Page 11 of Thorns That Bloom (Venusverse #3)

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Sam. That’s the last thing you needed on top of the already stressful symptoms that you weren’t expecting. For you to have felt triggered in that moment was absolutely natural and understandable.”

“I thought I’d be able to handle it and push it out of my mind like I usually do, but it completely overwhelmed me.

I broke down like some— An-anyway, they had to call an ambulance to make sure it was just a panic attack…

and now I feel like I embarrassed myself at work.

I moved there to escape the whispers. People knowing what happened.

Now, it feels like I’ll have to deal with it again. ”

I realize how tight my chest feels, so I force myself to take a deep breath. Dr. Stewart seems pleased with that, slowly raising her hand and mimicking the motion of expanding my rib cage as I do.

“The thing with feelings like these is that the more we push them away, the more we try to ignore them, the more powerful they become. It might work for a while, but that only gives them the strength to return—over and over again—until we decide to fully face and process them.”

“What if I don’t want to process them?” I huff out begrudgingly.

“It is entirely up to you when you decide to deal with them. You cannot do something you’re not ready for. But the longer you let them fester, the bigger the shadow they cast.”

The shadow is terrifying and all-encompassing enough already. It has been since the moment it happened.

“Besides…you’re here,” she says with a tender smile, pointing at me with her open hand.

“You undoubtedly made a step toward healing, and you clearly want to overcome this. That in itself is a wonderful thing. You are already making progress. Today, you might not feel ready to process those emotions, but maybe tomorrow or next week will be a different story.”

It’s true that I can’t hide from it forever. I know that.

“Let me ask you this. What is your goal here? What is the result you would like to take out of this?”

I press my lips together, tightening the grip on my stomach. “I just want to be a good parent. I don’t want any of this darkness to transfer to my child in any way.”

Dr. Stewart smiles when I glance up at her.

Her expression is supportive. Even…comforting.

“That’s a wonderful goal. What I would like you to do is set smaller, more realistic targets.

Sort of like markers on the way. A huge objective like, let’s say, saving the world, is great, but it might seem completely unachievable with its grandeur.

So, it’s important to create more manageable goals we can work on even when we don’t feel our best or when the size of the main one might overwhelm us.

What are your goals for the next five, six months? ”

Pushing the air out of my nose, I pensively look behind her, narrowing my eyes.

What are my ambitions for right now? Well…

“I…guess I want to learn to exist around alphas again without feeling like I...like I need to be on edge all the time and like all of them are a danger to me.”

Because logically, I know they aren’t. But at times, convincing myself of it seems like an impossible task. And that makes me angry. It makes me so damn angry that they had this effect on me. They permanently altered my mind and body, against my will, in more ways than the most obvious one.

“That’s a perfectly reasonable goal,” she says confidently, nodding at me. “For us venusfolk, the world is even more complex and hard to navigate sometimes. Do you have any positive alphas in your life that you could work off this feeling of security and comfort from?”

“Not really,” I mutter.

She must notice something about my face, since she knits her brows with the faintest hint of concern. “It’s very important to have a safety net of people you trust around you, especially at times like these. Is there anyone like that, regardless of second gender?”

Sighing, I look down. This is the time when I get a talking-to about how badly I’ve been dealing with this, huh?

“I’ve sort of…left everyone behind when I moved.

I’m fine that way. I never was much of a social butterfly,” I say with a smirk.

“I’ve been called abrasive, even before it happened.

I was always a bit of a cynical, unlovable weirdo.

People and I usually don’t mesh that well. ”

I don’t go into details of how the reaction of those around me, whom I considered friends, or at least good people, hurt me. How it frustrated and enraged me. I don’t want to even give them the time of day inside my head. All I want is to forget and leave them behind.

She takes a moment to respond. Does she think I’m some antisocial asshole? Maybe she’s going to diagnose me with some personality disorder…

I struggle to hold in an anxious sigh.

“You don’t need to be buddies with everyone, Sam.

And you don’t need that many close friends, either.

But it’s important to let yourself trust the right people.

Even if it’s simply—” She goes quiet, thinking with her lips pursed.

“Have you thought about maybe joining some groups of gestating omegas? Attending classes? What about some things you like to do? Hobbies, clubs?”

“I’ve thought about that,” I say quietly, darting my eyes across her table. There’s a picture frame there with its back to me. I wonder if it’s her partner, and what they look like. “It’s just that I have to focus on work right now. On saving up for the baby, and doing well, and…”

As I trail away, momentarily overwhelmed by all those thoughts, Angel intervenes.

“Thinking of your financial situation is the responsible thing to do, but your little one will benefit much more from a happy parent. Don’t forget to take care of yourself first. Remember how, when you are on a plane, they tell you to put your mask on first before helping anybody else in case of an emergency? Think of that principle.”

I let out an uncomfortably shaky breath, fidgeting on the couch.

“Right,” I say, chuckling awkwardly. What the hell am I supposed to say? I know I’m messing up. I know I need help to stop flopping in this shit like a stupid toddler. That’s why I came here.

Dr. Stewart shifts in her seat, making me face her again. She writes something in the notebook on her lap. “I think you’ve made a huge leap already, and this is more than enough for today, what do you say?” she asks, and her calming eyes study me gently for a response.

I nod.

I didn’t cry or break down, which is great, but I do feel somewhat drained. My chest is lighter than it was before after saying some of these things out loud, but I would love to go and lie down. It’s still…a lot.

“Wonderful. Remember, we’re taking this one step at a time. It might feel like we didn’t accomplish much today, but we did. We’ve established a goal you can focus on and talk to me about in our next session. You wanted to learn to trust and be comfortable around alphas again, correct?”

I nod once more, and she continues.

“I want you to know, to hear it from me if nobody else, that you didn’t deserve or ask for what happened to you.

And I am sure that most alphas you come across in your life would certainly feel the same.

But I also understand that—especially when it comes to pheromones and our bodies going through such intense states, like when in heat—it goes far deeper.

The things we feel and the emotions tied to these experiences are so innate that we can hardly explain them away to ourselves with words or logic.

The undeniably intimate nature of it makes everything much messier.

Still, I would like you to try to be in the presence of an alpha you are comfortable with, to show your subconscious that a situation like that doesn’t necessarily mean danger.

Would you like to work on that until the next time we see each other?

That is, if you’re happy to return for another session,” she adds with a calm smile, signaling that there’s no pressure for me to end it here.

My first instinct is discomfort.

Do I want to keep talking about this and opening up this wound? No. I want to curl up at home, eat ice cream, and live with the foolish notion that things will magically improve on their own. But I also know I have to be sensible. It’s no longer only me I have to worry about.

For the sake of the innocent life inside me, I need to do better. Even if that feels fucking exhausting.

“Yeah,” I finally say, meeting her eyes with determination. She’s not as frustrating to me as the other therapist I talked to after the assault. Maybe it’s the type of person she is, or maybe it’s because things are not as fresh. Either way, I’ll take it. “I guess it feels good to…talk to someone.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Sam. I look forward to helping you work through this.

And allow me to assure you again; you’re already doing great.

” Even as she says that typical therapist crap they all echo, I let her have it and smile.

It always sounded so disingenuous to me, but coming from her, I…

want to believe it. “Very well! Let’s arrange the next session.

How does that sound?” She stands from her chair and goes around her desk to interact with her computer.

While she does that, I look down at my stomach. The things you make me want to do for you, little one. Becoming a better person—me? Who would’ve thought?

I've cared greatly about some people in my life. I’d even say that I truly loved a few of them. But not one of them made me want to change or better myself.

I guess pregnancy hormones really are something else.

By the time I get home, I crave nothing more than a long, hot shower.

I stand under the running water, forehead resting against the tiled wall, and let the droplets fall across my tense, aching shoulders.

I focus on my breathing. With each controlled, deep inhale and exhale, I visualize my thoughts slotting into neat, organized drawers inside my mind. Well contained. In order.

It’s good that I went to that appointment. That I made it in the first place.

Clearly, my own flimsy rationale isn’t enough to get me through this. I will have to actually listen to someone else, someone who has much more knowledge about the human psyche than I do.

Talking to Dr. Stewart felt different than with the other therapist. I didn’t feel judged at all, and it genuinely released some tension to open up a little. Even though she was probably just saying the standard things she tells everyone, her words and advice got me thinking.

She wants me to find good alpha figures to have in my life, huh?

I sigh deeply, looking at my feet. Water swirls around my toes and goes down the drain. That isn’t going to be easy, considering I barely want to have anything to do with anyone, not to mention alphas. But I can’t hide from this forever, can I?

As I close my eyes again, I see the note I found on my desk this morning in my mind’s eye.

The faint scent of it comes to me, making me frown.

Coconut with spices. From that alpha…Theo.

I had forgotten his name before reading it, but I recalled the time he came to my office and startled me a couple of weeks ago.

I remember his young-looking face and those bright, excited eyes that studied me a little too eagerly.

And I remember seeing him in the cafeteria from time to time, his natural golden hair shining among the other heads like a crown.

Well, more like a messy bird’s nest or the haircut of an up-and-coming rock star. All puffy in a cute way, like—

“God, what are you on about?” I mutter, shaking my head.

He seems like a good kid. Not all alphas want to hurt you, I remind myself. When he came to my office, he was just doing his job, and I was too anxious to even interact with much decency in return.

And in the restroom, he just wanted to help someone he thought was struggling. He couldn’t have known about my…issues.

Hey. I wanted to apologize for what happened in the toilets the other day.

I wasn’t trying to make the situation worse.

I thought you needed help, and instead I’ve overstepped.

I swear it wasn’t on purpose. Neither was bumping into you in the cafeteria that one time.

I’m really sorry. (For all of it, but obviously mainly the other thing. ..)

I hope you’re both feeling better.

Theo

(the dumbass from manufacturing)

I smirk to myself, thinking about how dumb it all is. My first month at this job, and I have people leaving apology letters on my table? So much for keeping a low profile and surviving with my head down.

But it’s kind of nice that he wrote it. Who writes notes these days, anyway?

I remember little from the restroom—mostly irrational panic and some blurry fragments of faces in front of me—but from what I can make out, he looked genuinely concerned.

Maybe he’s just a good man. They still exist, right?

Maybe I should find him and thank him for trying to help, and apologize for freaking out like that, instead of ignoring him and running away from it like I so want to.

Face my fears, being a better person, and all that…

Small steps. I can do that.