Something almost like frustration flickers across his face before it smooths away.
“Some people don’t present on schedule,” he says slowly. “Some suppress. Some are late.”
My stomach drops.
“Late what?”
His gaze holds mine. Steady. Unflinching.
“Late bloomers.”
The words settle into place with quiet dread.
“No. No…I’m not… I’m not an omega, Sol,” I say immediately.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You implied it.”
“I’m explaining possibilities.”
I shake my head. “No. It’s not possible.”
“Why?”
Because my father would have known. Because my childhood would have been different. Because everything would have been structured around it. Because if I were?—
“No,” I repeat, firmer this time. “I would know.”
“Not necessarily.”
I step back, putting space between us even though my body protests the distance. “You’re saying the bite did this?”
“I’m saying the bite may have triggered something that was already there. If you were just a beta, it would have healed by now. You know that.”
The room feels too small suddenly.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s biological.”
“I’m not an omega,” I insist. “My father?—”
I stop myself too late.
Sol’s eyes sharpen. “Your father what?”
“He…would have known,” I say, jaw tight. “He tracked everything. Bloodwork. Schedules. Development markers. If there was even a hint of that…”
Control. Conditioning. Preparation.
Silence stretches.
“And you’re certain nothing was suppressed?” he asks carefully.
I stare at him, pulse hammering in my ears, thinking about my father’s greatest experiment.
I can’t answer him, so I change the topic.