15. Emmeline
15
Emmeline
“ I
’m going to be sick,” I whisper, clutching my hands together, wringing them anxiously in front of me.
I look around their living room, and waves of nausea hit, getting stronger and stronger the more I look around.
It’s too much. Too big, too sleek. Too… lifeless .
At first glance, it’s beautiful— expensive . The kind of space that should impress. The kind that should feel like a dream.
But the longer I stand here, the more it presses in on me.
There’s a massive sofa in the centre of the room—black, leather, and ridiculously large—like they were expecting to host a small conference of alphas at any given time.
A glass coffee table sits in front of it, looking one sneeze away from disaster, and the entire back wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a breathtaking view of the city.
That, I think I could love. At least on mornings and nights when the city is quiet and there’s nobody around.
But right now… it just makes me feel exposed .
I swallow hard, my omega shifting uncomfortably inside me. Everything in this room is luxurious and modern—sleek lines, dark wood, and zero personality.
It feels sterile. Impersonal. Empty.
I shift on my feet, fisting the fabric of my sleeves.
Where are the scents? The love? The warmth?
The proof that my— not yours, Emme— pack actually lives here?
Sure, there’s a massive built-in fireplace, but it’s the kind that looks decorative rather than something they use. It’s horrid.
This is all wrong .
My omega hates it even more than I do.
It’s like a showroom—something out of a rich man’s magazine spread. A single, unlit candle sits on the mantel as if that’s supposed to make it homely .
It doesn’t even smell like a nice smell. No, it’s ‘ash wood’. What even is ash wood?
The walls? A neutral prison grey. The rug? Some outrageously expensive monstrosity that does not belong here.
I want to be sick.
Uri’s presence doesn’t do much to set me at ease, in fact, it’s doing the exact opposite. “Why are you so nervous?”
I give him a dumbfounded look, blinking in surprise. Is he serious?
My throat tightens. He doesn’t see it.
His house is pristine, cold, and perfect—but completely unfit for an omega.
Completely unfit for a baby.
There are no soft things. No warmth. Nothing that screams them .
I can’t be here. My omega doesn’t just dislike it—she rejects it completely.
And my baby is supposed to spend time here?
No. Absolutely not.
I can’t allow this.
“Emmeline, love, what’s going on?” Uri prompts, trying to be soft and gentle.
I don’t know why he bothers. This home of theirs… it’s just wrong.
Paxton asked if I wanted a tour, and after seeing the state of this room, I couldn’t bear it.
My omega is devastated.
And I am, too.
My stomach twists and turns, and I can barely hold onto my rationality. I want to cry. To sob. To plead to go to my home where my nest is, where some warmth is.
“I’m going to get a glass of water,” I mutter, unable to voice my unhappiness with him. I feel guilty.
Rude, even.
They were all so excited to bring me here, but Uri was the most passionate.
And now, I hate it.
“Of course. Sterling and Pax are there,” he says gently. “Don’t panic, little omega, it’ll be fine.”
Fine . A laughable emotion.
Uri watches me, concern flickering in his warm brown eyes, but he doesn’t stop me.
I hurry from the room, willing myself to breathe.
I don’t belong here.
This house isn’t me.
And no matter how much I might want to pretend otherwise— neither are they.
I rush along the corridor, not pausing to look at the photographs along the walls, and come to a stop inside the kitchen.
Paxton is on one side of the counter, a water bottle open in front of him, and Sterling is directly opposite.
The beta has taken his jacket off, his shirt clinging to him in a delectable way, and my mouth waters at the thought of rude things.
Stop it, Emme. Get yourself under control.
I look around the kitchen, my eyes unable to settle on any one thing. The kitchen feels different from the living room—warmer, more real.
It’s perfect in here. Truly a masterpiece.
That’s the first thing that I notice.
The second is the scents.
My mouth waters, my nose twitching, and I gasp in air to try and inhale them.
Uri’s signature blend of black pepper and honey.
The crisp green tea and mint from Sterling that soothes my omega so much more than I expected.
The other two scents are strong and both just as delicious.
Both mine .
I wonder which belongs to which.
Spicy cinnamon and sweet vanilla. Could that be Oscar? I doubt it.
It’s strong, domineering, and so… warm.
The other is a subtle but sweet almond blended with a warm nutmeg.
Subdued but complex.
Comforting but not overpowering.
And so very mine .
Their house might not feel like a home—at least, not in the living room. But this room? This room is everything.
Their scents blend together, wrapping around me like the world’s most comforting blanket, and, for the first time since stepping into their home, I don’t feel like an outsider.
My fingers brush against the smooth marble counter, the cold surface making me smile.
This space is used. Lived in. Perfect.
Because their scents are here, and they’re the closest thing to home I’ve ever felt.
Ever known.
“Are you okay, Emmeline?” Paxton asks, drawing my attention.
“She’s probably just scenting you and Oscar,” Sterling says, his tone deep with amusement.
He’s not wrong.
Even if he’s being a prick about it.
I don’t want to leave this room. The kitchen is similar to that living room in the fact that it’s luxurious and modern.
The sleek, black marble counters and the high cabinets make it obvious that this is a man’s home.
But there’s something different about this room. Something that puts me more at ease.
I hate how much I love it.
Sure, it’s modern and sleek, but it’s not cold. Not like that living room.
The black marble counters gleam under the soft, under-cabinet lighting, and they stretch along the walls in an open and airy layout.
The kitchen feels lived in, like this is their home and not just a room they spend time in.
The long kitchen island in the centre of the space is polished to a high shine with tall barstools tucked neatly underneath.
The longer I stand here and stare, the more I see it, the more I can imagine it.
This is… it’s something real. Something… that could be mine.
“Here’s your water, little storm,” Sterling murmurs, gently placing the bottle of water into my hands.
The coldness of it is a sharp feeling compared to the warmth I’m surrounded in.
My omega doesn’t want to leave.
And, honestly… neither do I.
My heart wants to explore, to find the right spot, to steal all of their soft things, and make myself a nest.
Surround myself in their scents, in their love, in their life.
But, rationally, my brain knows how stupid that is. How much I can’t handle it.
How much it would break me.
“You seem out of sorts, Emmeline.” Paxton’s tone is smooth, confident, even.
He seems far more at ease here in his kitchen than he did at the office, and that’s something I should be wary of.
“My brother is going to be here in five minutes.” I look around the room, not sure if I should try and do a quick clean for them to help settle myself.
I need to do something. I can’t just stand here, lost in the scent of them, in the warmth of their kitchen. No matter how much this house seems to want to draw me in and keep me here.
Contentment is a dangerous feeling—perhaps the most deadly of them all.
My gaze drifts over the counter, drinking in the polished surfaces, the neat organisation, and then I notice it.
My fingers twitch.
“I need some cleaning spray and wipes.”
The words feel distant like someone else is saying them. My chest is tight, my pulse erratic. I scan the kitchen, searching for… something.
A distraction.
Something to focus on besides how much I like it here.
I don’t meet their eyes as I place the bottle of water onto the countertop and start to fold up Uri’s sleeves.
I can’t ruin his jacket with bleach. I’d never forgive myself.
But I also can’t bear the thought of taking it off.
No, I need it.
It’s like a shield against my anxiety, against the storm that’s raging around me.
Paxton doesn’t hesitate in grabbing the supplies I asked for, and I can feel the heavy weight of the beta’s eyes.
He’s watching, assessing, categorising.
I don’t care.
“Do you need help?” Paxton asks carefully.
“No.”
My gaze lands on a stack of coasters near the sink. They’re perfectly aligned, but I straighten them anyway.
It’s a small thing, but my fingers tingle with the need for order, for control.
If I can fix it and make it perfect, then it’ll be so much better when Evander gets here. He’ll see it’s not so bad.
That things could be good.
Perfect, even.
I glance at the window above the sink, checking for smudges. There are none.
But the curtains are a little messy, so I straighten them, adjusting the creases so that they look just right.
They’re not soft enough, a little too rough as I rub my fingertips over them. They’ll need replaced.
The island stools are tucked in neatly, but I nudge one just a little, then back again.
It’s fine. Everything is just fine.
Except, it really isn’t.
I run my hands over the countertop, feeling for crumbs, for imperfections, for an excuse. It’s pristine— of course, it is —but maybe the surface could use a wipe-down. Just to be sure.
Without hesitating, I start cleaning the kitchen counter, both men moving out of the way for me as I scrub at it. They exchange glances, but I ignore them. I can’t cope with their judgement.
Not when I can see my face in the reflection of the island, see the focus in my features, the uncertainty in my eyes.
The scent of the disinfectant floods my nose, sharp and bitter, but it’s clean . I press harder, scrubbing, pushing all of my anxiety into the movement.
If I just fix this, if I make it perfect, then everything will settle. I’ll be in control.
But my cloth catches on a mark. A tiny imperfection near the edge of the marble.
I rub at it.
It doesn’t budge.
I rub harder.
It’s still there.
A tiny, stupid stain that shouldn’t be here. A flaw in this perfect kitchen. In my home.
Not my home.
But my home.
I grit my teeth and scrub again. Over and over. Harder and harder.
I scrub until my arm aches and my breath comes out in sharp, shallow bursts.
Why won’t it go away?
I need it gone.
There’s soft murmurings from Sterling and Paxton, but I can’t stop. I can’t reassure them.
Can’t they see what’s wrong with this? Don’t they understand that their house is now tarnished?
The harder I scrub, the worse the panic gets, rising, tightening, pressing against my ribs until it feels like I might suffocate under the weight of it.
It’s stuck.
It won’t come off.
Like me.
Like all the things I can’t undo, can’t clean away, can’t make right no matter how hard I try.
What if this is just how things are going to be for the rest of my life? Stuck. Broken. Wrong .
A warm hand covers mine, halting my frantic movements. I look up into soothing grey eyes.
“It’s okay now, Emme,” Oscar says softly. “I think you’ve done an amazing job here. Can you come help me through the living room?”
I bite my lip, my nerves bubbling inside of me. I can’t answer.
I don’t know how.
He gently brushes the tears from my cheeks, and I’m startled to realise I’ve been crying.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong with the counter?” he asks when I still don’t say anything. He gently squeezes my hand.
“We need a new house. This one is dirty and broken, and I’m meant to be bringing a baby into it soon, and look at it.”
I throw my arm out, accidentally hitting his chest, as I break down into tears.
“Oh, Em,” a familiar voice whispers. But as I’m drawn into a hug, I realise I’m surrounded by nutmeg and almond.
By my mate—my alpha.
Oscar’s hug is perfect, and I’m pleasantly surprised. He cages me against his chest, applying the exact right amount of pressure to soothe the omega whilst not overwhelming me, and he keeps me firmly upright.
Nutmeg and almond flood my senses, wrapping around me like a weighted blanket. There’s no anger, no unease—just pure contentment. It settles in my chest, threading through my ribs, grounding me in the right ways.
It’s perfect.
He is perfect.
His chest begins to vibrate underneath me, and no matter how my body relaxes, it doesn’t fix the problem—that they live in a hovel not suited for a baby at all. That this house should be condemned for being such a contamination site.
Burned down. Eradicated.
“What’s wrong with her?” Uri demands, his gruff voice joining the mix. But where they’re all on edge, Evander’s scent darker than all of theirs, I’m not.
For the first time in my entire life, I finally feel complete.
With my four mates by my side.
Things might be awful. They might be broken.
But they’re weirdly perfect all at the same time.
“There you go,” he says softly. Oscar pulls away but keeps his hands on my biceps. “We need a new house?”
I laugh, but it’s shaky, uneven. My throat is still tight, my chest still aching. But if I don’t force it, if I don’t move past this, I’ll drown in it.
I’m mortified. This was another ridiculous moment, another time I let my omega take control. She’s trying to worm her way out of her box, blurring the lines between bosses and mates.
But she forgets something I already know— they don’t want us.
I shake my head, still clinging to that fake smile. “I’m… don’t worry about it. Thank you. I’m sorry I put you in that position.”
“I’ve had plenty of practice helping omegas,” Oscar says, and I let out a low growl, my eyes snapping to his in fury.
In panic.
“Lia, remember?” He doesn’t hesitate in growling low once more, instinctively providing what I need.
“Sorry.”
He beams at me. “You don’t ever need to apologise for being an omega, Emme. That would be like Uri apologising for being stupid.”
“I’d argue he’s more than stupid.” My brother’s tone is dripping with condemnation.
To my surprise, Uri doesn’t react. Doesn’t bristle or growl. He just watches, eyes unreadable, jaw tight. He’s uncomfortable with my brother here, but he’s also being careful.
“Don’t be mean,” I say softly, giving my brother a warning look. He’s more dishevelled than usual, but he doesn’t seem angry.
Just a little worked up, and that’s understandable. I don’t want to mediate a fight today, and I really don’t want to see my brother hurt for trying to take on a pack— my pack.
“You two smell alike,” Oscar says, glancing between me and my brother with an easy going smile. “Hey. Evander, right?”
“Oscar.” The tone says it all.
I tense, and Oscar immediately reacts, tugging me to his side, letting his chest rumble low and soothingly.
I wish it didn’t work as well as it does.
“You’ve looked into us, then,” Paxton says. There’s a difference in my alpha, one I can’t really pin down. He’s more distant, more in control. There’s an edge to his posture, one that’s somehow not like him but also exactly like him at the same time.
I don’t understand it.
But my omega craves him.
“Wouldn’t you if Emme was your sister?” Ev asks, pushing past Uri to come stand at the head of the island. Paxton is on the left side, and Sterling is opposite, facing the windows. Oscar and I are opposite my brother with a clear view of the entire room.
Uri’s at a disadvantage, standing near the doorway.
The room is huge, and it’s a good thing, considering there’s one too many alphas in this kitchen. I don’t think we’re going to be able to count on the beta to keep things calm.
Not when he looks ready to blow.
“I would,” Oscar says with a nod. “If this were Lia, I’d probably be in jail.”
“Trust me, restraining myself has been hard.” Evander leans on the island, his hands pressing firmly into the marble. “I don’t like you. Dickhead back there is lucky he’s still breathing. And you—” he pauses to give Sterling a look of disgust. “Should get yourself checked out. With a nose that faulty, it’s an embarrassment that you’re the head of security.”
“Ev, please,” I beg, desperate to reach out for him.
“No, Emmeline, let him,” Sterling says, shaking his head. “Your brother has a right to his opinion. And he’s not exactly wrong.”
“I’m not,” Evander says with a sneer. He rounds to Paxton, unwavering in his annoyance. “Where do you stand?”
“Emmeline is my mate, and I will be by her side whether she wants me there or not.” Paxton breaks the stare with my brother to wink at me. The flutters in my tummy are embarrassing. “And I will be there for my child, too.”
“You don’t need to ask me,” Oscar says with a relaxed smile.
Evander relaxes ever so slightly. “No, it seems I don’t. You handled her well.”
“Her?” I snap, glaring at my brother.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Come on, Em, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”
I flip him off, causing a round of laughter to ring through the room. I rest my head against Oscar’s chest without thinking and freeze the moment I realise. He wraps his arm around me tighter, his chest vibrating once more.
Intuitive. Instinctive. Innate.
How can he be so in touch with his alpha tendencies, so at ease, when I’m the complete opposite? I’m ashamed of what I am. Ashamed to be this weak.
I suppose it’s easy when you’re the best.
“My sister is an omega, as you probably already know,” Oscar says. “Before today, she was the most important person in my life. Like you with Emme, I’m sure.”
“Before today?” I whisper.
Oscar looks down at me, raising a brow. “You now come first, obviously. Lia’s dropped down by six percent, but she’s still a good fourteen percent higher than anyone else on the list. These bastards rotate between spots two and four, usually. It’ll be fun now for them to battle it out for spots four and five.”
“Why would they battle for four and five?” My voice is still so quiet, so hesitant, but everyone can hear me anyway.
Oscar smirks. “You’re first. Baby second. Lia third.”
“Lia is Odelia, yes?” Evander asks, and Oscar nods. “What does she think of this all?”
Oscar’s face closes off, the humour fading. “None of your business. Now, food should be a few minutes. So, let’s sit down and eat. Emme’s starving.”
The words register, but they don’t settle right. I should be hungry. I was starving before.
But now, my stomach feels tight, curling in on itself, the tension too much.
I press a hand against it like that might help, like it might settle the gnawing pit of unease. A deep inhale, trying to soak up their scents and use the familiarity to help.
It doesn’t.
“Food’s here,” Oscar announces, glancing towards the door. I don’t hear a knock or any indication, but Sterling moves towards it.
I should feel relief. But instead, my stomach clenches, bile burning the back of my throat.
Evander’s gaze flicks to me, sharp, assessing. “You’re eating.”
Of course, he noticed. He’s seen this expression every mealtime for the last week and a half.
“I’m fine,” I lie, but my voice is too tight, too strained. My grimace doesn’t help matters. Sterling’s voice is low, but it carries through to us. Paxton’s pulling plates from the bottom cupboard as Uri grabs utensils.
It’s like an orchestrated dance, every person playing their part.
I wonder if Oscar usually has one or if this is it—standing off to the side, not getting in the way.
My brother’s jaw tightens. “You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”
I don’t answer.
That’s all the answer he needs.
Sterling comes through, carrying four bags of food, and places them down on the table. The scent of spiced tomato and cream, rich and thick, fills the air before the containers even open. Steamed rice, soft and slightly sweet, balances out the sharp tang of garlic and cumin.
My stomach tightens, confused—because even though I love curry, even though my omega would usually purr at the warmth of it, I feel sick.
Ev moves forward, not hesitating despite not being in his own home, and opens one of the bags to start pulling food cartons out of it.
My pulse spikes, my tummy clenches again. I’m scared I’ll vomit, scared I’ll embarrass myself again. But, this time, it’ll be because of anxiety, not because of the pregnancy.
Evander takes the offered plate from Paxton and the spoon from Uri and starts scooping it onto my plate. It doesn’t matter that it’s only 11 am or that I’ve not had breakfast.
Paxton opens a curry, showing it to Evander, who nods.
I know what he’s doing—what they’re all doing.
“Evander—”
“No.” There’s no bark to his words, but they’re firm. “Sit down, Emme.”
He’s using that tone, the one that meant I never got away with skipping meals growing up.
Unfortunately.
Meal times at the Whitmore household were tense affairs where I was scrutinised by my dads whilst they fawned over Evander. I hated it and would rather starve than endure it.
“It’s not—” I start, letting out a huff when he cuts me off again.
“Now.”
I glare at my brother, but I ruin the intimidation effect when shivering under Oscar’s soothing touch. I don’t move, waiting for him to crack first.
But he just stares back, daring me to fight him on this, daring me to try and challenge him.
“Now,” he repeats.
I cross my arms, digging my nails into my biceps.
Oscar’s hand drifts to my lower back, just a simple, steady pressure. I hate how quickly my shoulders slump, how fast my body accepts his comfort.
The pack is watching.
Paxton’s jaw tightens, waiting to see what I decide. Uri is unreadable, his gaze flickering between my brother and I. And Sterling, well, he’s standing there with the cockiest look on his face as if this is the best thing to ever happen.
They’re all on my brother’s side.
Dickheads.
The air is thick with tension.
With a sigh, I lower my head in submission. My omega whines, and we stomp towards the island. I hate this.
Hate that I’m so easily manipulated.
Hate that I can’t fight back, even when it really matters.
“I hate you all,” I mutter, sliding into the seat. I’m unsurprised when the large plate of food is placed in front of me.
“Water, juice, or milk?” Oscar asks. “I don’t think you’re a fizzy pop kind of girl, and we don’t have any decaf tea or coffee here.”
“Water, please.” I’m polite, even if it annoys me.
The plate is full. Too full.
With how anxious I am, how unsettled, I don’t think I can stomach even sitting here. The stare from my brother is intense and backed by two more alphas.
Oscar’s sitting at the end of the table, and Sterling’s back is to us as he readies the drinks. At least they’re not on my bad side right now.
But my brother’s challenging stare is one he’s not backing down from.
I lift the fork, more to appease him than anything else, and poke at the rice.
My hand trembles when I bring it to my mouth.
The first bite burns with too much spice, but I swallow it anyway.
Evander doesn’t look satisfied, but he leans back, watching. Waiting.
Bastard.