23. Tears Of Release
23
TEARS OF RELEASE
~MARCUS~
T he lake house's underground garage is a testament to precision engineering—climate-controlled air circulating through a space large enough to house a small fleet, specialized lighting that eliminates shadows without creating glare, and security measures that would impress military installations.
I designed it myself, along with every other aspect of this sanctuary, ensuring that even our departure points remain defensible.
Jessica stands at the entrance, framed by the doorway, a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Her voice breaks the mechanical hum of the ventilation system.
"We're going separately back to Knot?"
I pause, turning to observe her more fully.
This is the first time I've seen her in Knot Academy's regulation uniform, and the sight is... unexpectedly affecting.
The fitted black blazer with its crimson piping hugs her torso in ways that accentuate the strength and grace of her dancer's physique. The white blouse beneath, crisp and precise, offers a stark contrast to the darkness of the jacket. But it's the pleated skirt that draws attention—black with subtle crimson checks, falling high on her thighs with deliberate immodesty.
Not a single surveillance photo in our extensive files captured her wearing this uniform. Not once in six-plus years has she conformed to this particular academy regulation. The realization is intriguing—another small rebellion in a life defined by resistance to imposed rules.
She walks further into the garage, the movement causing the skirt to sway, offering momentary glimpses of the back of her thighs. The effect is both innocent and deliberately provocative, school-girl aesthetics repurposed as subtle defiance.
A low whistle cuts through my observations—Rook, leaning against his motorcycle, eyes tracking Jessica's movement with predatory focus.
"You better add two inches to that kilt," he growls, the possessiveness in his tone unmistakable, "or you're staying home."
Jessica casts a withering side-eye in his direction, the look communicating volumes without a single word.
"I don't wear this shit," she states flatly, gesturing at the uniform with barely disguised contempt. "I'll probably just go back to my place and change..." Her voice trails off, a frown creasing her brow as realization strikes. "Except I don't have a 'place' there anymore, do I?"
The inconvenience seems to irritate her more than the actual loss of her toxic living quarters—a telling reaction from someone who values independence above comfort, control above security.
"We're securing a temporary location at Knot Academy for your essential belongings," I announce, the decision already implemented hours ago through secured channels. Preparation is everything; I've learned that lesson through decades of navigating shadows where others fear to tread.
Knox, perched on a workbench beside his disassembled helmet, grins broadly.
"He means my sister's place down in Ruthless Knot," he translates, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the carbon fiber shell. "And don't worry—Sera has OCD to the maximum degree. She won't touch anything of yours for fear of taking it out of place and ruining her elaborate system."
Jessica tilts her head slightly, considering this information with the careful assessment I've come to recognize as characteristic of her processing.
"What if I take something and ruin the system?" she asks, the question practical rather than confrontational.
Knox's grin widens, mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief. "Just run," he advises with mock solemnity. "Run fast and don't look back."
"Your sister is psycho," Jessica observes, though there's no judgment in her tone—merely a statement of fact.
"Just a little bit," Knox agrees cheerfully. "But not as crazy-sinister as this Emi best friend of yours. That woman tried to breach seven of my security protocols simultaneously while running a background cascade on all known properties associated with our shell corporations."
Jessica groans, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose.
"I'll contact her before we leave," she promises, pulling her phone from the blazer's inner pocket. "Otherwise, she'll probably have the National Guard mobilized by noon."
"Who said anything about leaving in a car?" Knox asks, eyebrows lifting with theatrical innocence.
Before Jessica can respond, the distinctive roar of a high-performance engine cuts through the garage's acoustically engineered space. Rook straddles his customized Ducati Panigale V4R, the machine as aggressive and uncompromising as its rider. The crimson bodywork gleams under the specialized lighting, the matte black accents absorbing rather than reflecting—like Rook himself, a study in controlled visibility.
He doesn't wait for acknowledgment or farewell, simply guns the engine once more before disappearing up the ramp with characteristic impatience.
The sound of his departure has barely faded when a second engine growls to life—Bastian this time, mounting his Kawasaki Ninja H2R with fluid grace that belies his massive frame.
The sleeker, more agile machine suits him better than most would expect, much like the surprising dexterity that contradicts his imposing presence.
Bastian offers a single nod— to me, to Jessica, to both of us perhaps —before following Rook's path, accelerating with controlled precision that quickly overtakes his pack-mate's head start.
Jessica stares after them, something like longing flickering across her expressive features.
"I always wanted a bike," she admits, the confession carrying the weight of dreams deferred, of luxuries denied by practical necessity. "But those fuckers are so expensive, and I was scared it would get stolen at Knot Academy, so it was a hard pass." Her brow furrows slightly. "Are they really going to leave those bikes on the property?"
Knox smirks, pushing off from the workbench to retrieve his helmet.
With a theatrical flourish, he pulls a dust cover from the machine parked in the far corner, revealing a sleek, futuristic design that resembles something from science fiction rather than contemporary engineering.
"It's electric," he explains, trailing reverent fingertips along the aerodynamic body.
With a snap of his fingers— a gesture more showmanship than necessity —the vehicle hums to life, display panels illuminating with cool blue light.
"I'd like to see anyone— and I mean anyone —try to steal our bikes." He pauses, reconsidering. "Except my sister, because she's fucking crazy, as previously established."
He swings a leg over the machine with unexpected grace, settling into the contoured seat with the familiarity of long partnership. The helmet slides into place, visor reflective enough to obscure his features entirely, transforming him from eccentric genius to anonymous rider in seconds.
"See you there, Boss," he calls, voice slightly muffled but still carrying his characteristic irreverence. He blows an exaggerated kiss in Jessica's direction, the gesture somehow visible despite the helmet's concealing properties.
Then he's gone, the electric motorcycle nearly silent compared to its combustion counterparts, leaving only the faint whine of advanced technology in its wake.
Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the soft hum of ventilation and security systems. Jessica remains where she stands, gaze fixed on the now-empty ramp where three pack members have departed in quick succession.
Slowly, deliberately, she turns to face me, lips pursed in what can only be described as a pout.
The expression is oddly endearing on features more accustomed to defiance or calculation—a glimpse of the young woman who existed before trauma reshaped her into something harder, sharper, more dangerous.
"Are you miserable now?" I ask, allowing a slight curve of amusement to soften my mouth. "Being stuck with me?"
She huffs, the sound somewhere between annoyance and reluctant humor.
"Why would I be miserable being with the one who saved my life years ago?"
The reference to our shared past— to that rain-soaked alley, to the decisions made in blood and desperation —creates a subtle shift in the atmosphere between us.
Throughout her stay at the lake house, we've maintained a certain professional distance, my role more strategic oversight than direct engagement. This acknowledgment of our connection, of the debt that exists whether acknowledged or not, breaches that carefully maintained separation.
I move toward her, steps measured, giving her ample opportunity to retreat if my approach is unwelcome. She stands her ground, chin lifting slightly in that characteristic display of courage that first caught my attention seven years ago.
When I'm close enough to observe the faint freckles scattered across her nose— details lost in surveillance photos, in clinical medical reports —I stop.
Our gazes lock, hers questioning but not afraid, mine deliberately neutral despite the complex emotions her presence invariably evokes.
"How does it feel?" I ask quietly. "To say your story aloud after carrying it silently for so long?"
She doesn't answer immediately.
Something flickers in her eyes—vulnerability quickly suppressed, emotion carefully contained.
Her throat works as she swallows, but still, no words emerge.
I sigh, recognizing the struggle playing out behind her carefully maintained facade. With gentle deliberation, I lift my hand, allowing my fingertips to brush lightly against her cheek.
The touch is barely there—a ghost of contact, an offer rather than a demand.
Confusion crosses her features, brow furrowing slightly as she tries to interpret the gesture. She doesn't realize the tear that has escaped her left eye, tracking a solitary path down her cheek until my touch intercepts it.
"Feels nice to be free of one burden, doesn't it?" I murmur, keeping my voice soft, non-threatening. This moment of vulnerability is precious, fragile as spun glass, easily shattered by carelessness or presumption.
She blinks rapidly, the motion causing more tears to well in her eyes.
Again and again, she blinks, as if physical action alone might stem the emotional tide rising within her. Her lips part, trembling slightly as she attempts to speak, but no words emerge—only a shaky exhale that carries the weight of years spent holding pain at bay.
Those pooling tears finally spill over, tracing silver paths down her cheeks in the garage's carefully calibrated light.
I cup her cheek fully now, palm cradling the delicate curve of her face with a tenderness few outside my pack have ever witnessed.
"Four down, two to go," I whisper, the words both acknowledgment and promise. "And this time, you won't be going at it alone. Understood?"
She nods slowly, the movement causing more tears to fall.
Her strength in this moment of vulnerability is as impressive as her ferocity in combat—another facet of the complex woman I've watched from afar for seven years, the Omega whose survival has become inextricably linked with my own plans, my own redemption perhaps.
"Want a hug from an old man like me?" I offer, deliberately injecting lightness into my tone, giving her an easy escape route from emotional intensity if she requires it.
She huffs, rolling reddened eyes in exaggerated exasperation.
"Nope," she declares, the denial immediate and expected.
Then, contradicting her own refusal, she slowly raises her arms, the movement hesitant but deliberate.
Her gaze meets mine again, blue depths still swimming with unshed tears.
"But they do say hugging old people brings good luck," she adds, the quip a transparent attempt to maintain some semblance of her usual defenses even as she willingly lowers them.
I allow myself a soft huff of amusement, shaking my head slightly at her stubborn refusal to surrender completely to vulnerability.
"Forty-five is hardly geriatric," I counter, accepting the implicit invitation despite her verbal deflection.
My arms encircle her slender frame, drawing her against my chest with careful pressure—firm enough to provide security, gentle enough to avoid triggering claustrophobia or panic.
She's smaller than she appears, her presence so commanding that one forgets the physical reality of her stature until she's this close.
For a moment, she remains stiff within the embrace, muscles tense as if preparing for fight or flight. Then, gradually, the resistance melts from her body.
Her forehead comes to rest against my shoulder, arms circling my waist with increasing pressure as she surrenders to the comfort being offered.
The first sob is nearly silent—more vibration than sound, a tremor that passes through her entire body. The second carries more voice, a broken sound that speaks of pain long suppressed, of grief never properly expressed.
By the third, she's crying in earnest, face pressed into my shirt as if to muffle the evidence of her breakdown.
I hold her steady through the storm, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other traces slow, soothing circles between her shoulder blades. I make no attempt to shush her, offer no platitudes or reassurances.
Some pain requires full expression before healing can begin—a lesson learned through my own losses, my own regrets.
This is precisely why I arranged for the others to depart first, why I manipulated circumstances to ensure this private moment.
Jessica needed this release, this opportunity to process the emotional aftermath of sharing her trauma. But she would never have allowed herself such vulnerability with an audience—not even an audience composed of men who are rapidly becoming more than strangers to her.
With me, there is history. With me, there is the unspoken bond formed in that alley seven years ago—savior and saved, rescuer and rescued, roles that create a unique dynamic regardless of what has followed. I'm not pack to her, not yet. Not her mate, not Alpha in the traditional sense.
But I am a witness.
I am the one who saw her at her most broken, who made the decision to preserve rather than allow nature to take its course. I am the one who knows exactly how far she has come from that rain-soaked, bleeding girl to this formidable woman who hunts her hunters with lethal precision.
Her tears soak through my shirt, warm against my skin.
Her fingers clutch at the fabric covering my back, grip tightening with each fresh wave of emotion. I remain steady, unmovable, a rock against which she can break without fear of judgment or exploitation.
Minutes pass, marked only by the gradual slowing of her sobs, the lengthening pauses between shuddering breaths. Eventually, she grows still in my arms, exhausted perhaps by the intensity of her emotional release.
Still, I don't release her. I wait, allowing her to set the pace of this interaction, to determine when enough comfort has been received. My shirt is certainly ruined, but it's a small price to pay for what this moment represents—trust given, vulnerability accepted, another step toward healing that has been too long delayed.
When she finally pulls back, her face is blotchy, eyes swollen, nose reddened—all the undignified physical manifestations of genuine grief.
She doesn't attempt to hide these signs, doesn't turn away or make excuses. Instead, she meets my gaze directly, chin lifted in that characteristic defiance that seven years of trauma haven't managed to extinguish.
"If you tell anyone about this," she says, voice hoarse but steady, "I will eviscerate you in your sleep."
The threat, delivered with perfect seriousness despite her tear-stained face, startles a genuine laugh from me—a rare sound that members of my pack might mention with the reverent tone typically reserved for mythical creatures or astronomical phenomena.
"Your secret emotional capacity is safe with me," I assure her, reaching into my pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. I offer it without comment, the simple square of monogrammed fabric a relic of an upbringing I've largely discarded but occasionally find useful.
She accepts it with a raised eyebrow, using it to wipe her face with practical efficiency rather than the delicate dabs society expects from Omegas.
When finished, she attempts to return it, but I wave off the gesture.
"Keep it," I suggest. "Consider it a souvenir of this momentary lapse into conventional emotional expression."
A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, the expression transforming her tear-stained face into something luminous despite the redness and puffiness. She tucks the handkerchief into her pocket, fingers lingering on the fabric as if uncertain what to make of the small kindness.
"We should go," she says after a moment, voice steadier now, more like her usual self. "Before Rook decides I've kidnapped you and comes back guns blazing."
I nod, not commenting on the unlikely scenario she's proposed—Rook may be impulsive, but he understands pack dynamics well enough to know I'm in no danger from Jessica.
His protectiveness runs in the opposite direction, despite her lethal capabilities.
"My car is this way," I say, gesturing toward the far end of the garage where my Aston Martin waits, a subtle indulgence in an otherwise practical existence.
At least, a perfect distraction.
As we walk side by side toward the vehicle, I'm aware of a subtle shift in our dynamic—nothing dramatic, nothing that fundamentally alters the complex web of relationships forming between Jessica and our pack.
But something has changed nonetheless, a barrier lowered if not removed entirely.
She's shown me her true face—not just the fierce hunter, not just the traumatized victim, but the woman who exists in the spaces between those identities. The one who can cry and threaten evisceration in the same breath, who can accept comfort while maintaining her essential independence.
And I, perhaps, have shown her something of myself as well—not just the calculating strategist, not just the pack Alpha with his eye on larger objectives.
But the man who remembers what it means to hold someone through grief, who carries his own regrets and redemptions beneath a carefully maintained exterior.
It's a beginning, of sorts.
A foundation upon which something more substantial might be built, given time and continued trust. I find myself wondering what shape that "something" might take.
What place Jessica Vesper Calavera might ultimately occupy in our unconventional pack, in our dangerous world, in the complex strategies that have occupied my attention for decades?
The question remains unanswered, but even the smallest shift can eventually alter the course of everything that follows.