17. Resilient Nightshade
17
RESILIENT NIGHTSHADE
~JESSICA~
T he room is vast—far larger than anywhere I've slept in the past seven years.
High ceilings with exposed wooden beams stretch overhead, interrupted by a massive skylight that frames the darkening evening sky. Stars are beginning to emerge, pinpricks of silver against deepening blue-black, visible through glass that probably costs more than everything I own combined.
I stand in the center of this unfamiliar space, still wrapped in the oversized hoodie Rook gave me, hair damp from the shower I took the moment we arrived.
The lake house, as they call it, is less house and more compound—an elegant, sprawling structure of wood and stone nestled among ancient trees on the water's edge.
My bare feet sink into plush carpet as I make a slow circuit of the room, cataloging details with the automatic precision of someone accustomed to assessing unfamiliar environments for threats and advantages.
King-sized bed positioned to catch the morning light, its frame a heavy, dark wood that matches the other furniture. Nightstands on either side, each topped with a lamp that gives off warm, amber light.
A seating area by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the lake, complete with a reading chair and small table. An elegant writing desk in one corner, stocked with paper, pens, and what appears to be a brand-new laptop.
The bathroom adjoining is equally luxurious—heated floors, rainfall shower, soaking tub big enough for two. The closet contains clothing in my size, tags still attached, covering everything from sleepwear to outdoor gear. Someone planned for a long stay.
Someone planned this meticulously.
Someone knows too much about me.
I trace my fingers along the spines of books arranged on a built-in shelf—medical texts, novels, poetry collections. The selection is eclectic but not random. Many are titles I've mentioned in passing to Emilia over the years, wishes whispered in quiet moments when we allowed ourselves to imagine lives beyond Dead Knot.
The level of detail is both impressive and disturbing.
Every element of this space has been designed to appeal to me specifically—to provide comfort, security, a sense of personalization in what is fundamentally a gilded cage.
The thought of Bastian surfaces unexpectedly, a vivid image of him kneeling in lake water, making himself vulnerable to ease my fear. The contrast between that moment of raw humanity and this carefully orchestrated environment leaves me disoriented, struggling to reconcile what feels like manipulation with what felt like genuine compassion.
Who are these men?
The question circles through my mind as I continue exploring the room, opening drawers, testing windows, familiarizing myself with my new territory.
On the surface, they present as a cohesive unit— a pack bound by loyalty and shared purpose. But beneath that, I sense complexities, contradictions, histories that intertwine but remain distinct.
Marcus, the leader—controlled, calculating, his every word and gesture precise as surgery. The Alpha who saved me seven years ago, who orchestrated my resurrection for reasons I still don't fully understand. His eyes carry weight beyond his apparent age, knowledge that seems to transcend ordinary experience.
Knox, the tech genius—energy barely contained in his lanky frame, mind moving at speeds that leave most struggling to keep pace. Behind his playful facade, I glimpse something darker, sharper—a capacity for violence that matches his intellectual brilliance.
Rook, my Viper —rage and tenderness existing in impossible harmony, protective to the point of possessiveness yet committed to my autonomy in ways that defy Alpha stereotype. The man I've been sleeping with for months without knowing his real name, his true identity, his connection to the others.
And Bastian—mountain-bodied with unexpected gentleness, scarred both visibly and invisibly, the one who somehow knew exactly what I needed in that moment of utter breakdown. The one who called me Nightshade with a familiarity that should have felt presumptuous but instead felt strangely right.
How did they come together, these four so different yet somehow aligned?
I sink onto the edge of the bed, fatigue weighing my limbs despite the time I slept in the car. My body is still recovering from whatever toxins have been slowly poisoning me, still processing the medications Dr. Chen administered, still adjusting to the emotional aftermath of my panic attack.
My phone sits on the nightstand—my actual phone, retrieved from my bag before we left the clinic. Another small mercy I hadn't expected, another gesture of respect for my agency when they could easily have confiscated it in the name of security.
I pick it up, along with a leather-bound notebook that appeared alongside it. The journal is new but crafted to look vintage, its pages cream-colored and thick, the kind that takes ink beautifully without bleeding through. Another detail that speaks to knowledge they shouldn't possess—my preference for analog note-taking despite my digital capabilities.
Opening to the first blank page, I begin writing, an old habit from the early days after the alley. My therapist— before I stopped seeing her —had encouraged journaling as a way to process trauma, to externalize thoughts too chaotic to contain within my mind alone.
I write their names first, each on a separate sheet torn carefully from the book. MARCUS. KNOX. ROOK. BASTIAN. The letters are blocky, definitive, as if labeling them might grant me power over the uncertainty they represent.
I arrange the sheets on the bed around me, creating a physical representation of the mental map I'm constructing. Then I begin adding notes beneath each name—observations, questions, details that might provide insight into who they really are beneath the surface they present.
MARCUS HARRINGTON
Saved me 7 years ago. Why?
Eastern European accent (Russian? Polish?)
Military precision in movement
Pack alpha but subtle in command
Silver hair but not old—stress? Genetics?
Calculated kindness
What does he want from me?
KNOX EASTMAN
Tech genius
Mismatched eyes (blue/green)
Hyperactive energy but focused under pressure
Sarcastic defense mechanism
Caught me from my fall and helped carry me to the clinic.
Hacking skills beyond legal capabilities.
Connection to the others?
ROOK ???
My Viper
Deadly but gentle with me
Significant combat training
Joined pack 5 years ago maybe?
Territorial, possessive
Resists Marcus's authority re: me
Why the mask? Why the secrecy?
BASTIAN REYNOLDS
Massive size, intimidating presence
Facial scars—origin?
Understands panic, trauma response
Called me "Nightshade"
Comfort in lake despite personal discomfort
Oldest of group except Marcus?
History of his own pain?
I sit back, studying my notes with a critical eye.
It's not enough. Nowhere near enough to understand the complexity of what I'm dealing with, what I've been drawn into.
But it's a start—a framework to build upon as I gather more information.
Pack homework of the sort…
"Who the hell are you people?" I mutter to the empty room, frustration coloring my voice. "And what do you really want with me?"
No answers come, of course. Just the gentle sound of waves lapping against the shoreline outside, the distant murmur of voices somewhere else in the house, the creak of settling wood as night fully descends.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text, making me jump slightly.
Emilia's name flashes on the screen:
WHERE THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU? The dance instructor said you collapsed in the forest and then vanished. Administrators won’t tell me shit! Called your shitty dorm, no answer. RESPOND OR I HACK EVERY SECURITY CAM IN DEAD KNOT.
I can practically hear her panic through the digital text, her usual dramatic flair underscored by genuine concern. She's the only person who would notice my absence, the only one who might actually follow through on threats to find me regardless of consequences.
Bit of a health scare , I type back, choosing words carefully. Heat pre-symptoms hitting hard. Taking a few days off campus to deal. Don't worry.
It's vague enough to be believable—Emilia knows I've struggled with suppressants before, knows I disappear occasionally to deal with biological functions I refuse to discuss in detail.
But specific enough to explain my absence without triggering her investigative instincts.
Her response is immediate:
You never get pre-symptoms. You're on military-grade suppressants. Try again.
I smile despite myself. She knows me too well, this friend I never intended to make.
Truth: exhaustion caught up with me. Doctor recommended rest away from Dead Knot pollution. I'm fine. Safe. Will explain when I'm back.
Three dots appear, disappear, reappear as she composes and reconsiders her response.
Finally:
Three days. Then I come looking with every digital weapon in my arsenal. Deal?
She knows how to make me smirk.
Deal . I reply, grateful for her understanding even as guilt twists in my stomach at the partial truths. Thank you.
Whatever. Just don't die. I hate making new friends.
Her response is so perfectly Emilia— concerned but disguised as selfish, protective but pretending indifference —that my throat tightens unexpectedly.
The screen blurs momentarily before I blink away what might have been tears.
As I set the phone down, it automatically opens to my photo gallery, a glitch that's been happening since my last encounter with an EMP during a particularly messy takedown in Dead Knot's industrial sector. The image displayed stops me cold—a selfie from seven years ago, taken in my Harvard uniform.
The girl staring back at me is a stranger.
Platinum blonde hair falls in soft waves around a face unmarked by caution or grief. She smiles directly at the camera, blue eyes bright with possibilities, with future plans, with innocence not yet shattered. It's the day of the tour, setting up our future goals to manifest our college career dreams that were set with scholarships in two years.
A golden path that should have been hers if it wasn’t for that night...
She doesn't know what waits in the rain-slicked alley just days later. Doesn't know how completely her world will collapse. Doesn't know she'll technically cease to exist before the semester ends.
I stare at this ghost of myself, this version of Jessica Calavera that died so violently only to be reborn as someone harder, colder, focused solely on survival and vengeance. The ache of loss is sudden and sharp—not just for what was taken from me that night, but for who I might have become had my path continued uninterrupted.
Stop it .
I tell myself fiercely, tossing the phone away.
Self-pity is a luxury you can't afford.
I return my attention to the papers scattered across the bed, each name representing a puzzle piece I need to fit into the larger picture. Speaking them aloud helps me process, a technique I developed during those first months of recovery when my thoughts were too fractured to organize internally.
"Marcus Harrington" I say, picking up his sheet. "Pack alpha. Saved my life for reasons still unclear. Manipulative but possibly well-intentioned. Dangerous in ways that transcend physical threat."
I set it aside, reaching for the next.
"Knox Eastman. Technical genius. Rescued me from tree fall and hunt. Playful demeanor masks lethal capabilities. Loyal to pack but follows his own moral code."
The third paper feels heavier somehow, weighted with complexity that defies easy categorization.
"Rook. Viper. Masked lover for months without revealing true identity. Connection to me predates knowledge of who I really am. Conflicts with Marcus regarding approach to my situation."
And finally, the newest addition to my mental framework.
"Bastian Reynolds. Physical titan with unexpected emotional intelligence. Understood my panic attack, knew exactly how to respond. Called me Nightshade—deadly but beautiful. Has his own trauma history."
My voice trails off as fatigue makes itself known again, eyelids growing heavy despite my determination to remain alert. The papers blur before me, names and notes swimming together as I struggle against the pull of exhaustion.
I don't remember lying down, don't recall when my head found the pillow or when the papers scattered from their careful arrangement. Consciousness fades in waves, receding like the tide until I'm drifting in the liminal space between wakefulness and dreams.
Voices penetrate the fog—low, male, careful not to disturb.
"Is she asleep?" The quieter tone belongs to Marcus, his accent more pronounced in these hushed tones.
I feel the mattress dip slightly as someone sits beside me, a gentle hand brushing hair from my face. The scent that reaches me isn't what I expected—not Rook's familiar bourbon-and-sugar, but something earthier, with notes of sandalwood and pine.
Bastian.
I keep my breathing slow and deep, feigning sleep while maintaining enough awareness to listen. His touch is surprisingly tender as I hear what I can assume is him carefully gathering the scattered papers from their shuffling sounds.
Then adjusts my position to lie more comfortably against the pillows.
"Completely out," he confirms, voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear. "She's been fighting it for hours."
"Stubborn," Marcus observes, no judgment in the assessment.
"Survival mechanism," Bastian corrects. "Sleep means vulnerability. Vulnerability means danger."
There's rustling as the papers are collected, a pause that suggests they're being reviewed.
"She's categorizing us," Marcus notes, something like amusement coloring his tone.
Bastian huffs, the sound caught between humor and resignation.
"As she should. We're strangers to her, regardless of what Rook might think."
The mattress shifts again as he stands, followed by the soft sound of footsteps moving away from the bed. Their voices continue at a distance now, requiring me to strain slightly to catch their words.
"Any updates on the hunters?" Marcus asks, shifting to business with seamless efficiency.
"Rook's been busy," Bastian replies, a hint of grim satisfaction in his tone. "Sixteen of the twenty teams neutralized already."
Sixteen teams? In less than a day?
The implication sends a chill through me despite my pretense of sleep.
I knew Rook was dangerous— had witnessed his lethal efficiency firsthand on occasions when our territories overlapped —but this level of systematic elimination suggests capabilities beyond even my estimation.
"And Knox?" Marcus inquires.
"In his room, most likely. Running full background checks on anyone who's looked at Nightshade the wrong way in the past decade."
There's a pause, then Marcus asks.
"Why are you calling her that? Nightshade?"
The question hangs in the air for a moment before Bastian responds, his voice taking on a quality I haven't heard before—something almost poetic in its thoughtfulness.
"Atropa Belladonna," he says. "Beautiful and deadly. Capable of both healing and killing depending on application and dose. Thrives in places others avoid. Survives conditions that would destroy lesser plants." Another brief silence. "It seemed fitting."
Their footsteps move toward the door, and I sense the conversation is about to end.
But then Marcus speaks again, his voice dropping even lower.
"Why did you go into the water after her, Bastian? Why that approach specifically?"
The silence this time is weighted, significant. I remain perfectly still, afraid that even the slightest movement might stop Bastian from answering a question I suddenly, desperately want the answer to.
"Remember when I first got these scars?" he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "When that Omega called me a monster and went about telling everyone I raped and ruined her existence?"
What?
The revelation sends a jolt through me that I struggle to conceal, my mind racing to accommodate this unexpected information.
"Yes," Marcus replies simply, the single syllable heavy with shared history.
"I thought my life was over," Bastian continues, each word measured as if carefully extracted from somewhere painful. "I spiraled so fast I didn't even realize until..."
"Until I stopped you from drowning yourself eight years ago," Marcus finishes, completing the thought with quiet certainty.
Drowning.
Suicide…
My heart stutters, another piece of the puzzle sliding into place.
Bastian— massive, powerful, seemingly indestructible Bastian —had once stood at the edge of his own existence, ready to step into darkness rather than continue living.
Just like I've considered, on nights when the memories won't stop replaying.
"I know how it feels," Bastian says, "to feel like the world is sinking. That everything you've built as an individual is suddenly swept from under your feet, and it feels like your fall is inevitable."
His words resonate with such perfect clarity that I have to focus intently on maintaining the rhythm of false sleep, on not revealing that each syllable strikes home with devastating accuracy.
"I knew that's exactly how she must have felt," he continues. "That safety blanket of that place in Dead Knot, regardless of whether it was safe or not, was the stability to keep going. And we arrive and remove it all, tell her she's on a ticking clock she can't change or fix, can't adapt to. She just has to go along with it because that's what everyone is saying, and then the walls close in until you feel like you can't breathe."
He pauses, and I feel his presence moving closer again, back to the bedside.
A gentle touch brushes my cheek—fingertips calloused but careful, as if touching something precious and easily damaged.
"Despair was in her eyes since we left," he says, "and it was only a matter of time until it all came down. But what brought me out of my sinking agony was when you stopped me from ending it all. When you simply held my arm, forcing me to still and realize that despite how frightening the ocean was at night, the stars above twinkled so beautifully."
His voice softens further, becoming almost reverent.
"You made me realize that my scars may be devastating for the world to look at, but they don't hide who I can be to those who wish to know the real me. Who don't judge me from the appearance that plagues me, despite being destined to be deemed a monster. I just needed that validation and stability of your grasp to realize I could move on, so I figured being there for her, on the same level, in the same pooling chilled waters, she'd realize what she's going through is survivable."
The weight of his confession settles over me like a physical thing, simultaneously heavy and lifting—a burden shared becomes a burden halved, even when the sharing is unintentional and one-sided.
"The only difference," Bastian concludes, "is that she has four men who may not be saints, but we're open sinners willing to support her. That makes all the difference when you've lived a number of years relying only on yourself."
"It does," Marcus agrees, his own voice gentler than I've heard it before. "Goodnight, Bastian. I have calls to make before I attempt sleep myself."
Footsteps retreat, a door opens and closes, and then there is silence save for the steady breathing of the man still seated beside me.
The mattress dips again slightly as he adjusts his position, and I feel the unmistakable sensation of fingers gently combing through my hair.
The gesture is so unexpected, so tender, that it nearly breaks my pretense of sleep. No one has touched me like this since before the alley—with affection untainted by sexual intent, with care that asks nothing in return.
Even with Rook, physical contact has always carried an undercurrent of possession, of claiming, of mutual need that sometimes borders on desperation.
This is different.
This is comfort in its purest form, offered without expectation of reciprocation or acknowledgment.
Bastian continues the soothing motion, occasionally letting his fingertips trail along my temple or cheek. The repetitive touch combines with my genuine exhaustion, pulling me closer to actual sleep despite my determination to remain alert.
I'm drifting deeper when I feel the lightest pressure against my temple—a kiss so gentle it might be imagined, followed by words whispered like a promise:
"Keep fighting, Nightshade."
The room falls silent again, but the warmth of his presence remains. As consciousness finally slips away completely, my last coherent thought is a surprising realization:
This is the most peaceful I've felt in seven years.
Not because I'm safe—I've never trusted safety, never believed in it as anything but temporary illusion.
But because, for the first time since that night in the alley, I'm not alone in my fight.
Not alone at all.