Page 30 of Want It All

The mist was everywhere.

I froze. Fear closed my throat and seeped down my limbs.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry for help.

I hated feeling so helpless – as an alpha, it was torture – but there was nothing I could do and no way that I could fight.

The mist thickened at the edge of my sight, swirling inwards until all I could see was white.

Red disrupted the vision. ‘Byron,’ Tina whispered, emerging from the mist, her face covered in blood.

I sat up in bed, gasping for breath, shaking off the nightmare with a groan. It was the dream I hated the most, and the one that came most often. My body was on high alert, my skin tingling as my nerves fired, my alpha riding close to the surface, my instincts roaring.

Most alphas wouldn’t think twice about the white mist. It was simply the way our vision clouded when we were in a rut, our sight narrowing to the person we were fucking or fighting. It was a survival response, allowing us to serve or protect, to cherish or damage.

But most alphas didn’t know what I knew: that a rut was how an instinct blackout – going feral – started. It was indistinguishable from a rut; that was, until you couldn’t stop falling into the white, and your conscious thought went with it.

If the general populace ever found out, the outcry would be instant and wide. Scent blockers wouldn’t be the only thing in the water supply. Alphas would be permanently on rut suppressants.

The government had to know. They were the ones who funded the Alpha Retreats – where at-risk alphas were taken for recovery – and the APF. But the government was good at keeping secrets, and it wasn’t as if most feral alphas came back to tell the tale.

Five percent was the number I’d been told.

Five percent of alphas who descended into a state of pure instinct were rehabilitated completely back into society.

Some larger number – twenty percent or so – had a partial return to their former lives, working or shopping or socialising in the outside world before returning to Retreats where they were monitored and cared for by APF doctors.

But the majority – around seventy-five percent – were termed unrecoverable . Seventy-five percent of feral alphas were hospitalised permanently, or until their hearts gave out under the pressure of their raging hormones, and they died.

Ruts are natural and needed, Dr. Ford had told me more than once, his voice gentle. Ruts help an alpha serve an omega for the duration of their heat, a feat they would otherwise be unable to manage. Ruts help an alpha protect their pack from danger. Ruts, in themselves, are not the problem.

An alpha had control during a rut. Their vision might narrow, but they knew what they were doing, who they were fucking or fighting, knew whether their hands were caressing or hurting.

It was only when a rut turned into something else – when the alpha inside overrode humanity – that it became dangerous.

I didn’t remember what I’d done when I’d blacked out. I had flashes occasionally, mostly when they changed my meds.

I rubbed my face with my hands. When Tristan had shoved his phone under my nose in the study room those few weeks ago, the screen showing my face contorted with rage – the grey eyes that came from my mother blank and empty, my fists covered in blood – I’d recoiled.

I’d looked like that. Like a fucking monster .

And I’d never stop hating myself for it.

I checked the clock; seven-thirty. It was Sunday, so I forced myself out of bed, trying to shake off the dream.

Tristan and I had a tacit agreement that he took the omegas to the dining hall by himself on Sundays, while I made my way to the staff wing and had breakfast with my parents.

Today, I didn’t feel like going anywhere .

Seeing Rose would have grounded me, but I hated the thought of looking at her while I remembered the dream of Tina’s face dripping blood.

And seeing my parents always made the past bubble to the surface.

Progress isn’t linear , Dr. Ford reminded me.

My phone buzzed. I picked it up, half-hoping it was him. Somehow, he always knew exactly what to say.

The text was from Pravin. Are you coming tonight?

‘Fuck,’ I muttered. I’d been so focused on planning my movie night with Rose that I’d completely forgotten about the scent party.

My eyes flickered to the blister of scent blockers next to my bed. If I decided to go, I’d need to skip this morning’s dose.

I dialled Dr. Ford.

He answered immediately, as he always did. ‘Good morning, Byron.’

Did he ever sleep in? ‘Hi, Dr. Ford.’

‘I’m glad you called me. How are Rose and Sebastian recovering?’

‘They seem to be fine. Mum made them both have follow-up appointments with the campus doctor, and she didn’t have any concerns.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He paused. ‘Was there something you needed to talk about?’

I inhaled. ‘There’s a scent party tonight.’

He took a moment to answer. ‘Ah.’

Scent parties were illegal, so I understood his wish to navigate carefully. ‘I’ve been invited,’ I added.

‘I assume this conversation is to be kept between you and me?’

Some of the things we discussed – my general progress and Tina, mostly – were shared with a team of APF doctors, and reports were sent to my parents, for the purpose of them offering more support when I needed it.

But other things were entirely private. ‘Yes, please. I haven’t decided whether I’ll tell mum yet. ’

‘I imagine that’s a decision you’re thinking seriously about.’

He was right, because I had no idea what mum would think.

She’d ignored the commencement party – well, she’d helped set some of it up – but commencement parties weren’t illegal.

I didn’t know how she’d respond to this one.

‘Yes. I have been thinking about it.’ Before Rose mentioned a movie night and my priorities changed .

‘I’ve been thinking about whether … Whether I should attend. ’

‘What are the reasons to go?’

‘I might catch a scent I like. I might have fun.’ I dragged a hand through my hair. ‘Fuck, I might be able to relax for five minutes.’

‘And against?’

‘I might catch a scent that I like,’ I repeated dryly. ‘I might have a fucking awful time. I might … I might …’ I inhaled. ‘I might lose control.’

‘Do you think that’s likely?’

I answered honestly. ‘No.’

‘I agree.’ I heard a buzzing sound, and then the slurp of liquid meeting liquid, and I realised Dr. Ford was making himself a cup of coffee. Fuck, now I wanted one . ‘From what you’ve told me, you’re in full control, Byron.’

I fidgeted on the bed. ‘I still worry about keeping it around the omegas.’

‘I know you do. I won’t tell you that it’s not a legitimate concern. It’s something a lot of alphas struggle with until they bond, including alphas who have never experienced instinct blackout. But scent parties are usually just for alphas, are they not?’

‘Yes, they’re just for alphas.’

‘The omegas won’t be present, then. Given that, what is the worst-case outcome?’

I raked my hand through my hair again. ‘That I black out.’

‘And what is the worst-case, most likely outcome?’

I sighed. ‘That I go, I don’t find a complementary scent, and am in bed before midnight, slightly more disappointed than I was before.’

‘And the best-case scenario?’

‘That I have a great time.’

‘ And that you find a complementary scent,’ Dr. Ford added.

His voice was warm. I had no idea about his personal life, but I found myself hoping that he had a large, loving pack who appreciated his gentleness.

‘It’s not an everyday occurrence, finding a complementary scent, but neither is it impossible.

’ He paused. ‘I’m not going to give you advice about whether to go or not, Byron, because as we both know, scent parties are illegal, and I would be incredibly irresponsible if I didn’t remind you of that.

But I do think that you’re in control, and that you’ve been in control for years now, and you deserve some time to relax a little bit.

Remember not to drink or smoke on your rut suppressants, though,’ he cautioned.

‘Not because I think you’d do something stupid, but because you’ll probably fall asleep. ’

‘I promise you that I will not be doing either of those things.’

‘Good. I’d hate for you to nod off, mid-party.’ He paused. ‘Is that what you needed? Did you want to talk it through further?’

I shook my head before remembering he couldn’t see me. ‘I’m good. Thanks. That’s really helpful.’ I glanced at the morning light coming through my curtains. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Breakfast with your parents,’ he said. ‘I hope your dad hasn’t eaten all the bacon this time.’

I hung up, smiling, then texted Pravin.

Yeah , I wrote. I’m coming .

I let myself into my parents’ apartment, not bothering to knock.

Dad was sitting cross-legged on the lounge room floor, paper strewn around him. I took in the printed articles, photocopies of books, and – for some unholy reason – printed web pages scattered around the room. ‘Fuck, dad, you’ve deforested an entire state for this.’

‘As if you can talk, sticky tab king,’ my mum said wryly, not lifting her eyes from her tablet. With one hand, she dug around on the couch next to her, then held something up, which I took – a new packet of sticky tabs in a rainbow of pastel colours.

‘I tried the tablet, I really did,’ my dad said absently, pushing his silvered hair back from his eyes. Even after thirty years in Australia, he still retained a soft Welsh accent. ‘I just like paper, I’m afraid.’

The print outs were covered in highlighter and handwritten notes. ‘Is this for the new book?’

He and my mother gave matching groans. ‘Yes, but not the one you think,’ dad said. ‘Rita suggested that I make The Light In His Eyes a series.’

I frowned. ‘But you said it was a standalone. You said you didn’t want to write historical fiction again.’