12. 2
Under different circumstances, I might enjoy watching these powerful Alphas navigate their interpersonal conflicts. Might savor the reminder that even the most dangerous predators have their vulnerabilities, their blind spots.
But not when I'm at the center of their dispute.
Not when my survival hinges on decisions being made in this room.
"Excuse me," I interrupt, injecting ice into my tone. "If you're going to argue about me like I'm not present, I'll just leave you to it."
I move to stand, only for Viper's hand to shoot out, grasping my wrist with surprising gentleness given the tension radiating from his frame. The touch is electric, familiar in a way that makes my skin warm despite the danger surrounding us.
"Stay," he says—not an order but a request, his voice dropping lower, meant only for me. "Please."
The 'please' catches me off guard. In all our encounters, through all the violence and sex and rare moments of tenderness, I can't recall ever hearing that word from his lips.
I sink back into my seat, telling myself it's strategic rather than sentimental.
Better to have all the information before making decisions. To understand the connections between these men, their interest in me, the truth behind the masks they all wear—literal and figurative.
Viper— Rook —doesn't release my wrist immediately. His thumb brushes once across my pulse point, a gesture so brief I might have imagined it, before he steps back, creating distance that feels both necessary and painful.
"Do you know what it’s like to wear a mask for eight years," he says to Marcus, voice tight with controlled fury. "You preach about pack loyalty, about transparency within the family while keeping secrets that would drown lesser men. And now you approach her—behind my back—with half-truths and manipulations?"
Marcus shows the first sign of genuine emotion—a flicker of regret crossing his features.
"It wasn't my intention to deceive you, Rook. But I needed to assess the situation before involving you directly."
"Bullshit," Rook spits. "You wanted to control the narrative. To present this—" he gestures between himself and me, "—as a convenient coincidence rather than the complication it is."
"What exactly is 'this'?" I ask, the question directed at both of them. "Because I seem to be missing several chapters of whatever story you're all participating in."
Knox barks a laugh, seemingly unable to contain himself despite the tension.
"Oh, I like her. Can we keep her?"
Bastian shoots him a warning glance. Rook's hands clench at his sides, knuckles whitening.
"Perhaps," Marcus says carefully, "we should start from the beginning."
"Perhaps," I counter, rising to my feet in a single fluid movement, "you should all stop treating me like an object to be acquired or a problem to be solved."
I face them squarely, arms crossed over my chest, chin lifted in defiance rather than submission.
"Let me be perfectly clear. I don't need protection. I don't need a pack. And I certainly don't need the complications that would come with aligning myself with..."
I gesture vaguely at the four of them, searching for the right descriptor.
"Whatever the hell this dysfunctional arrangement is."
Rook's lips twitch, something like pride or amusement briefly displacing his anger. The reaction emboldens me further.
"I've survived for seven years on my own. Killed four of the six Alphas who thought they ended me in that alley. Built a reputation in Dead Knot that keeps most threats at a respectful distance. I have resources, contacts, and skills that have served me perfectly well without your intervention."
I turn to Marcus directly, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"So thank you for saving my life seven years ago. Thank you for whatever behind-the-scenes string-pulling you've been doing. But if you think that entitles you to waltz in here and claim me like some sort of prize for your pack, you've severely miscalculated."
The silence that follows my declaration is absolute.
The four Alphas exchange glances I can't fully interpret—surprise, reassessment, perhaps even respect.
Marcus is the first to recover, inclining his head in that formal gesture I'm beginning to recognize as characteristic.
"You misunderstand our intention, Ms. Vesper. We're not here to claim you against your will or to collect on perceived debts."
"Then why are you here?" I press.
"To offer you a choice," he says simply. "A genuine choice, something few Omegas in your position ever receive."
"And what 'choice' would that be?"
Marcus spreads his hands, the gesture encompassing all of us.
"Option one: You accept our formal offer of pack protection. We register with Knot Academy as your prospective Alphas, which gives us legitimate reason to remain on campus and shield you from Prescott's hunters. When the time is right, we facilitate a reunion with your father, negotiate terms that protects all parties' interests, and integrate the Calavera network with our own operations."
He pauses, allowing me to process this first alternative before continuing.
"Option two: You decline our offer. We provide what assistance we can from a distance, but without formal association, our ability to intervene directly will be limited. You continue as you have been, relying on your own considerable skills and the persona you've cultivated."
Another pause, his expression turning grave.
"With one critical difference: Prescott now knows you're alive, and he's willing to spend millions to ensure you don't remain that way. You'll be fighting off professionals, not academy rivals or opportunistic Alphas. Specialists with resources that exceed even your impressive capabilities."
The assessment is cold but accurate.
I've dealt with hired killers before, but nothing on the scale Marcus is describing. Five billion attracts a different class of hunter altogether.
"And option three?" I ask, because there's always a third option, even if they don't want to acknowledge it.
A smile touches Marcus's lips, appreciative rather than condescending.
"Perceptive. Option three would be for you to disappear entirely. New identity, new location, severing all connections to both your past and present lives. We could facilitate this as well."
The offer is tempting— more tempting than I want to admit. To walk away from vengeance, from the weight of my history, from the constant vigilance that defines my existence.
But I'd be walking away from more than that.
From Emilia, the closest thing to family I've allowed myself since the alley. From the hunt for the two remaining Alphas whose faces still haunt my nightmares. From whatever this thing is between Rook and me—complicated, primal, unacknowledged but undeniably real.
And from my father. From the truth about why he never looked harder for me, why he accepted my death so readily.
"Those are my only options?" I ask, buying time to think.
"Those are the ones with the highest probability of your survival," Marcus clarifies. "There are always other paths, but they tend to end... prematurely."
His delicate phrasing doesn't disguise the brutal reality behind it.
Dead is dead, regardless of how you phrase it.
I turn to Rook, studying him openly now.
"And what's your position in all this? You seemed pretty adamant that there is no 'arrangement' when you first arrived."
His jaw tightens, the muscle there jumping with tension.
"My position is that forcing a pack bond for strategic advantage is fucked up, regardless of how it's presented."
"Even if it saves her life?" Knox challenges.
"Even then," Rook growls. "Especially then. Using survival as leverage is no better than the threats Prescott's people will make."
The statement hangs in the air, unexpected in its moral clarity. I'd assumed his objection stemmed from possessiveness, from whatever claim he feels our encounters have established. This principled stance is... surprising.
"But you're still here," I point out. "Still wearing that uniform. Still participating in whatever game is being played."
His eyes meet mine, intense even through the mask.
"Because staying away would leave you vulnerable to manipulation from all sides. Because whatever happens next should be your choice, not theirs. Not mine."
Choice. A genuine choice.
The concept is almost foreign after years of survival dictated by necessity rather than preference. Years of reacting to threats rather than pursuing desires.
Years of existing rather than living.
I look around at the four of them—Marcus with his calculating intelligence, Bastian with his silent strength, Knox with his barely contained energy, and Rook with his raw intensity.
A strange collection of predators, each dangerous in his own way, each offering something I've denied needing for so long.
Protection. Resources. Connection. Perhaps even understanding.
The smart move would be to walk away. To disappear, as Marcus suggested, abandon the hunt for my remaining attackers, start fresh somewhere new with a clean slate.
But I've never been particularly good at making the smart move. If I were, I wouldn't be in Dead Knot to begin with.
"I need time," I say finally. "Time to consider, to investigate, to decide what I actually want rather than what circumstances force upon me."
Marcus nods, as if he expected nothing less.
"The formal registration period for potential packs ends Wednesday. That gives you three days."
"During which Prescott's hunters will already be mobilizing," Bastian adds, his deep voice rumbling through the room.
"I can handle myself for three days," I reply, more confident than I feel. "And I have conditions."
"Name them," Marcus says.
"Complete information. I want everything you know about Prescott, about my father, about the bounty. No more selective disclosure, no more strategic omissions."
"Agreed."
"Your pack dynamics stay your problem. I'm not interested in navigating Alpha politics or power struggles. Figure your shit out between yourselves."
Knox grins at this, clearly amused by my bluntness. Rook's expression remains unreadable, though something like approval flickers in his eyes.
"And most importantly," I continue, my gaze moving between them. "If—and that's a very significant 'if'—I agree to this arrangement, it's temporary. A strategic alliance, not a permanent bond. When the threat is neutralized, when my father is dealt with one way or another, I walk away clean. No claims, no obligations, no strings."
Marcus exchanges glances with the others before nodding slowly.
"Those terms are acceptable, with one amendment: your safety remains our priority throughout, regardless of your final decision."
The statement could be interpreted as altruistic, but I'm not naive enough to believe that's their primary motivation. I'm valuable to them—as leverage, as access to the Calavera network, as a strategic asset in whatever game they're playing against Prescott.
But there's something in Marcus's tone that suggests more than cold calculation.
Something that reminds me of the Alpha who pulled me from that alley seven years ago, who arranged medical care when I was nothing but a broken Omega with no strategic value whatsoever.
"Fine," I concede. "Three days. Complete information. Then I decide."
"Three days," Marcus confirms. He reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a small black card that he places on the chair beside me. "My direct number. Use it if anything changes, if you sense any threat, if you need... anything."
The gesture echoes that night seven years ago—another card, another promise of assistance. The symmetry isn't lost on me.
"And Rook?" I ask, deliberately using the name they call him rather than the one I've known him by.
"Will be available as well," Marcus assures me. "Though perhaps with different contact protocols."
Something in his tone suggests awareness of our existing relationship, though whether he knows the full extent remains unclear. The thought that our encounters might have been monitored or reported back to him sends a chill down my spine.
"I'd like to speak with Jessica alone," Rook says suddenly, the request clearly surprising his pack mates.
Marcus hesitates, studying him carefully before nodding.
"Five minutes. Then we need to move. Being seen together too long raises questions we're not prepared to answer yet."
He gestures to the others, and they move toward the doors with a synchronization that speaks of long practice and implicit trust.
Marcus pauses at the threshold, looking back at us.
"Three days, Ms. Vesper. Choose wisely."
The doors close behind them, leaving me alone with the Alpha I've been fucking for months without knowing his real name, his true identity, or his connection to the man who saved my life seven years ago.
The silence between us stretches, charged with unspoken questions and unacknowledged truths.
"Rook," I say, testing the name on my tongue. It feels wrong somehow, foreign where "Viper" had become familiar, intimate even.
"Only to them," he says, his voice lower now that we're alone. "With you, I've always been Viper. That wasn't a lie."
"Just an omission," I note, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
He runs a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration that humanizes him in a way our most intimate encounters never have.
"I didn't know," he says, the words seemingly torn from him. "About you. About who you really are. About Marcus finding you that night. None of it."
I study him, searching for deception in his expression, in his body language, in the scent that's become as familiar to me as my own. I find none.
"You expect me to believe that? That in all our... encounters, you never connected Venom to Jessica Calavera?"
"Why would I?" he counters. "Jessica Calavera died seven years ago. Every record confirms it. Every source verifies it. There was a funeral, for Christ's sake."
The raw honesty in his voice is convincing, though I've learned the hard way that conviction isn't always truth.
"I joined Marcus's pack five years ago," he continues. "After you were already established in Dead Knot. After your identity was already secured. I was never part of the initial rescue or recovery."
This aligns with what I know—that Viper appeared in Dead Knot only three years ago, establishing his territory with efficient brutality before our paths crossed during a territorial dispute that ended with both of us bloody, aroused, and confused by our mutual attraction.
"So all this time," I say slowly, "you've been part of a pack that's been monitoring me without your knowledge?"
His jaw tightens.
"So it seems."
"And now they want to formalize a connection that's convenient for their strategic objectives."
"Yes."
The single syllable carries a wealth of complicated emotions—anger, resignation, something that might be guilt.
"And what do you want, Viper? Or Rook? Or whoever the fuck you actually are?"
He steps closer, entering my personal space with a confidence born of our physical history. His scent envelops me—familiar, intoxicating, dangerous in the way it makes my pulse quicken and my limbs feel heavy.
"What I want," he says, voice dropping to a rumble that I feel in my bones, "is for you to survive. To thrive. To have the choice that Marcus dangled in front of you like it's some revolutionary concept."
His hand rises, hovering near my face but not quite touching, as if he's restraining himself despite our privacy.
"I want you safe," he continues, the words holding a weight I wasn't prepared for. "But I also want you free. Free to choose your path without manipulation, without coercion, without the kind of strings that Marcus excels at attaching."
"Even if that means rejecting your pack? Rejecting you?"
Something flashes in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or resignation.
"Even then."
"Why?" I press, stepping closer until we're nearly touching, until his scent and mine mingle in the space between us. "Why would you prioritize my freedom over your pack's objectives? Over your own interests?"
His gaze intensifies, burning even through the mask that conceals half his face.
"Because I know what it's like to have choice stolen from you. To have your path dictated by others. To exist as a tool rather than a person."
The confession resonates through me, striking chords I've kept carefully muted for years. Behind his words, I sense a history as complicated and painful as my own—different circumstances, perhaps, but similar wounds.
"Three days," I say softly. "Three days to decide whether to trust four Alphas I barely know, one of whom has been fucking me senseless without revealing his true identity."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips.
"When you put it that way, the smart choice seems obvious."
"Running?"
"Running," he confirms. "As far and as fast as possible."
"Then why are you here? Why participate in this at all if you think I should reject the offer?"
He reaches out finally, one calloused finger tracing the line of my jaw with unexpected tenderness.
"Because running doesn't always mean escape. Sometimes it just means dying tired."
The statement lands with the weight of experience behind it, of lessons learned through blood and pain rather than instruction.
"And the alternative? Accepting your pack's 'protection'? Becoming the Omega to four Alphas I don't know or trust?"
"You know me," he says quietly. "Maybe not my name, my history, my connections. But you know me , Venom. Just as I know you."
And there's truth in that, however inconvenient.
Beyond the sex, beyond the violence, beyond the careful barriers we've both maintained—there has always been a recognition between us. A fundamental understanding that transcends words or explanations.
"What will you do," I ask, "if I accept? Will you play along with Marcus's scheme? Pretend to be my Alpha alongside the others?"
His expression darkens.
"I don't share. Not even for strategic advantage."
The possessive declaration should anger me, should trigger every defense mechanism I've cultivated since the alley. Instead, it sends a treacherous warmth through my chest, a recognition of something I've been denying for months.
This thing between us was never just sex. Never just convenience or mutual need.
"Good," I say, surprising us both. "Because I don't like to share either."
For a moment, we simply look at each other, acknowledging without words the shift that's occurring between us. The recognition that whatever happens next— whether I accept Marcus's offer or reject it, whether I stay or run —nothing will be the same between us.
The mask we've both worn— of casual indifference, of emotion-free encounters —has slipped beyond recovery.
"Your five minutes are nearly up," I say finally, stepping back to create necessary distance. "You should go. Your Alpha is waiting."
Rook nods once, though reluctance is evident in every line of his body.
"Three days, Venom. Whatever you decide, I'll respect it."
He moves toward the door, each step measured, controlled.
"Rook," I call after him, the name still unfamiliar on my tongue. "One last question."
He pauses, looking back over his shoulder.
"Would you have ever told me? If Marcus hadn't forced this confrontation? Would you have revealed who you really are?"
His expression softens, something like regret passing across his features.
"I guess we'll never know."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone with impossible choices and the ghost of his scent lingering in the air.
Three days to decide my future.
Three days to determine who to trust.
Three days before the hunters come for the ghost they've finally discovered still walks among the living.