Page 9 of Thorns That Bloom (Venusverse #3)

It’s something they talked to me and Gail about before we went to university.

I still remember the way the dread lay heavy in my stomach when they'd sat us down in the living room, their faces ashen.

I was terrified that they were going to tell us they were getting a divorce.

Instead, it was a whole lecture about being careful, being a good person, and watching out for others, especially at wild parties that awaited us.

“Right,” Pop repeats slowly, his deep-set eyes studying me.

I notice his shoulder tense a little, and his face grows a bit more serious.

“I’m sure he’d be open to talking to you about it, bud.

He told you long ago that you could always come to him.

I can answer any questions you have as well, but…

why are we talking about this? Did something… ?”

“No!” I blurt out. I didn’t even realize he could get that idea. “Nothing like that. Don’t worry.”

Pop doesn’t smile back as I thought he would. “Just because you’re an alpha, it doesn’t mean that you can’t—”

“I know, I know,” I interrupt restlessly, feeling stupid and even more anxious about my intentions.

“Sorry for worrying you.” He’s right, and I guess it shows me how much I don’t understand omegas sometimes.

I’m glad I have both of them to talk to.

“It’s just…there’s this new person at work. He’s an omega.”

An omega I bumped into, took in his scent, and it somehow completely rewired my brain.

An omega I can’t stop thinking about.

“There was this thing that happened today. I…sensed him in the restroom. His pheromones were going crazy intense, and I found one of my alpha coworkers there with some other guys. I think he was having a panic attack or something. They were standing over him, not giving him space, and… Ugh! Then I started arguing with them, and I think that freaked him out even more. I didn’t want to.

Now I feel like I completely fucked up, and I’m not sure how to act around him to make it better. ”

It all spills out of me, and I must sound insane. Pop looks at me almost like I am. With his eyes wide and lips pressed into a line, he blinks before releasing a quiet exhale.

“Okay. What does your previous question have to do with this, bud?”

“My supervisor told me he thinks that’s why he was transferred. There was an incident at his last place of work, apparently.”

Pop winces uncomfortably, emotions flitting across his face. Unease, pity, worry. “Oh.” Tapping his finger on the edge of the table, he glances somewhere behind me, pondering. “Does he know you know about this?”

I lower my head. “No. I’m not really supposed to, I don’t think.”

“Then you better not let him find out, Theo,” he says, his voice stern.

Snorting, I roll my eyes. “Yes, Pop. I wasn’t going to walk up to him and mention it.

I’m not that clueless, alright? I just want to make a better impression.

To apologize and make him feel at ease around me without making things worse.

So, I was wondering if you could give me some pointers on how to act, considering… you know.”

“Everyone deals with that sort of thing differently.” He looks at me in that annoying way, like I’m his sweet, silly little boy. “How Dad dealt with it won’t be how this person does. Not to mention we were already together when it happened. And you’re…coworkers?”

I nod.

Yep. Coworkers. Strangers. Nothing more.

“Well, thanks for that great insight. Exactly what I was looking for,” I say with a disgruntled sigh.

Pop kicks me in the shin under the table.

When I turn to him, groaning in pain, he’s smirking.

He takes his glasses off, which always means he’s super serious.

“I’m proud to hear you’re trying to be so considerate of him, but without knowing this person, I can’t give you advice on how to act.

Your dad had issues with people’s pheromones for a long while after.

Maybe try to keep them under the lid when you’re around, huh? ”

“Of course,” I say. “I figured.”

‘I think this man might be my fated mate,’ I want to admit. It’s the unhinged conclusion I came up with, the only one that makes any kind of sense at this point.

Later the same day that I bumped into Sam, after I came back from breaking up with Emily, I searched online about what the thing I experienced could’ve been.

The two words stuck out in the sea of results, forum comments, and article previews.

At first, I tried to look past them. I wasn’t too invested in it just yet.

Wasn’t going to just jump on a crazy idea like that right away.

I told myself that it would pass and that it must’ve been nothing.

So…when these feelings didn’t pass—when they are still very much here and still drawing me to that man like a moth to a flame—what other explanation is there?

I want to voice all of this to Pop and have him validate that absurd hypothesis, but I’m too terrified of the possibility that he won’t. After all, he’s a pragmatic guy. Logical. And nothing about this is logical.

“Are you interested in this omega?” I hear him ask in a cautious, somewhat playful tone, and quickly blink to meet his eyes.

Logical to a fault. He can read me like a damn book.

Pursing my lips, I look away with a frown. “Maybe…?”

He laughs. “Look at you. You haven’t come asking random questions about someone like that since you were like fourteen and you really liked that older girl at school. You were so adorable. Wonder where she ended up. Bonnie, was it?”

I glare at him, possibly making him relive my teenage years a little more.

Now I’m definitely not asking about what he thinks about fated mates.

And maybe I shouldn’t mention the fact that Sam is pregnant, either.

And that I don’t even freaking know if he’s taken, or what happened to him, or anything at all about anything.

God, I’m actually a hot mess, aren’t I? What am I doing having these thoughts?!

“Must be quite a guy, considering you just broke up with Emily,” he notes, gently tapping his glasses against the table.

Grumbling, I finally flash him a smile. “I think women might not be for me,” I conclude, slapping my hands over my knees.

He grins widely. “Like father, like son.”

Before I can even laugh, I get distracted by my phone buzzing inside my pocket. I take it out lazily to see a message from Martin.

dunno where you went and for how long, but can you get pizza on the way back? pepperoni. please, I’m dying

“Martin?” Pop asks, judging by my expression.

“Martin.”

He chuckles while standing. He knows the drill. Living with Martin and Enya has advantages. Lower rent for a bigger place, close to work and to my parents, big-ass room. It also has disadvantages, like…Martin.

With a sigh, I get up, too. “Gotta go get food and head back to listen to the daily report. Wouldn’t want to bother you with more of my questions, anyway,” I bite back at him teasingly one last time.

“I’ll tell your dad you came over. Text us before you show up, and maybe you can see him next time.” As I hug Pop, a wave of guilt passes over me. I should visit more. I don’t have the excuse of living too far or being too busy. And I don’t want them to feel lonely, especially considering…

Considering that if it weren’t for me, Gail would be visiting, too.

“See you soon,” I say while pulling away, and face toward the door.

As I’m reaching for the handle, I hear footsteps and turn to see Pop poking his head out of the room at the end of the hall. “Maybe write him a note. That’s a good, low-pressure, no-contact starter, no?” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

I snort and shake my head. “This isn’t the eighteen hundreds, Pop. Bye,” I say on my way outside, catching his amused chuckle in the background before the door slams closed.

As I walk out of the building, though, I realize that he might have a point.

I don’t have Sam’s number. Of course I don’t. He barely even knows I exist. He has no reason to care. So…maybe leaving a note with an apology on his table isn’t the worst thing. That isn’t weird, is it?

I spend the rest of my way to the pizza place and then home racking my brain about what to write. But like it usually does, it turns my jumbled thoughts into an inspiration for some stupid song that I hum to myself and play out in my head.

With two pizzas in hand, I step in. Martin’s in the living room, watching the front door from there like a guard dog.

I know that working in radio can be stressful, but there really is no limit to his obsession with talking. At work, off work, but most importantly, over delicious food. That’s his favorite time to chat away. Fortunately for him, I’m happy to just nod and listen.

We eat the pizza and watch TV. News coverage of tragedies and celebrations and boring political meetings blares through the room while I twist the dripping cheese around my tongue. I put it in my mouth, glaring at Martin, who chews loudly. Again.

After a while, he finally runs out of words and turns to staring into his phone. Letting the food digest, I pick up my guitar lying by the couch and start flicking some tunes as they come into my head.

It’s like there’s a stream of inspiration running behind a wall inside my head somewhere. So close. I can hear it, I can almost feel it, but something is blocking me from accessing it properly.

“Why does it sound so sad?” Martin mutters without looking up at me.

I raise an eyebrow. “Does it?” The melody isn’t the most cheerful one, I suppose, but I wouldn’t say it’s sad. “Hey, um, random, but…do you believe in fated mates?” I ask thoughtlessly as I stare ahead, faintly plucking the few chords that come to me over and over again.

The judgmental chortle that comes out of him puts a frown on my face. “Do you believe in the tooth fairy? Of course not,” he scoffs, glancing at me like I’m a moron. I purse my lips and stop playing. “Are you making a love song about it or something?” he continues with the same amount of ridicule.

I roll my eyes, glancing away. “Or something…”

Martin isn’t the gentlest or most understanding of individuals. I don’t even know why I voiced that thought. I have no one to blame but myself.

“Fated mates are a fairytale that only fools, manipulative alphas, and the ultra-religious venus from that weird-ass cult believe in,” he says firmly while shrugging. “Just go with a normal love song, dude,” Martin concludes. His attention quickly drifts back to his phone.

Blinking slowly, I stare down at the floor. I guess I would have had the same opinion a few weeks ago.

Fated mates are a silly belief with no scientifically provable basis.

Something most people learn about from romance books or movies.

It’s nothing but the venus version of what betas call soulmates.

Only…our own strange mutation pushes us toward that concept already.

Pheromones draw alphas and omegas together on a biological level. Some might say spiritual, too.

A fated mate is someone superior even to that. The one right person, perfectly made just for you. An impossible, ideal match. A flawless connection beyond understanding. Or so they say…

I’m not sure what it is for me, exactly. It’s never meant anything. I never even thought twice about it before.

All I know is that from the moment I sensed Sam in the cafeteria, I haven’t been the same.

I spend the evening in my room with a sticky note and a pen, trying to come up with a message that isn’t weird or stupid or too much, all the while wanting to portray my feelings and maybe even get him interested.

If only writing it were as easy as music.

Unfortunately, my life isn’t a love song. I can’t come up to him and sing my heart out, no matter how romantic and lovey-dovey that sounds in my head.

With the note in hand, I make sure to be super early at work the next day.

His office is empty, thank goodness, so I quickly place it on his keyboard, adjusting it for longer than I’d like to admit.

It smells like him in here. Faintly. Sweetly.

Blackcurrant and sage. Such a relaxing, lovely scent.

It makes me want to tilt my head back and take it in until it fills my lungs completely.

With a sharp headshake, I prevent myself from having more unruly, stupid thoughts, and rush out before he, or anyone else, can catch me where I’m not supposed to be. I belong downstairs, on the manufacturing floor.

So that’s where I go, knowing that I’ll think about him reading the note all day.