands shook slightly as I combed my hair, and I had to take several deep breaths to calm my racing heart.
Today, I would finally see Dominic. Talk to him. I wouldn’t be able to embrace him, but perhaps, I could hold his hand at least.
The detention center’s waiting room smelled like industrial disinfectant and despair. This was my first time here. I tried not to stare at the other visitors—a beta man clutching a container of homemade cookies, a young omega woman whose distress scent made my own new bond ache in sympathy, a teenager anxiously tapping her sneaker while the older woman beside her crocheted what appeared to be a scarf.
We were all part of the same sorrowful club: people who loved someone the system had decided to cage.
“Sterling-Hart, private visitation.” The guard’s voice carried the flat professionalism of someone who’d called out thousands of names to thousands of desperate people.
I followed him and Blake through security checkpoints that felt designed to strip away dignity along with personal belongings. Each barrier reminded visitors that we were entering a world where normal rules didn’t apply. My skin prickled with discomfort at the invasive pat-down, the harsh lights, the way guards looked at me like I was probably smuggling something. They made Blake empty his pockets completely, examined his credentials, and subjected both of us to metal detectors that seemed overly sensitive.
The private visitation room boxed us in claustrophobically, with barely enough space for the metal table tucked near one corner, two rigid chairs, and the guard station positioned by the door. Cameras swiveled from ceiling mounts, their unblinking lenses capturing our every movement from multiple angles.
“Physical contact limited to scenting only, as per omega welfare regulations,” the correctional officer explained to Blake, who nodded his understanding. “Any violation of contact rules terminates the visit immediately.”
When they brought Dominic in, my heart clenched at how much seven days had changed him.
The confident corporate executive I’d fallen for had been replaced by someone more careful, more controlled. His orange jumpsuit hung loose on his frame—was it the lighting, or had he lost more weight?—and shadows under his steel-gray eyes spoke of sleepless nights. When our eyes met, the new mating bond flared to life with such intensity that I had to grip the table.
His scent—everything my omega instincts recognized asmine—wrapped around me despite the visiting room’s sterile air, but it was wrong. Stressed. Underlaid with the harsh chemical tang of industrial soap and something wild and barely contained.
“Leo.” My name on his lips sounded like a prayer and a question rolled into one.
The guard's key clicked in the handcuff lock, metal links clinking as they fell away from Dominic's raw-looking wrists. With a jerk of his chin, the officer motioned Dominic toward the empty chair across from me.
“You look like hell,” I said, which probably wasn’t the most romantic greeting.
A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Prison chic isn’t really my style.”
The casual joke made my chest tight with emotions I was still learning to navigate through our new bond. Even here, locked away from everything he’d built, Dominic was trying to make me feel better.
“How are you holding up?” I asked, studying the shadows under his eyes.
“Learning things about our justice system I never wanted to know,” he replied carefully, glancing around at the cameras and listening devices that made private conversation impossible. His gaze dropped to his hands, knuckles whitening where they pressed against the table.