21. Morning Melodies
21
MORNING MELODIES
~JESSICA~
T he scent hits me before I even reach the stairs — rich, savory, mouth-watering.
Bacon sizzling in a pan, its fatty aroma wafting upward and curling through the hallway like an invitation. My stomach responds with an embarrassingly loud growl, reminding me that despite all the... physical activity. .. I haven't actually eaten anything substantial in nearly twenty-four hours.
I follow my nose downstairs, bare feet padding silently against polished hardwood.
The lake house is quiet except for the distant sounds of cooking—metal against metal, the soft hiss of something hitting hot oil, the low hum of what might be a coffee machine performing its sacred morning duty.
I assumed Knox had started breakfast—a logical extension of our unexpected morning encounter. A way of providing sustenance after expending energy.
Practical. Efficient. Very Knox-like.
But when I reach the kitchen's threshold, I'm greeted by an entirely different sight.
Bastian stands at the stove, his massive frame somehow making the professional-grade appliance look almost toy-like in comparison.
His back is to me, shoulders moving with surprising grace as he flips what appears to be perfectly golden pancakes with one hand while managing a pan of eggs with the other.
A stack of bacon rests on a paper towel-lined plate nearby, glistening and crisp.
He's wearing a simple black t-shirt that stretches tight across his broad back, paired with faded jeans that have seen better days. No shoes, just bare feet planted firmly on the kitchen tile.
The domesticity of the scene is so at odds with the intimidating warrior I first encountered that I find myself momentarily frozen, uncertain if I'm actually witnessing reality or some strange hallucination.
"When did you get here?" The question slips out before I can stop it, breaking the quiet rhythm of the kitchen.
Bastian glances over his shoulder, those dark eyes finding mine without surprise, as if he'd been aware of my presence the entire time. A slight smile touches his scarred face—not the full expression I witnessed at the lake, but enough to soften his typically severe features.
"Been here awhile, Nightshade," he says, turning back to his cooking. "Sleep well?"
There's something in his tone—not quite teasing, but knowing enough to bring heat to my cheeks as memories of both last night with Rook and this morning with Knox flash through my mind.
Before I can formulate a response that doesn't involve stammering like a teenager caught sneaking in after curfew, Knox strolls into the kitchen from the opposite entrance. He's changed since our shower encounter, now wearing loose gray sweatpants and a faded t-shirt emblazoned with binary code that probably translates to something either brilliant or obscene.
He stretches dramatically, arms reaching toward the ceiling, revealing a strip of pale skin and more of the intricate tattoos that map his torso.
"Calculations were off," he grumbles, running a hand through still-damp hair. "Error of judgment on my part."
Bastian rolls his eyes, transferring strips of bacon to another plate to drain excess oil.
"Knox and Rook like to be loud," he says, the simple statement aimed at me rather than acknowledging Knox's complaint. "Makes them predictable."
I frown, trying to process what exactly he means, when understanding dawns with embarrassing clarity. The lake house might be sprawling by normal standards, but it's still a single structure. Sound travels. Especially certain sounds.
Sounds like moaning.
Gasping. Begging.
Sounds like skin against skin, headboards against walls, climaxes torn from willing bodies.
My face blazes with heat as I realize that not only did Bastian likely hear my enthusiastic response to Rook's attentions in the early morning hours, but also my more recent encounter with Knox in what I'd naively assumed was a private shower.
"Oh God," I groan, pressing my palms against my flaming cheeks. "I wasn't exactly trying to be discreet, was I?"
My mortification must be amusing because Knox snorts as he makes a beeline for the coffee machine, while Bastian's shoulders shake slightly with what might be silent laughter.
"Why aren't you mad?" I ask Bastian directly, genuinely curious despite my embarrassment. In my experience, Alphas tend toward the possessive and territorial—quick to anger at perceived encroachment, especially regarding Omegas they've shown interest in.
Bastian doesn't answer immediately.
He turns to retrieve eggs from the refrigerator, cracking them into a bowl with practiced efficiency before adding seasonings I can't identify from my position. Only when he returns to the stove, whisking the mixture with precise movements, does he finally respond.
"It's not like your moans aren't nice to listen to," he says matter-of-factly, not looking at me as he pours the eggs into a hot pan. "The sound is harmonic."
The casual compliment delivered with such sincere straightforwardness sends fresh heat racing up my neck to the roots of my hair. I'm speechless—a rare condition for someone who's survived as long as I have on quick thinking and quicker responses.
Knox bursts out laughing, thecoffee mug pausing halfway to his lips.
"Wow, Big B. Tell us how you really feel."
"His honesty is almost barbaric for a bodyguard," a new voice interjects, the cultured accent unmistakable even roughened with what sounds like interrupted sleep.
Marcus stands in the doorway I'd entered through minutes earlier, looking decidedly less put-together than I've ever seen him. His silver hair sticks up at odd angles, his normally pressed shirt is wrinkled and half-untucked, and the shadow of stubble darkens his jaw. He rubs a hand over his face, eyes narrowed against the morning light streaming through the kitchen windows.
Knox whistles low, eyebrows shooting upward in theatrical surprise.
"Damn, Boss. Did you sleep into another dimension? Because your hair has been through better days."
Marcus fixes him with a glare that would wither most men on the spot.
"Shut the fuck up," he growls, making his way to the coffee pot like a man navigating a minefield. "Your groaning grunts are what woke me up."
"No wonder you're in a bad mood," Knox replies, unperturbed by the death stare being aimed in his direction. He hops onto the counter, swinging his legs like an overgrown child, coffee mug cradled between his hands. "What you need is some cock sucking to make you feel better."
I choke on air, caught between shock and unexpected laughter at the casual crudeness. Marcus's expression darkens further, one hand wrapping around a coffee mug with enough force that I half expect the ceramic to shatter.
"If you even go near my cock," Marcus says with deadly precision, "I will rid the world of your existence."
Knox laughs, throwing his head back with genuine amusement.
"You wouldn't say that to our VespRose," he counters, gesturing in my direction with his mug, narrowly avoiding sloshing coffee onto the counter.
Bastian glances up from where he's expertly flipping an omelet.
"What does that even mean?"
"VespRose?" Knox shrugs, taking another sip of his coffee. "I can't think of a cool nickname like Rook with Venom and you with Nightshade." He turns to me, mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief. "But Jessica is like a precious rose—delicate petals surrounding a core of deadly thorns, beauty and danger perfectly balanced in living art—and I wanted to add Vesp as some uniqueness to her instead of just calling her Rose."
The description catches me off guard—unexpectedly poetic from someone whose approach to intimacy had been so analytical.
I find myself strangely touched by the thought he's put into crafting a nickname just for me, something that acknowledges both my beauty and my danger rather than trying to minimize either.
Knox's expression screws up suddenly, as if the effort of such eloquence before adequate caffeine has physically pained him.
"Ugh," he groans, rubbing his temples. "Thinking so much without coffee is a sin."
"Maybe you shouldn't be doing such blood-pumping activities in the morning," a familiar voice suggests from the doorway, sending a jolt of awareness through my system before I even turn to look.
Rook leans against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, fresh clothes doing little to hide the evidence of recent violence on his hands and face.
There's a smear of something dark along his jawline that he either missed while cleaning up or didn't bother with at all. His eyes find mine immediately, something hot and possessive flaring in them before shifting to Knox with considerably less warmth.
Knox rolls his eyes dramatically.
"I knew none of you were here," he protests, gesturing with his mug again, "so why are you acting like my calculations were wrong?"
"He does make wrong calculations when he's horny," Bastian notes, transferring the omelet to a plate with practiced ease before starting another. "Remember Madrid?"
A flush creeps up Knox's neck—the first sign of genuine embarrassment I've witnessed from him.
"That was different," he mutters, suddenly intensely interested in the contents of his coffee mug.
"Oh?" Marcus's mood seems to have improved slightly with the combination of caffeine and the opportunity to needle Knox. "Different how, exactly? As I recall, you miscalculated the guard rotation by seventeen minutes because you were distracted by the target's daughter."
"She was twenty-five and had a PhD in quantum mechanics," Knox protests, the blush deepening. "Do you know how rare it is to find someone who can discuss Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle while picking locks?"
"And yet you still got caught," Marcus continues, a smug satisfaction entering his tone. "Required extraction by helicopter from the rooftop of a burning embassy."
"That fire was a tactical decision," Knox insists, pointing an accusatory finger at Marcus. "And it worked!"
"After we had to neutralize fourteen additional guards who weren't supposed to be there," Bastian adds, sliding a plate of eggs toward Marcus with a knowing look. "According to your initial assessment."
Knox throws his hands up in exasperation.
"You know what? Both of you can fuck right off." He swivels to point at Rook, who's watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement. "And you! I don't want to wind up tied to a chair and tortured stupidly, so I won't insult your big bulky ass."
"That's totally an insult," Bastian observes mildly, cracking more eggs into his mixing bowl.
"A particularly ineffective one," Marcus agrees, taking a seat at the massive island that dominates the center of the kitchen. "If you're attempting to avoid torture, perhaps don't reference the very act while insulting the torturer."
"Amateur move," Bastian concurs, nodding sagely. "Especially for someone with your supposed intelligence."
"My intelligence is not 'supposed,'" Knox sputters, making air quotes with his fingers. "I have three PhDs! I've hacked systems that?—"
"—that you shouldn't be discussing in mixed company," Rook interrupts, moving fully into the kitchen with predatory grace. He passes behind me on his way to the coffee pot, one hand brushing the small of my back in a touch that feels both casual and deliberate.
"Oh please," Knox snorts, rolling his eyes again. "Like Nightshade here hasn't done worse in Dead Knot. Did you know she once?—"
The rest of his sentence is lost beneath a sudden burst of laughter—bright, genuine, unrestrained.
It takes me a moment to realize the sound is coming from me.
The four Alphas turn in unison, various expressions of surprise crossing their faces as I continue to laugh, one hand pressed to my mouth in a futile attempt to contain the unexpected mirth.
"I'm sorry," I gasp between giggles, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. "It's just—this is the oddest yet most fulfilling conversation I've ever had with a group of Alphas."
They stare at me, then at each other, as if trying to process what about their bickering could possibly be so amusing. But the laughter feels too good to stop—a release of tension I didn't realize I was carrying, a moment of genuine joy I haven't experienced in longer than I care to remember.
For years, my interactions with Alphas have been defined by caution, calculation, and often violence.
Every word measured for potential threat, every movement analyzed for signs of aggression. Even with Rook, our relationship has existed primarily in shadows, built on mutual need and carefully maintained boundaries.
But this—this casual, comfortable chaos of four very different men who clearly share history and loyalty despite their constant needling—feels like glimpsing something I never believed existed.
A dynamic where strength doesn't require constant dominance, where affection can be expressed through insults, where individual quirks are both mocked and accepted.
A pack, in all its messy, complicated glory.
As my laughter subsides, I wipe at my eyes, still smiling. "Maybe we should eat before the food gets cold? I can help set the table."
The simple, domestic offer feels strange coming from my lips—so far removed from the person I've been for seven years. Yet somehow, in this moment, it feels right. Natural, even.
The four of them exchange glances, something unspoken passing between them that I can't quite decipher.
Then Bastian nods, a small smile touching his scarred face.
"Plates in the cabinet to your right," he says, turning back to finish the last of the cooking. "Silverware in the drawer below."
I move to help, hyperaware of Rook's eyes following me as I navigate the unfamiliar kitchen. Knox hops down from his perch to assist, grabbing glasses from a high shelf with exaggerated flourish. Marcus rises to retrieve napkins from a drawer, movements precise despite his disheveled appearance.
We move around each other in a dance that should be awkward given our complex circumstances, but somehow isn't.
There are moments of brief contact—a hand brushing mine as Knox passes a stack of plates, Rook's arm pressing against my shoulder as he reaches past me for the syrup, Bastian's gentle nudge guiding me away from a hot pan I didn't notice.
Each touch feels significant yet casual, connecting us in small ways that build something larger than the sum of their parts.
When we finally settle around the massive dining table—a beautiful piece of craftsmanship that could easily seat twelve but feels intimate with just the five of us—I'm struck by how surreal yet comfortable it feels. Bastian's cooking is laid out family-style in the center: fluffy pancakes, perfectly cooked eggs, crispy bacon, fresh fruit that must have been delivered recently given its quality.
For a brief moment, no one moves.
Then Rook reaches for the platter of bacon, offering it to me first before passing it to Knox. Bastian slides the eggs toward Marcus, who nods in silent thanks.
I take a pancake, then another when Bastian gives me a look that clearly says "eat more."
The domesticity of it all threatens to overwhelm me—this simple act of sharing a meal with people who, just days ago, were largely strangers. People who now seem to be positioning themselves as something far more significant in my life.
"Is there jam?" Knox asks, peering around the table with the intensity of someone searching for classified documents.
"Cabinet above the fridge," Bastian replies without looking up from his plate. "Behind the peanut butter you tried to hide."
Knox makes an indignant noise.
"I didn't hide it! I strategically relocated it to discourage unnecessary consumption."
"You put a label on it that said 'Knox's Protein Source—Touch and Die,'" Marcus points out dryly, sipping his coffee with considerably more civility than his appearance would suggest.
"Which is a perfectly clear warning," Knox insists, rising to retrieve the jam. "Not my fault if certain muscle-bound individuals choose to ignore explicit instructions."
"Your explicit instructions mean shit when you eat my leftovers," Rook counters, pointing his fork in Knox's direction. "Three times this month alone."
"That was for research purposes," Knox protests, returning with a jar of strawberry preserves clutched protectively against his chest. "I'm developing an algorithm to predict optimal food enjoyment based on temperature degradation over time."
"You ate my Thai food straight from the container while standing in front of the open refrigerator at 3 AM," Rook says flatly. "That's not research. That's theft."
"The scientific method takes many forms," Knox sniffs, spreading jam on his pancake with exaggerated precision. "Some of which may superficially resemble midnight refrigerator raids."
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I watch their interaction, the bickering continuing as we eat. There's such obvious comfort in their dynamic, such clear affection beneath the barbs and complaints. They fit together in ways that shouldn't work but somehow do—complementary pieces of a puzzle I'm just beginning to see the full shape of.
And somehow, improbably, they seem to be making space for me within that dynamic. Not forcing me to contort myself to fit existing patterns, but expanding to include my particular edges and angles.
I catch Bastian watching me, his dark eyes observant but not intrusive. He offers a small nod, as if confirming something I've only just begun to consider.
This could be mine. They could be mine. I could belong here.
The thought is terrifying in its appeal—the promise of safety, of connection, of a future defined by something other than vengeance and survival. A freedom I've never allowed myself to imagine, let alone pursue.
As the meal continues, as I find myself drawn into their conversations—offering opinions on Knox's latest tech obsession, listening to Bastian's surprisingly insightful comments about a book I'd mentioned in passing, watching Rook and Marcus debate tactical approaches to a problem I'm not entirely privy to—I feel something settle in my chest.
Something that feels dangerously like hope.
For the first time in seven years, I allow myself to consider the possibility that my story might not end in blood and shadow. That there might be chapters yet to write that contain more than pain and retribution.
Chapters that include these four impossible men and whatever we might become together.
It's too soon to know for certain.
Too fragile to declare with confidence. But as I sit surrounded by their presence— Rook's intensity, Knox's brilliance, Bastian's steadiness, Marcus's command —I can't help but feel that I've stumbled into something rare and precious.
Something worth fighting for.
Worth living for.
A reality that feels, against all odds and expectations, like home.