Page 23 of Your Wild Omega (The Feral Actress #2)

Chapter eighteen

Red

I stroke Rickon’s parrot on his smooth cheeks, caressing over the transition from egg-yolk yellow to brilliant green down the feathered neck. “Repeat after me,” I tell the little critter. “I’ll. Come. Back.”

Ozzie tilts his head. “Hello. Fuuuck?”

I cover a giggle. “No. I’ll come back.” I deepen my voice, imitating the famous Terminalpha quote.

The parrot squawks and leans into my pats.

Footsteps shuffle across the floor behind me, and Rickon leans on the back of the couch. “I see what you’re doing there.”

I grin and lift Ozzie so the parrot can climb from me to his favorite person. Rickon places him on his shoulder, idly scratching the feathered head. Ozzie nibbles his ear and Rickon hisses in warning, but although the parrot can get cranky, he’s only playing right now.

Zack, who’s been watching a kids’ educational program on the TV, rises from his seat on the floor by my feet and the bird flaps and shrieks again. Our alpha bares his teeth, but he’s gotten used to the bird’s antics by now. Not that I’d trust his big hands around the slender parrot just yet.

“He’s sure got plenty to say,” Rickon says, walking toward the cage. “Ready to go?”

I scoff dryly. “Maybe I should take him with me, so at least someone talks.”

Rickon throws me a pained smile over his shoulder before depositing the bird in his home. “This therapist might not be all bad. At least give her a chance, yeah?”

I keep my snappy comeback to myself. Rickon’s not the one who has to endure an hour with some world-renowned psych-gabbler. No, the poor sod going in would be me. But we both know better than to complain because this is part of our deal with the Omega Center.

“Well, let’s hope she’s better than Doc Woods,” I mutter under my breath, although I’m not sure what better constitutes. No way do I want to end up back in the head psychologist’s office at the Omega Center.

On a positive note, at least Doctor Leanne Gunry agreed to see me around my hectic filming schedule, which means an evening visit.

We pile into the car with Rickon driving and Agent Josef covering a yawn as he tags along.

Zack must sense my nervousness, because he lies down on the back seat and links his arms around my waist as much as his cast allows, refusing to let go.

The strength in his grip reassures me, and I stroke his coarse hair, gradually calming down.

Worst case scenario, I can sit in this woman’s office silently for an hour before hightailing out of there.

We pull up in front of a cottage set back from the street. Porch lights throw a soft orange radiance over the wrought iron fence and tiny garden jammed full of flowers.

I crane to look down the dark street. “Do we have the right address?” This cute but crumbling shack does not ooze renowned therapist vibes.

Rickon checks on his phone. “I think so?”

We pile out and tromp our way through the squeaky iron gate and onto the porch. Rickon slams an antique iron knocker a few times while we exchange confused glances.

“Come on in,” a cheery voice calls from inside.

The place is definitely an old house, but the inside has been converted and looks a tad more like an office space, with a few official plaques and certifications. I smirk as I notice most of them hang crooked.

The woman’s voice floats through an arch to the side. “On your left.”

She swivels on a stool as we enter, backed by a large canvas splattered in paint. “Welcome, blessed girl. Let me take a look at you now.” The smiling woman pulls glasses from out of her nest of frizzy orange hair and pops them on her nose.

If she was given a stereotyped role to play, she’d be the boil-and-toil crazy hedge witch, or the head-in-the-clouds literature teacher whose eyes light up at the mention of Shakespeare while wearing socks that don’t match.

Definitely wouldn’t have pegged her for anyone with a degree that took years to complete.

Okay, I’m being terribly judgy, but this is my way of adjusting my expectations. She doesn’t give me Dr Woods vibes at all, and that’s a good thing.

“Booyah!” she exclaims, grinning at me as she finishes her inspection. “What a charmer you are. Would you do me a favor and put on an apron?” She waves the long paintbrush in her hand toward a set of pegs on the wall. “I can get a bit enthusiastic sometimes and the paint gets everywhere.”

Once I move to take one of the aprons, the woman turns to the guys. “Would you strapping lads give us some girl time? I put playing cards and orange juice in the conference room.” The paint brush handle wobbles again like a magic wand, indicating a dogleg turn down a corridor.

Rickon squeezes my hand in silent question, and I nod. What’s the worst that can happen? Forced to listen to color wheel theory for an hour? Zack’s far more reluctant, holding me close and snuffling in my hair for a long time before Rickon coaxes him away.

Once we’re alone, the crazy lady turns back to her painting. “Call me Leanne.”

I drift over, curious to see what she’s working on, and the closer proximity compels me to offer something in response. “Red Jones.”

“Thrilled to meet you, Red.”

Her paintbrush flicks across the canvas, leaving a series of olive-green strokes. Honestly, it just looks like a mess to me, but if nothing else, the colors carry a calming, melancholic mood.

Leanne pauses long enough to point to a nearby table. “Hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and put out some coloring stuff for you. Pencils, markers, chalk. Pick your tool.”

For a moment, I worry she might want me to use paint like her and risk staining my hands blue, but she’s quick to reassure me, as if she notices my dilemma.

“No paint today. Not sure what might catch your fancy, so you can choose between mandalas or van Gogh.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” I muse as I take a seat, the chair angled just right so we can see each other. I pick up a fine-point marker and roll it between my fingers, not really interested in coloring.

Leanne chuckles. “Well, I do find that my thoughts can run wild while I paint. How about you? Ever done any art?”

“Meh. Not unless the ones with my own blood counts.” Like scratches on the doors at the House of Bitches.

She nods, unfazed. “I don’t recommend it.

The medium has to be watered down, and it dries weird.

” Her wooden paint brush does a little figure eight dance in the air.

“A few artists have used it, usually for shock value.” Her eyes find mine, an intelligent humor in them.

“Which is what I assume you were going for.”

She knows full well I’m being pissy but she doesn’t seem annoyed. I lean back in my seat. “Did they make any money off the blood paintings?”

“Yeah, some, but only after their deaths.” Leanne shrugs. “That’s the way for most artists.”

I can’t believe this shrink is conversing about blood and death. Apparently her madness lives in more than her bird’s-nest hair. Nearly tricks me into believing this is actually a safe place.

“I don’t like psychologists,” I inform her, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Ugh.” She shudders and rubs her elbows, leaving spots of paint on her sleeves. “Me neither. Shrinks, counselors, psychs. Total bastards, the whole lot of them.”

Her frank expression surprises a chuckle out of me.

She smiles and changes the subject. “Want to tell me about those fine-as-sin alphas down the hallway?”

“The OCB agent isn’t mine,” I tell her immediately. “But the other two are Rickon and Zack.”

On the table sits an outline of a famous painting of sunflowers, with tiny numbers and a corresponding color chart. I lean in for a closer look.

“And which one gave you that bond mark?”

“Zack,” I answer, before I think about it. Then I jolt and cover the bite scar with one hand. Technically the Omega Center doesn’t know I have a bond yet, so will Leanne tell them?

She cocks her head. “What are you thinking?”

“Will you be reporting on our sessions to the Omega Center?” I ask stiffly.

“Nah, not on the contents.” She waves at the air. “Only whether or not you attended. What we say in here stays confidential . . . unless you’re contemplating self-harm or a crime.”

I snort. “Like breaking an alpha out of prison?” It’s safe enough to talk about because it’s public record and Callisto’s already dealing with the fallout.

“Yes, well, that would be a serious crime." Leanne chuckles. "Wanna tell me about it?”

I shrug and fill her in on my adventure, and while I talk, I touch a yellow marker to the page where the little number three indicates yellow.

Before I know it, I’ve filled in all the yellow sections, so I switch to a brown pen.

As my story spills out, I add snippets about meeting up with Rose, and how Rickon and I met, and how much Callisto’s rejection burned.

When I get to the part where Zack was waiting for his last few hours of life, I choke up. Fuck, I came so close to losing him forever. I can’t even bear to think about it.

Leanne pushes a tissue box closer, not knowing that I refuse to cry outside of my heats—and alpha heists. “Can I ask what made you so sure he was out there somewhere?”

I lean my chin on my hand. “Believe it or not, I can hear their voices in my head.” I smile bitterly and turn to meet her gaze. “That makes me insane, right?”

Leanne stretches out her back and stands up.

She points to a painting on the wall that I recognize as another van Gogh print.

“Vincent van Gogh cut his own ear off and mailed it to his mistress, or so the story goes. That sounds like insanity to me.” She brings over a small bottle of orange juice and puts it on the table near me.

“Ever felt like cutting off your own ear?” she asks lightly.

I smirk. “No.” Maybe wanted to sever my omega nature a few times, but I know that’s different.

Leanne takes a seat beside me at the table. “Well, I think you’re fine, then. You seem like you’re functioning really well to me.”

Her words lance through me like a sharp, well-placed spear.

I drop my head, hand tightening on the pen.

Has anyone objectively told me I’m doing well?

I mean, someone who’s not my alphas who are no doubt biased in my favor.

The Omega Center staff were always encouraging, but honestly, it felt over-the-top, like scripted praise.

But Leanne’s a professional. She might look like she’s stuck her finger in an electrical socket, but the time we’ve spent together tells me a very different story. Her nonthreatening demeanor made me spill my guts more than I ever have before.

Hot, turbulent emotion rolls through me, storm clouds that overlap and spin, bringing summer rains to my dry heart. I’m doing okay.

Leanne touches my hand lightly, and I twitch alert.

“You might be interested to know a team in Switzerland are opening a rather obscure line of research into what’s being called a pre-bond , which may indicate a psychological connection existing before—” She winces and holds up her hands. “Sorry, brain science. The mumbo-jumbo spirit possessed me.”

I laugh, my heart suddenly lighter. “I was following, more or less. Maybe less.”

She grins, and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Well, let’s talk more about that next time. It’s getting late, Red, but I hope you come back to see me, ’cause I had a lot of fun.” She points to the page in front of me. “Your color choices are shit, but that’s some really neat coloring.”

It’s color-by-number and I used the suggested fucking colors.

I choke on a laugh. While we chatted, I managed to finish the whole stupid page.

The bunch of sunflowers in a yellow-and-white pot on a blue background stare at me, looking a little wilted in my opinion.

But it’s still pretty. Just not as pretty as Callisto’s flower basket. I snort at my own foolishness.

“I suppose I could tolerate another session or two,” I mutter, pushing the chair back.

Rising, she passes the page to me. “Keep it. A memento for our first session.”

“Okay.” I take the page awkwardly, resisting my first instinct to fold it in half. Doesn’t really feel like I’ve been in therapy, but I suppose this is a kind of participation trophy.

Leanne rises and hovers her hands over my shoulders. “May I?” she asks gently.

“Guess so.”

She rests her hands on me and hooks my gaze. “You’re doing really well, Red Jones. I want you to remember that. Even better if you look in the mirror and tell yourself every day. Imitate my voice if you wanna make it stick.”

“Fuck, no,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Got enough voices in my head already.”

She cackles with laughter and wipes her eyes. “Fair call.”

Who knew you could laugh in a shrink’s office?

I grin and step back, breaking her hold. Damn. I had no idea how much I needed someone to tell me I’m doing a good job. It’s not like we talked about any real hard stuff, like heats or training Zack, but maybe I truly am doing an awesome job of gluing the pieces of my new life together.

It’s something.

I tuck the page of sunflowers under my arm, determining to tape it to the wall or fridge when I get home, and go collect my guys.