Chapter 41 Patrick
The words echo in my head. Fated mate.
Even as the truth of it tries to settle somewhere deep in my chest — fitting too neatly, explaining too much — my mind rebels.
“No,” I say immediately, sharper than I intend. “Fated mates are a myth. Folklore. That’s never been proven.”
Dr. Marin doesn’t flinch. She just nods slowly, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. Not mocking. Expectant.
“I knew you would say that,” she replies calmly. “You’ve always needed peer-reviewed journals before you’d believe in gravity.”
I exhale through my nose, tension tightening across my shoulders.
“However,” she continues, folding her hands in her lap, “it has been proven. To a certain extent.”
I let out a quiet, incredulous huff.
“They’re rare,” she says. “Extremely rare. Which makes them difficult to study in large numbers. But there are studies. Case studies. Longitudinal tracking. Hormonal panels. Brain imaging. Genetic mapping.”
I’m already shaking my head before she finishes.
“All of those studies,” she goes on, unbothered by my resistance, “point to fated mates being real.”
Silence stretches between us.
The logical part of my brain scrambles for counterarguments.
Confirmation bias. Cultural influence. Psychosomatic response. Selective reporting.
“You’re telling me,” I say carefully, leaning forward, elbows on my knees, “that there’s legitimate scientific data supporting the idea that somewhere out there is one biologically predetermined person I’m supposed to be with?”
She tilts her head slightly. “Not ‘supposed to.’ That’s a romantic oversimplification. But biologically predisposed? Yes.”
My pulse picks up despite myself.
“That’s… dangerously close to superstition,” I mutter.
“It sounds like superstition,” she corrects gently. “But biology often does.”
She leans back slightly.
“Fated mate bonds present with a cluster of consistent markers. Heightened pheromone recognition even through suppressants. Electrical sensation on first contact — that ‘shock’ you described. Immediate fixation. Hormonal irregularities when separated. Elevated cortisol and dopamine spikes in proximity.”
Each point lands uncomfortably close to home.
“You’re on suppressants,” she continues. “Yet you can smell her.”
I don’t correct the pronoun this time.
“You felt a shock when you touched her.”
I remember it vividly. Like a live current under my skin.
“You think about her constantly. Your body responds to her presence whether you want it to or not.”
My jaw tightens.
“That’s attraction,” I argue weakly.
She shakes her head. “Attraction fades. It fluctuates. It can be redirected. What you’re describing is involuntary physiological override. Your body is prioritizing her above chemical suppression.”
The word override sits heavily.
I run a hand through my hair.
“So what,” I say, my voice lower now. “My biology just decided this is the one, and now I’m… what? Bound to her?”
“Not bound,” she says carefully. “But connected.”
I look away toward the wide windows of the sunroom. The sky outside is a dull winter gray.
Connected.
To my student.
The irony would be laughable if it weren’t so catastrophic.
I drag my gaze back to her.
“Okay,” I say finally, forcing steadiness into my voice. “I’ll bite.”
She waits.
“What’s the deal with fated mates?”
If this is real — if this isn’t just my body betraying me — then I need to understand exactly what I’m dealing with.
Dr. Marin leans forward, elbows resting lightly on her knees, her expression shifting from clinical to careful.
“I’m glad you asked,” she says. “Because while you’re not bound in the romanticized sense people like to dramatize… There are repercussions if you resist the bond.”
My brows draw together. “Resist the bond? Like how I’ve already been doing?”
She exhales softly. “Yes. Like that.”
Something in the way she says it makes my stomach tighten.
“In the documented cases we have,” she continues, “fated pairs who delayed bonding past the initial recognition period reported escalating symptoms. Heightened irritability. Hormonal spikes. Suppressants losing efficacy. Sleep disruption. Increased possessiveness.”
I clench my jaw.
That tracks too well.
“And,” she adds carefully, “in pairs who resisted until roughly the three-month mark, the choice was effectively taken from them.”
I go still. “Taken from them how?”
She holds my gaze. “Unexpected rut and heat cycles.”
My stomach drops.
“The alpha’s rut intensified beyond what suppressants could manage,” she says calmly. “They seek out the omega, at which time the omega enters into heat shortly after. The bond was completed — marking, mating — often resulting in pregnancy.”
The room feels smaller.
“That sounds,” I say slowly, “like biology hijacking autonomy.”
“It is biology overriding prolonged suppression of a bond response,” she replies evenly. “Every recorded case followed the same pattern.”
I stare at her.
“So you’re telling me,” I say, disbelief sharpening my tone, “that there’s a deadline? A consequence if we don’t act within some arbitrary time frame?”
She actually laughs at my expression — not mockingly, but gently.
“I’ll say this based on the studies,” she replies. “The window appears to be approximately three months from first physical contact. If the bond isn’t consummated voluntarily within that period, the physiological drive intensifies until voluntary choice becomes… unlikely.”
“Unlikely,” I repeat flatly.
“Fate,” she says quietly, “doesn’t respond well to being ignored.”
I blink at her.
“You want me to believe,” I say, my voice rising despite my effort to stay controlled, “that I don’t have a choice? That some biological script overrides my free will? That I’m required to follow what ‘fate’ designed?”
My hands spread in frustrated disbelief.
“What if I decline?” I press. “What if I’m not ready? What if I don’t want to be bonded?”
The questions come out harsher than intended, edged with something dangerously close to panic.
Dr. Marin’s expression softens. “Pat,” she says gently, “you do have a choice.”
I laugh once, humorless. “That’s not what it sounds like.”
“You have a choice in how it happens,” she clarifies. “If you want to remain in control, accept the bond intentionally. Decide the timing. Set the terms as much as you can.”
“And if I don’t?”
Her eyes hold mine steadily. “Then your body will eventually decide for you.”
Silence crashes down between us.
I lean back, staring at nothing, letting the implications settle like lead in my veins.
Three months. From first contact.
My mind flashes back to the moment I first touched her. The electric current under my skin. The shock that made me pull away too slowly.
How long ago was that?
Too long.
I stand abruptly, the motion almost maniacal.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice tight but polite. “For the information.”
She rises more slowly.
“It seems I have some thinking to do,” I add. “We’ll do lunch again when you’re in the area.”
She nods, but there’s something in her eyes now.
Pity. I hate it instantly.
I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want inevitability. I don’t want ancient biological destiny dictating the course of my life.
I want this to be a misunderstanding.
A misdiagnosis. A nightmare I can wake up from.
But as I walk back through the house toward the front door, one thought pounds steadily in my head—three months isn’t very long.
And if my calculations are right, we’re well into that timeline already.