Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
PHOENIX
The door of Judah’s literal mansion swings open before Mason can knock, revealing a young woman who looks like she just rolled out of bed and couldn’t be bothered to care about it.
She’s got Judah’s eyes—that same impossible ocean blue—but where his are weathered and guarded, hers sparkles with barely contained energy.
Dark hair pulled into a messy bun, flannel pajama pants that have seen better days, and an oversized sweatshirt that swallows her frame.
She can’t be more than twenty-one, twenty-two at most.
Her gaze slides over Mason, dismisses Atticus entirely, and lands on me with the force of a spotlight.
“Holy shit.” The words escape her in a rush. “You’re actually here. In my house. Phoenix Riviera is standing on my porch.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Not the artificial warmth from the pills churning through my system, but genuine embarrassment at her obvious excitement.
I’ve dealt with fans for years—screaming teenagers at premieres, middle-aged women who remember my kids’ show, creepy men who’ve watched my bikini scenes on repeat—but there’s something different about this girl’s reaction.
Like I’ve personally made her entire year just by existing in her vicinity.
“Hi,” I manage, trying for my camera-ready smile despite the fact that my skin feels like it’s been set to simmer. “You must be…”
“Mabie. Maybelline, technically, but only my mother calls me that when she’s pissed.
” She’s practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“God, I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve been watching you since I was like, twelve.
Ally’s World was literally my entire personality in middle school. ”
Ally’s World. The show that made me famous and ruined my life in equal measure.
The show I can’t escape no matter how many serious roles I take, how many times I try to rebrand myself as an adult actress.
I’ll be eighty years old and people will still remember me as the perky teenager who solved mysteries with her talking cat.
But Mabie’s enthusiasm is so pure, so uncomplicated by industry bullshit, that I can’t find it in myself to be bitter about it.
“That’s really sweet,” I say, and mean it. “Thank you.”
“Oh my God, wait till I tell my friends. They’re going to lose their minds.” She pulls out her phone, then seems to remember we’re still standing on the porch. “Shit, sorry. Come in, come in. My brother will be down in just a minute.”
She steps aside, still babbling, and we file into the foyer.
The Daniels house is old money trying not to look like old money.
Everything is quality—hardwood floors that gleam despite their age, oriental rugs that probably cost more than my car, oil paintings of stern-looking ancestors watching from gilded frames—but it’s all slightly worn at the edges.
Comfortable. Lived in. Like a cashmere sweater that’s been washed too many times but is too beloved to throw away.
The scent hits me immediately. Pine and sea salt and something deeper, richer. Alpha. Not aggressive or overwhelming like the alphas I’ve encountered in LA, but settled into the bones of the house like it’s been here for generations.
My body responds before my brain can stop it. The heat that’s been building under my skin flares higher, and I have to grip Mason’s arm to keep from swaying.
“You okay?” Mason murmurs, but I can hear the tension in his voice. He knows exactly what’s happening to me. Knows the pills are working faster than either of us expected.
“Fine,” I lie through gritted teeth.
Mabie doesn’t notice, too busy closing the door and practically bouncing around us like an excited puppy. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? We have this amazing local roast that Judah gets from some guy who imports beans from—”
“Mabie.”
The voice comes from the top of the stairs. Deep, familiar, with an edge of fond exasperation.
Judah descends slowly, and my traitorous body tracks every movement.
He’s changed since I saw him outside the bar—worn jeans replaced with pajama pants that hang low on his hips, the flannel traded for a simple white t-shirt that clings to his chest in ways that should be illegal.
His hair is mussed like he’s been running his hands through it, and there’s a faint flush across his cheekbones that might be from sleep or might be from something else entirely.
Behind him, another figure appears. Dominic, looking rumpled and slightly disheveled in a way that makes my brain start drawing conclusions I don’t want to examine.
“You came,” Judah says, and there’s something in his voice I can’t quite identify. Not surprise exactly. Something heavier. Something that makes Mason go rigid beside me.
“You offered,” I say, trying for casual despite the fact that my skin feels like it’s about to crawl off my body. “And we had a situation that required…alternative accommodations.”
Judah’s nostrils flare slightly, and I know—know—he can smell what’s happening to me. The dilated pupils, the flush spreading down my neck, the way I’m unconsciously leaning toward him like a plant seeking sun. All the classic signs of an omega going into heat.
His eyes darken, but his expression stays carefully neutral. “Of course. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”
“That’s very generous,” Atticus says, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes me look at him sharply. He’s watching Judah with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for rival alphas, despite the fact that Judah is clearly claimed and therefore not a threat.
Men, I think with disgust. Even the evolved ones can’t help the territorial bullshit.
“I’ll show you to the guest wing,” Judah says, already turning back toward the stairs. “Plenty of room for all of you.”
We follow him up, our footsteps echoing on the old wood.
The house feels bigger from the inside, hallways branching off in multiple directions, doors leading to rooms I’ll probably never see.
Family photos line the walls—generations of Daniels men with the same strong jaw and ocean eyes, women in pearls and conservative dresses, children in sailor suits that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
Mason hasn’t said a word since we entered the house.
He walks beside me like a man heading to his execution, jaw clenched so tight I’m worried he’ll crack a tooth.
Every few steps, his hand twitches like he wants to grab my arm and drag me back outside, but he doesn’t.
Just keeps walking, eyes fixed straight ahead, breathing so controlled it has to be deliberate.
“This place is incredible,” I say, partly to fill the silence and partly because it’s true. “How long has your family lived here?”
“Four generations,” Judah answers without turning around. “My great-great-grandfather built it after he made his fortune in shipping. Back when Harmony Harbor was actually a major port.”
“And now you’re all fishermen?”
“The world changes. We adapted.” He pauses at a door, hand on the brass knob. “This was my grandmother’s suite. Should be comfortable for you.”
He opens the door, and I have to bite back a gasp.
The room is gorgeous in that understated New England way that money can’t buy anymore because the craftsmen who knew how to do it are all dead.
Four-poster bed with actual curtains, writing desk positioned to catch the morning light, a reading nook with built-in bookshelves and a window seat overlooking the harbor.
Everything done in soft blues and creams, feminine without being fussy.
But what catches my attention—what makes my breath catch—is the connected bathroom visible through an open door.
A massive clawfoot tub, the kind you could actually stretch out in.
The kind that would be perfect for riding out the worst of a heat when your skin feels too tight and nothing helps except being submerged in water.
“This is perfect,” I breathe, already imagining myself sinking into that tub. “Thank you.”
“There are two other rooms down the hall,” Judah continues, but his eyes haven’t left my face. “For your…companions.”
The way he says it makes it clear he knows exactly what Mason and Atticus are to me. Or rather, what they aren’t. Not alphas laying claim. Not pack. Just satellites orbiting my chaos, pulled in by proximity rather than choice.
“We appreciate it,” Mason says, his first words since we arrived. They come out strained, like he’s forcing them through a too-small opening.
Judah’s attention shifts to him, and something passes between them. A tension that makes the air in the room go thick and electric. They stare at each other for a beat too long, and I’m suddenly very aware that this is a tense situation.
And I don’t have anyone but myself to blame for that.
I wander over to a collection of framed photographs on a side table near the window, desperate for any distraction from the suffocating tension between Mason and Judah.
The air feels thick enough to choke on, and I need something—anything—to focus on besides the way they’re staring at each other like the rest of us have ceased to exist.
“These are beautiful,” I say, my voice coming out a little too bright, a little too performative.
I pick up a silver-framed photo of what must be a younger Judah on a fishing boat, the ocean stretching endlessly behind him.
His arm is slung around Dominic’s shoulders, both of them grinning wide and squinting against the brilliant summer sun.
They look happy. Genuinely happy. The kind of carefree that makes my chest ache with something I don’t want to examine too closely.
Mason suddenly materializes at my side, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. His hand reaches for the frame in my hands, and I notice the tremor in his fingers.
“Let me see that,” he says, his voice strangled and tight, like he’s barely holding himself together.