Page 17 of Thorns That Bloom (Venusverse #3)

The tiny, dark blue kitchen is much smaller and messier than ours.

There are a ton of cups just scattered on the worktop, a few dirty dishes in the sink, and a sponge that looks like it really, really needs changing.

A man sits at the rickety white table in the corner with a plastic box of what smells like spaghetti with some meaty sauce.

I know he’s an alpha, I can tell, but thankfully, the freshly microwaved food overpowers the scent of his pheromones, whatever they are.

The moment our eyes meet, he has the same expression as the guy from before—the ‘what the hell is this fancy office person doing here?’ one.

“Can I help you?” he asks, the fork with twirled spaghetti inches from his mouth. At least he doesn’t sound as rude. Maybe a little bored.

“I borrowed this from Theo. I know he isn’t in, so I wanted to return this and…um…leave him a note, I guess. Do you know where his locker is?” This time, it all comes out of me with confidence. Like I know what I’m doing. Like Theo and I are friends or something, and this is completely normal.

Places like this have lockers, right?

He blinks slowly. “Mhm. Leave it somewhere, don’t matter. The locker room’s out the door and to the right, end of the hallway. Won’t miss it for the smell,” he says with an amused chuckle and sticks the fork in his mouth.

Already a little uneasy on the stomach from the unusual mix of scents, I smile through an uncomfortable grimace and head there. I pat my pockets when it occurs to me that I might have nothing to actually write a note on.

What do I want to say, anyway? Why am I exchanging notes with this guy in the first place, like we’re in high school? God, Sam, you are a mess.

I always carry a pen with me. That won’t be a problem, but all I have for actual writing is a crumbled cafe receipt. It will have to do.

A tight, uneasy feeling zaps through me as I open the door to the locker room.

The intense mixture of scents, pheromones, fragrances, and sweat spills out, causing me to tense up.

There’s a lump in my throat all of a sudden, making it hard to swallow or inhale.

Even the room itself—a windowless dark space with only one entrance—summons that paranoid, worried side of me that’s always near the forefront of my mind now.

‘Anyone could come in and corner you,' it says. 'Trap you. Hurt you. Just like before.’

“It’s just a room,” I tell myself sharply and force my foot to move.

No one’s here. It’s just me and the sound of a dying overhead light bulb buzzing along with the loud pounding of my heart inside my ears.

I gulp, slowly running my eyes across the many lockers with small name tags on them.

I wonder why I’m doing all this when I could be eating right now, which is one step closer to settling back into my safe place upstairs.

It doesn’t really make sense. It’s just that…he was nice. Genuinely nice, like it wasn’t fake or for a show, but actually coming from somewhere deep within. It makes me want to be less of an asshole than I usually am.

Finally, I find his locker. Theo Reid. The weak scent of spiced coconut is what pulls me toward it subconsciously. I try not to think about that fact. With my bottom lip between my teeth, I put the receipt against the metal and hover the pen over the blank space.

What the hell do I say?

‘Thanks for the food. You really didn’t have to bother, but it was delicious.

I left your plate in the kitchen.

Sam'

Is it too blunt? Maybe. Is the last line indicating that I know he made up the lie about the food necessary? Probably not.

I slide the folded note in through the horizontal holes in the locker anyway.

Walking out, I look down at my hands that tremble a little.

I’m not really sure why. Even my heart hiccups inside my chest, and my stomach twists with a mix of emotions I can’t decipher.

That in itself makes me more uneasy, but at least I know I have my therapy appointment to look forward to in a few hours.

As much as that stresses me, too, for once I feel like I might benefit from talking to someone about this.

It’s the first thing I tell Dr. Stewart when she asks me how I’ve been. She honestly looks surprised, like she didn’t expect me to hurl all that information at her. Like she thought she would have to get it out of me.

“You should be proud of yourself, Sam,” she says.

Even if all this sweet and delicate therapy talk always makes me feel like I’m a toddler being praised for the bare minimum, I…

do feel proud, I think. For not having a panic attack, for not freaking out over all the people and scents.

For even pushing myself to actually go down there and do it, no matter how trivial the act really was.

“Yeah,” I say, hanging my head down while I play with my hands in my lap.

Dr. Stewart sits in her chair with her legs crossed, a notepad in hand. “You still sound unsure about the situation, though. Why is that?”

I shrug. “It’s just…I don’t know why he’d do that. I don’t know what to think.”

“You won’t know unless you ask him yourself.”

Ugh, like I don’t know that.

I glance at the painting behind her to distract myself. “I don’t know if I want to.”

“Considering the food he brought you, it was a nice gesture. By thanking him in that note, you did all you needed to do. If you want nothing else to do with it, it…” She pauses when she notices my confused expression.

“What do you mean, considering the food he brought?”

“Well…it was overall a pretty good and healthy meal for a pregnant person. Fish for lean protein—that’s important in pregnancy—and mango is very high in vitamin C, also important. From the way you described it, it was thoughtful, not just something thrown together. And you said it was well made.”

A fuzzy sense of comfort over someone being thoughtful of me, and unease over that someone being an unfamiliar alpha, clash inside of me. Pressing my lips into a tight line, I frown and try to figure out which feeling is stronger and more rational.

“Why would he do that?” I mutter to myself.

“He was probably trying to be nice,” she says lightly.

“I told him I’m not looking to date.”

Dr. Stewart shifts in her seat. “It might not be about that for him.” But Theo had looked taken aback when I said it.

Disappointed, even. Was that all in my head?

“It might just be who he is and how he treats people.” Yeah, sounds too good to be true.

“Or it could be something more. This is clearly weighing on you, so maybe consider talking to him again when you’re in a public, safe place, where you feel confident, and ask.

That way, you won’t need to rack your mind about it. ”

Sighing, I lean against the armrest of the couch.

For the rest of the session, we talk about my week, how I’m managing work and other mundane things.

Angel tells me that not every therapy session must devolve into tackling the most traumatizing, difficult topics, and some end up focusing on the more everyday concerns.

She says we will take it as it goes and focus on what comes naturally, and I like that.

I like not having to worry, with my stomach in knots, about coming here.

I leave lighter than I walked in. Even if one thing—one person, rather—keeps floating at the forefront of my mind, and to my horror, he doesn’t burden me with his presence as much as he should.