The Mating Game

1

Tess

"Well, the good news is . . . you're not dying."

I gape at the pretty, smiling ER physician-Dr. Carter, she said her name was-who is regarding me carefully, having looked up at me from her clipboard, which I assume has the results of all the blood tests we did earlier.

"Do you know what's wrong with me?" I wring my hands together. "Is it some sort of weird twenty-four-hour bug?"

This seems unlikely to me, given the severity of the symptoms I've been experiencing the last several hours, but I suppose it's still a possibility.

Dr. Carter glances down at her clipboard again, flipping a page and reading something there. "I wanted to ask a few follow-up questions if that's okay?"

"Sure," I answer tightly, wishing she would just give me some clue as to what's wrong with me. "That's fine."

"Your parents . . . You listed them both as betas?"

I nod. "That's right."

"And your siblings?"

"Also betas. We all are."

She presses her lips together briefly. "Do you have any family history of crossbreeding with shifters?"

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry." She gives me another polite smile. "It's relevant."

I think back, trying to mentally tick through my family tree for as far back as I can recall. "I think . . ." I frown, trying to remember. "I think my great-grandmother was a shifter, actually. I never met her though. She died before I was born."

"Hmm."

I watch as she scans through her notes again, every passing second making my anxiety climb higher. Twenty-four hours ago, I was perfectly healthy and packing for my trip to Denver, excited about a new job. Travel is nothing new to me; my contracting business, Rustic Renovations, takes me all over the country, but this is the first time I've had to get off a plane and take an Uber straight to the nearest emergency room.

It started with cramps-terrible, terrible cramps-followed by a fever, cold sweats, and lots of nausea, and by the time the plane landed, it was clear all the other people on my flight were worried I was carrying some sort of plague, given my awful appearance. Even now I can feel my chestnut bangs clinging to my forehead with sweat, and it's only the IV in my arm feeding me occasional doses of high-powered nausea meds that's keeping me from hurling all over the speckled white tile of the little room I'm in.

"Well," Dr. Carter starts carefully. "Your blood tests yielded an abnormal spike in your hormone levels. Your progesterone, estrogen, and cortisol levels are all three times the amounts they should be. Your endocrine system is having a hard time processing the influx. That's what's causing all the unfortunate symptoms you're experiencing."

"I don't understand. Why would my hormones be out of whack all of a sudden? Is it like menopause? I'm only twenty-eight!"

"Nothing like that. It's . . . Well." She sighs, pulling the clipboard to her stomach and holding it against her white coat as she offers me a sympathetic look. "This might come as a shock, Ms. Covington, but . . ."

I lean in, my ass scooting to the edge of the hospital bed, which has me instinctively reach behind to make sure my panties aren't flashing anyone from the gap in the back of my paper gown. "What? What is it?"

"What you're experiencing isn't entirely out of the ordinary. In fact, it's something most shifters experience at the end of puberty."

I blink. "But . . . I'm a beta. Betas can't shift."

"Yes, well. It's not entirely unheard-of for a recessive gene to present itself later in life."

"That's . . ." I run my fingers through my hair, no doubt making my bangs stick straight up, but I can't focus on that right now. "That's impossible."

"Not impossible, I'm afraid," Dr. Carter says gently. "Just unlikely."

I try to process what she's saying, but it sounds faraway, like she's speaking to someone else. There's no way I could suddenly be-

I force a swallow. "So, what? Am I going to suddenly sprout ears and a tail?"

"No, no," Dr. Carter assures me with a laugh as she reaches to tuck one honeyed tendril of her hair behind her ear. "Nothing so sudden as that. You will, however, feel the urge to shift in the near future. I have all sorts of pamphlets I can give you that are chock-full of information about what your body is going through. Although, I've never seen a case with such a late presentation as yours . . . so I can't guarantee your experiences will be exactly the same."

"I just . . . don't see how this could happen."

"It's just a little hiccup in your genes," she says with a shrug. "It will be an adjustment, but I can promise you your life won't be turned upside down entirely."

Easy for her to say.

"Any other surprises I have to look forward to?" I know I sound petulant, but I think it's allowed after the day I've had. "Am I going to start craving more red meat and sniffing strangers?"

Her smile is a little tighter, and I realize I'm being slightly offensive.

"Sorry," I amend quietly. "This is just a lot."

"I get it," she says. "It's funny, my mate eats his steaks practically rare. I'm always teasing him about it. I can tell you I've never had any special feelings about red meat, and as for sniffing strangers . . . you will start to experience a sharpened sense of smell. Every shifter has a particular scent, and unless they elect to use suppressants-which is usually only the case in certain professions or environments-you are going to pick up on those. It might cause headaches at first, but with time you will become more acclimated to the sensation."

"Great," I mumble dejectedly. "Just great."

"If I'm being candid," Dr. Carter goes on, "I have other suspicions about your lab results."

I stifle a groan. What else could possibly be going on with my body? "What?"

"It's just . . ." She holds out her chart, indicating a sloping graph that makes no sense to me. "Your particular levels of these hormones are indicative of a secondary designation."

"A secondary designation?"

"It's rare-incredibly rare, even-but then again, so is your situation as a whole. So it wouldn't be all that surprising at this point."

"I'm not following."

"I think you might be an omega, Ms. Covington."

I'm blinking dumbly again. "What?"

"Like I said, it's very rare, and in this day and age . . . it really isn't all that different from being a shifter."

"I know what an omega is," I say absently. "I have a friend who-" I swallow thickly. "How can you be so sure?"

"Well," she laughs. "I am one, for starters."

Fuck. Foot in mouth. Again. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I am not usually this much of an asshole."

"It's fine. Really. I can't imagine what it must be like to face this so suddenly."

"If you're an omega as well, can you tell me what I can expect? If that's the case?"

I could always ask my friend Ada, but I haven't even figured out how I'm going to tell her, or anyone else for that matter.

"Like I said, it really isn't all that different in most cases. If you start googling, you're likely to go down some undesirable Reddit rabbit holes that are mostly nonsense, but you can just ignore those. All it means is that your heats might be a little more frequent. Possibly more intense as well."

"My heats?"

Oh God. That absolutely hadn't crossed my mind yet.

"Yes," Dr. Carter explains calmly. "Usually, a shifter going through puberty will experience less intense heats-we call them 'juvenile heats,' to be exact-meaning they won't last the full ovulation cycle and won't have the same level of, ah, need."

"Need?"

"Need to, um . . . copulate."

"Oh fuck," I groan.

Dr. Carter gives me a small smile. "Precisely."

I might laugh if my entire world weren't tilting on its axis.

"So . . . what do I do in the meantime?"

She considers this for a moment. "I'm going to prescribe you some hormone regulators, but the dose will be very mild. Just enough to alleviate some of your symptoms. We don't want to interrupt your body's cycle of change, after all. I can also get you something for the nausea and cramps. Other than that . . . I would strongly suggest that you spend the next few weeks or so at home if at all possible. I can't predict exactly what other symptoms you might experience while your body adjusts to the new hormone levels, and being around other shifters might make things more uncomfortable. Shifting isn't permitted inside city limits, but I can get you a doctor's note explaining your condition in case there are any unplanned incidents. Otherwise, there are several nice heat clinics on the edge of the city, where you would be able to shift comfortably. Normally, you would need to schedule weeks in advance, but again, I can get you a doctor's note explaining your special circumstances."

My mind whirls. Unplanned shifting? Heat clinics?

"I can't hole up for weeks," I argue. "I'm here for a job."

"Any chance you could work remotely?"

"I'm a contractor. I do renovation for cabins and lodges and such."

"Ah. That's a pickle."

"It is," I remark dryly.

"Well, I obviously can't force you either way," Dr. Carter says. "I can only suggest. But I would keep a close eye on your body. You don't want to overexert yourself."

"But the meds should help, right?"

"A little," she says. "As I said, we don't want to medicate you so much that your body can't process the change it's going through. This is a natural thing. For the most part, we just have to let it run its course."

Perfect, I think. Just perfect.

"Okay," I say with a nod. "Okay. This is fine. Just . . . if you could get me those prescriptions you mentioned, I can deal with the rest."

"If you have any more trouble, don't hesitate to come back in, okay?"

"Sure," I answer, knowing that's unlikely. The jobsite is almost two hours away. I won't have time to pack up and head out every time I get a cramp. "Of course."

"Right. I'll get you those prescriptions before I release you." She starts to turn toward the door but pauses, giving me one last concerned look. "Oh. One more thing. It's very unlikely, but I should mention that you should steer clear of alphas."

"Alphas?"

"Another secondary designation," she tells me. "Their pheromones, like yours and mine, are stronger than your average shifter's. Being around one might wreak havoc on your system-could even possibly trigger a juvenile heat if you're compatible enough." She shrugs. "It's probably a nonissue. They are also incredibly rare." A small, strange smile touches her lips. "But then again . . . you never know."

I watch her go, still stuck on pheromones. Nothing about any of this feels like real life.

I check my phone when she leaves and see that my brothers have responded to the group text, asking if I landed okay. It takes all I have not to laugh at that. I am definitely not ready to have this discussion with my family. I don't even know what I'm going to say to my brothers when they drive in to join me on the job at the end of the week.

The job.

I groan. I'm still expected to show up at the small ski lodge this evening-a little place just up the mountain, near the town of Pleasant Hill. The woman I've been speaking to, Jeannie, seems nice enough, and I can only hope she won't notice if I have to escape to the bathroom to deal with an influx of cramps or sweating or God knows what else during the next few weeks while I oversee the renovation.

I laugh dryly.

At least things can't get any worse.


”Made it to Nowheresville yet?”

In hindsight, I probably should have let Ada's call go to voicemail. It's only been a couple of hours since the nice doctor at the ER informed me my entire life was changing, but since my best friend is like a shark smelling blood in the water when it comes to sussing out my moods, I doubt I can keep any of this from her for long.

"Almost," I tell her, slowing for a stop sign. "It's really off the beaten path."

"Never a good sign. That's how you get axe-murdered."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not going to get axe-murdered."

"That's what every person who gets axe-murdered thinks. No one wakes up thinking, 'Oh, today I'm going to get axe-murdered,' but then, before you know it, you're human firewood."

"I am officially putting you in time-out from those true crime podcasts."

"You'll change your tune when I keep you from becoming human firewood."

"How about we stop using the term 'human firewood' when I'm this close to a secluded ski lodge that I'll be staying at by myself until my brothers fly in?"

Ada snorts on the other end of the line. "Thomas and Chase are in more danger than you are. They're pretty, but they don't have the same hardware upstairs as you. Kyle might stand a chance."

"Hey, now," I laugh. "That's not very nice."

"I'm kidding," she says. "You know I love those big lugs. But still, there's a reason you're the brains of the operation and they're the muscle."

"And cameraman," I correct, thinking of Kyle.

"And cameraman," she agrees.

"How cold is it there?"

"Somewhere between frozen toes and cracked lips."

I can practically hear her shudder. "No thanks."

"Definitely a far cry from Newport."

"I'll think of you while I'm on the beach later," she says with sympathy.

"That makes everything better."

"Obviously. How are you feeling? Did you end up going to get checked out?"

I bite my lip, considering. Ada would understand. I've never asked for the ins and outs of what she is, but that doesn't mean I haven't picked up bits and pieces over the years. I'm . . . not ready to tell anyone yet. Not when I haven't figured out my own feelings about it. I'm already half panicking enough as it is without her hysterics added to the mix.

"I feel better," I tell her. It's not a complete lie. I do feel better after taking the meds Dr. Carter gave me. "Not dying, at least."

"Just make sure you get checked out if you start feeling shitty again. It sounded like you were really suffering when I talked to you last."