Page 10 of Worthy or Knot (Serendipity Omegaverse #3)

Ten

MEGAN

“ H ey, Megs, there’s someone from the Council here to see you,” Riley says as he passes the desk.

I finish documenting the medication I just dispensed and administered for my patient in room nine before looking up with a frown.

“The Council?” I double check.

“Yep. He’s at check-in. Looked like he had some paperwork, too.” He turns back toward me, walking backward without a misstep. His eyebrow raises in question. “Thought you said you didn’t get shortlisted?”

“We didn’t,” I agree. “Must be an OAD.”

Omega Abuse Detectives are employed directly with the Unified Council to handle cases of abuse and neglect alongside local law enforcement.

I’d treated a pretty rough Omega last week after we’d gotten the shitty news of our banning and lack of making it onto the Omega’s shortlist. A detective wanting to follow-up would make sense.

Honestly, I’m a bit surprised it’s taken this long for one of the Council’s specialty detectives to show up.

“Well, someone’s here,” Riley says, then heads deeper into the department, probably grabbing something for one of his rooms. Mornings are always hectic.

Normally I love the pace, the uncertainty of the emergency department.

No two days are the same, especially in the heart of Manhattan.

But the last week has been harder to dredge up any kind of positive energy.

“Harper, you have a bed?” one of the triage nurses asks.

“Yeah,” I tell her, shoving to my feet. “Just need to deal with a Council staff, and then I can take whatever you have.”

“All right, I’ll get him prepped. Trauma to the hand, definitely needing stitches. I’ll let Peterson know, too. They might want ortho paged.”

Hand trauma this early in the morning? Shitty way to start the day. For them, not me. Stitches is one of my favorites.

With a nod, I shove my pens back into my pocket and drape my stethoscope around my neck.

It’s not strictly necessary since I’m not evaluating a patient at the moment, but it’s one of those things I hate leaving around.

A good stethoscope is just about the same as true gold around here.

I push open the doors and enter the waiting room.

Several heads raise, hopeful expressions passing over them, before I turn toward the desk without announcing a name.

A man in his late twenties stands beside the desk, a large white envelope held in his hands and a pin the shape of the Council’s insignia—an Omega symbol with a lowercase greek “A” nestled inside it—holding a black tie in place against a gray shirt.

His hair is trimmed brutally short, and his brown eyes are wary.

They warm as I approach, a smile spreading across his face.

“Ms. Harper?” he asks.

When I nod, he offers the envelope.

“If you have any questions, my information is included. The video call is scheduled for tomorrow night as long as everything is to your pack’s liking.”

Before I can formulate a response, he’s gone, walking briskly through the waiting room and out the sliding glass doors into the hot New York morning.

In a daze, I walk back to the nursing station, setting the envelope on the clean desk and placing my stethoscope on top of it.

I pull out my phone and send a group text.

So we just got a packet.

And we have a video call scheduled for tomorrow night.

It’s not a surprise that Marcus is the first to respond. He’s been distraught since the news last week despite our best attempts at trying to keep his spirits up.

A matching packet? We weren’t shortlisted.

I know.

I wait for a moment, but when he doesn’t respond, I send a final text.

Have to get back to work. You can swing by and grab it if you want.

Charlotte’s response is short and sweet, just like her.

We’ll wait for you. See you tonight, Megs.

“Gina, you have that hand trauma ready?” I ask, shoving my phone back into my pocket.

She nods and points to one of the rooms toward the front. “Peterson said she’d be able to evaluate it in about five minutes. Just need a new set of vitals and first round of pain meds right now.”

I scratch out a note on one of the yellow sticky notes spread on the desk and then press it onto the unmarked packet.

Harper’s. Yes, she knows about it. No, don’t ask yet.

Riley drops into the seat beside me, already pulling up a patient file. His slim fingers fly over the keyboard as he reads the note. He grins, his eyebrows wagging as a mischievous gleam brightens his brown eyes.

“Not a word,” I mutter.

His expression goes comically innocent, and I roll my eyes. Then I turn back to Gina where she’s wrangling one of the linen baskets and refilling the blanket warmer.

“She put the pain meds in?” I ask her, slinging my stethoscope back onto my neck and turning away from the desk entirely.

“Pharmacy should have them down in another couple minutes,” she offers. “It’s a real nice kiddo, accident while helping his mom make breakfast. Glass pan broke.”

Ouch .

“Thanks,” I say as warmly as I can manage.

I cross the department, taking a moment before opening the door to the patient’s room. Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply, shoving the strange mix of excitement and unease away. I count to five under my breath, and then I push the door open with a quick knock, a smile fixed in place.

My feet ache and my eyes burn as I finally open the door to our unassuming home in the heart of Manhattan.

The sun is nearly down, hiding below the skyline to the west and casting long shadows along the street.

I pull the packet from my bag before letting it drop to the floor and kicking off my shoes.

The lights on the first floor are off, only the small fake candle we keep on the counter in the kitchen at the back of the townhouse giving any illumination.

“Marcus? Charlotte?” I call for them, too tired to go up the stairs until absolutely necessary.

Instead, I head deeper into the space, a moth drawn to the little light in the kitchen. I dig out the cookies Charlotte made over the weekend, her own way of dealing with the disappointment since the gala, letting the rich blend of chocolate and sugar ease some of the residual stress.

Days like this are some of the worst, and I’m not quite sure I have the fortitude to wade through the Council’s unexpected matching announcement.

“Hey, Megs,” Charlotte says as she breezes into the room.

Her hair’s already tucked away in her satin bonnet, and she’s wearing one of the matching pajama sets I got her for Christmas last year.

This one is baby blue and brings out the golden undertones of her light brown skin.

She wedges herself onto the counter, crossing her legs and tucking her hands under her thighs.

Her gaze lands on the packet for a moment before closing, and her throat moves with a delicate swallow.

Marcus comes in without fanfare, dressed in nothing but an old set of gray sweats and his hair damp from a recent shower.

I hand him the packet before he can decide I should open it.

If it’s really his Omega by some strange miracle, I want him to know first. I move to stand beside where Charlotte’s perched, close enough I can see the photo without having to crane my neck.

For a minute, I think Marcus won’t be able to open it. His eyes are locked on the nondescript paper, but I doubt he’s actually seeing it.

“Marcus?” Charlotte asks, looping her hand around his wrist.

He sucks in a breath, like he’s been pulled from a trance.

“Sorry,” he whispers. His hands shake as he rips open the top of the envelope and pulls out the first page. His eyes fly over the words, and then there’s tears lining his lashes.

“Is it him?” Charlotte pulls him closer, trying to see the official announcement. Her eyebrows furrow as she reads something. “Cole Fallon? Is that him, Marcus?”

Marcus nods, reading over the page again before silently offering it to me.

I take it but don’t bother to read it, focused on him instead.

He feels just as delicate as last week, like one strong breeze or misspoken word might cause him to shatter entirely.

He wipes his cheek on his shoulder as he digs through the rest of the packet, spreading the mess of papers across the counter.

His breath catches as the picture surfaces.

And then he sobs, the sound full of so much relief it’s heady even at a distance.

“It’s him,” he breathes through the tears.

He holds out the picture to us, and I finally allow myself to focus on something other than him.

The man in the photo is in his early twenties, a carefree feel to his smile and vibrant hazel eyes.

His black hair is longer than Marcus’s, a windswept wave in the strands that hit right around his ears and drape across his forehead.

A corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk, like he and the cameraman have a secret that amuses him.

His olive skin glows in the lighting of the photo.

The clothes he wears are simple: a medium wash pair of jeans, dark purple polo with a logo I don’t recognize emblazoned on the chest, and white, low-profile sneakers.

A set of sunglasses are hooked on the collar of his shirt.

The entire ensemble screams old money in a way I can’t really explain, almost like he’s stepped right off a modeling photoshoot.

Despite my exhaustion, awareness zings through my veins, and a bare hint of raspberry gathers around me.

“Wow.”

Charlotte giggles.

“You’ve rendered Megs speechless.” She plucks the photo from my hands.

“He’s younger than I thought.” She digs through the information from the Council, plucking a sheet and reading through it.

“Wow. Only 21.” Her eyes are wide as she focuses on Marcus.

“Wait. You bonded three years ago. That would make him…”

She trails off, and Marcus’s face reddens with a fierce blush.

“Marcus!” I say in feigned indignation. “Who knew you were a cradle robber!”

Marcus’s laugh is wet. “I had no idea. He… he didn’t seem like he was eighteen.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “God, just the sound of that…”

He takes the photo from Charlotte, absorbing it all over again.

“What was he like at the gala?” I finally ask the question. It’s been sitting perched on my tongue since he told us the Omega had been there, that we’d almost met him.

Marcus purses his lips and puts the photo down. Charlotte leans over and wipes his cheeks, and he grabs her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm, lightly scent marking her like she’s the Omega and not a newly designated Alpha herself. Sage explodes around us, and Charlotte blushes.

“Sorry,” Marcus mutters, but it’s clear he doesn’t mean it. At all.

“Marcus, focus,” I say with humor, smiling at how quickly he’s relaxed now that we know he’ll see his Omega again. “I have another shift tomorrow.”

He sobers between one breath and the next. His eyebrows are furrowed as he looks at me, leaning against the counter on the other side of Charlotte, the part that juts into the kitchen, forming the peninsula where we eat most often.

“He was… reserved,” he says after a minute. “And nervous, but that makes sense. Those galas are a mess for Omegas in the best of circumstances.”

“He wasn’t mad that you’re bonded?” Charlotte asks the other question that’s been on my mind.

Does the Omega regret the bond, or is he all right with it?

With Marcus being legally attached to us?

Did he mention how him and Charlotte are more than just friends or legal partners but also lovers themselves?

How much time did they even have before everything went off the rails and the cops were called for whatever disturbance had happened?

“No, he wasn’t mad. He was…” Marcus swallows and then scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m not sure. But not upset.” He looks at all the information the Council has given us and then touches the edge of the photograph. His laugh is disbelieving again. “I suppose you’ll be able to ask him tomorrow.”