Chapter 14 Oakley
fourteen
Oakley
I can't sleep.
Again.
Three nights in a row now, lying awake in the pack house bedroom I've claimed, staring at the ceiling while my mind replays everything. The pool. Her defiance. The way she looked at us with such hatred even as her body betrayed her with slick and need.
The way I wanted to comfort her and claim her in equal measure.
At 5:47 AM, I give up. Pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt, pad downstairs barefoot. The lake house is silent—Dorian and Corvus still dead to the world after yesterday's emotional shitshow.
The kitchen is dark when I enter, just pre-dawn light filtering through the windows. I flick on the under-cabinet LEDs, keeping them dim. Start the coffee maker. Lean against the counter and try not to think about the omega upstairs who hates us.
Who has every right to hate us.
I'm reaching for a mug when I hear it—the soft creak of a floorboard. The whisper of bare feet on hardwood.
My head snaps toward the doorway.
Vespera freezes in the entrance like a deer caught in headlights.
She's wearing sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, her hair mussed from sleep, eyes wide with surprise. The fading bruise on her cheek is a stark reminder of what we did. What I helped do.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
"I was just..." She gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. "Tea. I wanted tea."
Her voice is rough with sleep, cautious. Not defiant like yesterday. Just... tired.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Come in. I won't—I'm just making coffee."
She hesitates, clearly weighing her options. Fight or flight instincts warring with whatever need drove her down here at dawn. Finally, she takes a tentative step inside, then another, moving toward the stove with careful distance between us.
I turn back to the coffee maker, giving her space. Hear her open cabinets, searching.
"Tea's in the one to the right of the sink," I offer without turning around. "Kettle's already on the stove."
"Thanks," she mutters.
The kettle clicks on. Water starts to heat. I pour my coffee, add cream, try to look casual instead of hyperaware of every sound she makes. The silk of her shorts against her thighs as she moves. The soft exhale as she reaches up for a mug.
The faint scent of jasmine that makes my alpha sit up and take notice despite everything.
I should leave. Give her privacy. Stop being a creep who notices things like the curve of her neck or the way the morning light catches in her hair.
But I don't move.
"Couldn't sleep?" I ask, keeping my voice low, non-threatening.
She glances at me, surprised I'm making conversation. "No. You?"
"Same."
The kettle starts to whistle. She turns to grab it—moves too fast—and her hand catches the edge of the hot stove instead.
"Fuck!" She jerks back, cradling her hand.
I'm moving before I can think, crossing the kitchen in three strides. "Let me see."
"It's fine—"
"Vespera." My hands are already reaching for hers, gentle but insistent. "Let me see."
She could pull away. Should. But something in my tone—the alpha command I didn't mean to use, or maybe just genuine concern—makes her relent.
Her hand is small in mine. Delicate. The burn on her palm is already reddening, angry and painful-looking where she made contact with the heating element.
"Shit," I mutter. "That looks bad. Come here."
I guide her to the sink, turn on the cold water. Hold her hand under the stream while she hisses through her teeth.
"I know it hurts," I say quietly. "Cold water helps, I think. Just... keep it there for a bit."
"I'm fine," she insists, but doesn't pull away. Can't. The burn is bad enough that the cold water is probably the only thing keeping the pain manageable.
I keep her hand steady under the flow, my other hand settling on her lower back without thought. Supporting her. A gesture that's pure instinct—protective, nurturing.
The kind of thing I used to do before everything went to hell.
Her jasmine scent wraps around me, stronger now with her this close. Mixed with something else—pain, yes, but underneath...
Arousal.
Fuck.
My body responds immediately. Blood rushing south, cock starting to thicken despite every rational thought screaming at me to stop. This is wrong. She's hurt. She hates us.
But my alpha doesn't care about any of that.
"How long?" she asks, voice tight.
"Few more minutes. Then I'll... I don't know. Find something to wrap it with."
She nods. We stand there in silence broken only by running water and our breathing. I try not to notice how she fits against me—how easy it would be to pull her closer, to turn her around and press her against the sink and—
No.
I force myself to focus on her injury. On being the healer, not the alpha. The gentle one. The one who isn't a complete monster.
Even though we both know that's a lie.
"Okay," I say finally, turning off the water. "Stay here."
I grab the first aid kit from under the sink, set it on the counter. Open it, my hands less steady than I'd like.
"Sit," I gesture to the counter stool.
She obeys, which surprises me. Slides onto the seat with that unconscious grace she has, even exhausted and hurt.
I move between her and the counter, giving myself access to treat her hand. This close, I can see the exhaustion in her eyes. The way she holds herself—tense, ready to bolt, but too tired to maintain the walls she built yesterday.
"This might sting," I warn, finding some kind of ointment in the kit.
She doesn't flinch when I apply it. Just watches me work with those green eyes that have haunted my dreams for months.
I'm gentle. Careful. My hands steady despite the way my pulse is racing. Despite the way her scent is making my mouth water and my cock strain against my sweatpants.
"You're good at this," she says quietly.
I glance up. She's studying my face, expression unreadable.
"Had a lot of practice," I admit. "Taking care of people."
"Your pack?"
The question is neutral, but I hear the subtext. Your pack that kidnapped me. Your pack that's keeping me prisoner.
"Yeah." I focus on wrapping gauze around her palm, trying to remember how I've seen it done. "Among other things."
Silence falls between us. Not comfortable, but not hostile either. Something in between—a strange liminal space where we're just two people in a kitchen at dawn, one of them hurt, the other trying to help.
Even if that help is tainted by everything that came before.
"There," I say, finishing the bandage. Not perfect, but it'll do. "Keep it clean. Change this... whenever it gets dirty, I guess."
"Okay."
But I don't let go of her hand. And she doesn't pull away.
We stay like that, frozen in the moment. My thumb traces unconscious circles on her wrist, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my touch. Her lips part slightly, breath coming faster.
I can smell it now—unmistakable. The sweet, intoxicating scent of slick beginning to gather between her thighs.
Her body betraying her even as her mind fights it.
"Oakley—" she starts, but I'm already stepping back.
"You should drink your tea," I say, voice rough. "Before it gets cold."
I turn away, gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to hurt. Try to get my body under control. My cock is fully hard now, pressing obscenely against my sweatpants, and there's no hiding it.
I hear her shift on the stool. The soft rustle of fabric.
"You were the kind one," she says suddenly.
I freeze.
"Back at Northwood. Before... everything." Her voice is quiet, almost wondering. "You were the only one who was ever kind to me. Even when you were helping them corner me, there was always this... hesitation. Like part of you knew it was wrong."
I turn slowly. She's looking at me with something I can't quite read.
"I did know it was wrong," I admit. The words taste like ash. "Every fucking step. But I told myself it was for your own good. That we were protecting you. That the bond justified it."
"Did you believe that?"
"I wanted to." I lean back against the counter. "Biology made it easy to lie to myself. My alpha screamed that you were ours, that we needed to claim you, that letting you run would kill us all. And I let that drown out the voice saying this was fucked up."
She's quiet for a long moment. "Why now?"
"What?"
"Why are you listening to that voice now? What changed?"
I think about it. About the pool scene. About her crying through the door. About Dorian's breakdown last night.
"I saw you," I say finally. "Really saw you. Not the omega my biology insisted I needed. Not the prize to be won. Just... you. Vespera. A person who's terrified and alone and trapped by three guys who are supposed to protect her but are actually destroying her."
"That doesn't make it better."
"I know." I meet her eyes. "But at least now I see it. See what we are to you. And I can't pretend anymore that this is anything but wrong."
She picks up her tea. Takes a sip. Winces—probably still too hot.
"My dad used to direct community theater," she says, seemingly out of nowhere. "Before I was born. He gave it up when Mom left, focused on the technical side instead. Said it was too painful to be on stage without her."
I don't know what to say, so I stay quiet.
"He taught me that the best performances come from truth. That you can't fake real emotion. The audience always knows." She looks at me. "So I guess what I'm asking is—are you performing right now? Playing the repentant alpha to manipulate me? Or is this real?"
The question cuts deeper than she probably intended.
"It's real," I say quietly. "I wish it wasn't. Wish I could go back to believing we were doing the right thing. That would be easier. But I can't unsee what we've done to you."
She nods slowly. Sets down her tea.
"I need to call my dad," she says. "And Ben. They think I'm dead or worse. The program's been looking for me."
The mention of Ben makes something ugly twist in my chest, but I push it down. "Your phone's in your room. Dorian had it charging."