Chapter 40 Patrick
Patrick
It’s been a few weeks since Christmas break ended. A few weeks of routine. Lectures. Faculty meetings. Papers stacked in uneven piles on my desk.
And Lottie.
I’ve given her minimal work. Intentionally. Just enough to justify her position. Just enough to keep things professional. Structured. Controlled.
I know I should give her more. She’s capable of it — more than capable. The job would feel more legitimate. More fulfilling. But giving her more responsibility would mean more meetings. More one-on-one time. More closed doors.
And we can’t spend time alone in my office. That room feels cursed.
Cursed to strip away what little restraint we manage to maintain in public. Cursed to make the air heavy and charged. Cursed to remind me exactly how close we came last time.
So I keep things brief. Professional. Distant.
Today is Saturday. And I’m finally meeting with Dr. Marin. We’re grabbing lunch — she’d invited me to her home — and she’s going to explain what’s been happening to me. Not metaphorically. Not philosophically.
Biologically. That word alone feels like a lifeline.
I need this to be real. Measurable. Rooted in science.
Not instinct. Not fate. Not some ancient superstition that reduces me to something primal and irrational.
I need facts. Clear explanations.
I need to know why my body reacts the way it does around Lottie. Why my pulse spikes. Why my thoughts blur. Why the pull feels less like desire and more like something I have no chance of winning against.
And more than anything, I need to know if there’s a way to make these urges go away.
I swing my legs out of bed and walk to the bathroom, flipping on the light and then the shower. The pipes groan in protest before the water begins to run.
While it heats up, I relieve myself, staring blankly at the tile floor as my mind drifts back to what I’ll ask her.
Is this permanent?
Is it chemical?
Can it be suppressed?
When the steam begins to fog the mirror, I strip out of my pajamas and step under the spray.
The hot water hits my shoulders, and I groan softly at the relief.
God. It feels good. Like a hot stone massage.
The heat loosens muscles I didn’t realize were tight. I tilt my head back, letting the water run over my face, trying to wash away the constant tension sitting just beneath my skin.
By the time I finish washing, the air in the bathroom is thick with steam. I towel off and walk back into my bedroom, the air cooler against damp skin.
Then I get dressed. In jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Simple. Casual but put together.
I check my phone for the address Dr. Marin sent and plug it into my GPS. The route loads.
About an hour away.
Which means I should leave now if I want to arrive early — or at the very least, on time.
I grab my wallet and slip it into my back pocket. Keys. Phone. Quick pat-down to make sure I’m not forgetting anything. Then I grab my coat, hat, and scarf.
I bundle up, the fabric heavy and necessary against the biting cold outside. Once I’m fully dressed, I step out of the house and lock the door behind me, the click echoing in the still morning air.
The car is freezing when I get in. I start the engine and immediately rub my hands together, breath visible in front of me. The heater takes its time — stubborn — but eventually warm air begins to trickle from the vents.
After twenty minutes, the interior is finally comfortable.
I shift into reverse and pull out of the driveway, following the GPS directions as they guide me away from town and toward the highway.
The drive is quiet. No music this time. Just the hum of the engine and the steady churn of my thoughts.
An hour later, I turn off onto a quieter road and eventually approach a large gated entrance.
The GPS announces I’ve arrived. The property stretches beyond the gate — acres of land, winter-bare trees framing a long winding drive that leads up to a sizable home set back from the road.
Providence, Rhode Island.
This is… more than I expected.
I press the buzzer beside the gate.
There’s a faint crackle before a voice comes through the speaker. “State your name and business.”
“Patrick Hale,” I reply evenly. “I’m here to meet with Dr. Marin.”
A pause. Long enough for me to wonder if I’ve come to the wrong place.
Then the gate buzzes and begins to slide open slowly.
I wait until it’s fully open before driving through, gravel crunching under my tires as I make my way up the winding road toward the house.
With every turn, my chest tightens.
By the time the house comes fully into view, I know one thing for certain.
Whatever she tells me today—it’s going to change everything.
I pull in behind another car already parked in the sweeping driveway and cut the engine.
The house is even more imposing up close — all stone and tall windows, understated but unmistakably expensive. The kind of place that doesn’t need to flaunt wealth because it simply exists in it.
For a moment, I sit there, hands resting on the steering wheel, staring at the front door.
First, lunch. Then answers.
Possibly the dismantling of everything I believe to be rational.
I step out of the car, the cold biting at my cheeks, and make my way up the wide stone steps. Before I can even knock, the front door swings open.
A man in a tailored suit stands there, gloves fitted neatly over his hands. His posture is rigid, professional.
“Professor Hale?” he asks.
I nod. “Yup. That’s me.”
He inclines his head and steps aside. “Please, come in.”
I cross the threshold into warmth and polished hardwood floors. The air smells faintly of lemon polish and something savory drifting from deeper inside the house.
“May I take your coat?”
I shrug out of my coat and take my hat and scarf off before passing all of it to him.
“Follow me, please,” he says, already turning down a short hallway.
I follow in silence, taking in the understated artwork lining the walls, the muted tones, the quiet hum of a well-kept home.
He stops at a door and gestures toward it. “Dr. Marin will see you inside. Lunch is being served.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, adjusting my scarf before stepping through.
The room is smaller than I expected — intimate. A cozy dining space with a large wooden table set for two.
Dr. Marin is already seated. She looks up as I enter, her face lighting immediately.
“Hey, Pat!” she calls warmly.
I can’t help but smile. “Dr. Marin. It’s good to see you.”
She gestures to the chair across from her. “Sit, sit.”
I pull it out and take a seat, as discreet staff members move quietly around us.
“We’ll eat first,” she says, motioning subtly to a maid standing nearby. “Then we’ll chat.”
“That works,” I reply.
Honestly, I’m grateful for the delay. The longer we talk about mundane things, the longer I can pretend this is just a social visit.
Dishes begin appearing on the table — steam rising from platters arranged with practiced precision.
“Help yourself,” Dr. Marin says.
I reach for the meatloaf first, slicing off a portion and placing it on my plate. Then mashed potatoes — smooth and creamy — followed by a generous serving of green beans.
A nice, well-balanced meal.
I pour myself a glass of water from a crystal pitcher and take a sip before digging in.
The first bite nearly makes me pause. It’s excellent. Perfectly seasoned, savory, rich without being heavy. The kind of food that feels deliberate.
We make small talk as we eat. She asks what I’ve been up to.
“Teaching,” I say simply. “Paper grading. Department politics. The usual.”
“And avoiding my calls?” she teases lightly.
I huff a quiet laugh. “You’ve been the hard one to reach.”
She nods. “Seminars. Guest lectures. Conferences. It’s been nonstop.”
That tracks.
We finish our plates gradually, conversation light and surface-level.
Eventually, she sets her napkin down and stands. “Come,” she says, gesturing for me to follow.
I trail her into what appears to be a sunroom — wide windows letting in pale winter light, though the sky outside is gray and heavy. A couch sits against one wall, with two armchairs opposite.
She takes the couch. I take a seat across from her.
The air shifts immediately. Whatever ease existed at the dining table dissolves.
She doesn’t waste time. “I know you want answers, Pat,” she says gently. “And I have to tell you — what I’m about to say, you won’t like.”
My jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“I know how logical you are,” she continues. “How focused on facts. Evidence. But I need you to keep an open mind.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry despite the water I just drank.
“Okay,” I say, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Lay it on me. I’ve waited in suspense long enough.”
She chuckles softly.
“Let me ask you a few things first,” she says. “You told me that when you touched this person, you felt something like an electric shock?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You’re on suppressants?”
Another nod. “Yes.”
“Are you still able to smell their pheromones despite the suppressants?”
I hesitate for only a fraction of a second. “Yes,” I admit. “They don’t seem to work at all when I’m around her.”
She notes the pronoun change but doesn’t comment. “And you think about this person frequently? You feel compelled to see them? Drawn to them?”
I let out a slow breath. “Yes. All of that. You’re describing it exactly.”
Silence stretches for a beat.
“So,” I say, trying to inject levity into the rising tension in my chest, “what is it, Doc? Am I dying?”
We both laugh, but hers fades first.
“No,” she says softly. “You aren’t dying.” She studies me carefully before continuing. “And I don’t know how much you’re going to want to hear this.”
My stomach tightens.
“But from everything you’ve described,” she says, her voice calm and measured, “it sounds like you, sir… have found your fated mate.”
The words land between us like a dropped weight.
Fated mate. Ancient. Instinctual.
I stare at her. Every rational part of my brain immediately rejects it.
“That’s not—” I start, then stop.
Because deep down?
It explains everything.