Chapter 22 Vespera
twenty-two
Vespera
I wake up to birdsong.
Not the desperate whimper of heat. Not the fevered need. Just birds. Morning light filtering through the curtains. The weight of three bodies surrounding me in the nest we built together.
My body is sore but not burning. Tired but not desperate. For the first time in days, my thoughts are my own.
The heat is over.
I should want to run. Should want to grab my things and get as far away from this lake house as possible. From the three Alphas who kidnapped me, who kept me here, who claimed me.
But I don't.
Dorian is behind me, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath steady against my neck. Oakley is curled on my right, one hand resting on my hip. Corvus is stretched out on my left, closer than he probably intended, his usual careful distance abandoned in sleep.
I should be planning my escape. Instead, I'm cataloging how safe I feel.
The realization should terrify me. Maybe it does. But it also feels... true.
I shift slightly and Dorian's arm tightens. "Don't," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. "Stay."
"I'm not leaving. Just stretching."
He goes still. Then his eyes open, ice-blue and cautious. "You're not?"
"Not right now." I turn to face him. "Is that okay?"
Something in his expression cracks. Relief. Fear. Hope. "You can do whatever you want. Stay. Go. We'll—we'll figure it out."
"I know." I touch his face, feeling the stubble on his jaw. "That's why I'm staying."
Oakley stirs on my other side. "Did you say staying?" His voice is rough, hopeful.
"For now," I clarify. "I need to see who we are when I'm not in heat. When you're not in rut. When it's just us."
"Okay." Oakley props himself up on one elbow, looking at me like I'm something precious. "Whatever you need."
Corvus is awake now too, those dark eyes assessing. "What do you need?"
The question is genuine. Not demanding. Not calculating. Just asking.
"Coffee," I say. "And a shower. And maybe to see the lake in daylight?"
"Done." Dorian sits up, already moving. "I'll get the coffee started."
"I'll find you clean clothes," Oakley offers.
"I'll ensure the grounds are secure so you can explore freely," Corvus adds.
They're all scrambling. Eager. Trying so hard to give me what I want.
It's terrifying how much they care.
An hour later, I'm showered, dressed in soft leggings and one of Oakley's hoodies that smells like cedar, standing in the kitchen doorway watching three Alphas who are supposed to be making breakfast.
Except they're not actually cooking. They're just... staring at me.
Dorian has a spatula in one hand, bacon sizzling in the pan behind him, completely forgotten. Oakley's holding an egg over a bowl, frozen mid-crack. Corvus has the coffee pot in his hand but he's not pouring, just watching me with those dark, calculating eyes that miss nothing.
"Are you going to cook," I ask, fighting a smile, "or just stand there?"
The spell breaks. Dorian swears and spins back to the stove where the bacon is definitely starting to burn. Oakley fumbles the egg and it splatters on the counter. Corvus finally pours the coffee but misses the cup slightly, dark liquid pooling on the granite.
I laugh. Really laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep that hasn't felt light in months.
"You're terrible at this," I say, moving into the kitchen to rescue the bacon before it becomes charcoal.
"We're excellent at this," Dorian protests, but he's grinning as he hands me the spatula. "You're just distracting."
"I'm wearing a hoodie and leggings."
"You're wearing my hoodie," Oakley points out, finally cleaning up the egg situation. "And you look—" He stops, shakes his head. "You're very distracting."
"Extremely," Corvus agrees, wiping up the spilled coffee. "We're not usually this incompetent in the kitchen."
"Usually?" I flip the bacon, saving it from certain death.
"We can cook quite well," Dorian says. "But having you here, watching us, smelling like—" He cuts himself off, throat working as he swallows. "It's difficult to concentrate."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. They're not pretending. Not playing it cool. Just admitting that I affect them as much as they affect me.
I finish the bacon, start fresh eggs while they hover around me like satellites—drawn close but trying not to crowd. Oakley sets the table. Corvus manages to successfully pour coffee this time. Dorian watches me cook with an expression I can't quite read—hungry, but not for food.
"You're good at this," Oakley observes.
"My dad taught me." I crack eggs into a bowl. "After my mom left, it was just us. We learned to take care of each other."
Silence falls. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry," Dorian says quietly. "About your mom. About how we used that against you."
I pause, whisk in hand. He's apologizing. Actually apologizing.
"Thank you," I say finally. "That means something."
"We were cruel," Oakley adds. "I was cruel. I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway."
"Why?" I ask, because I need to understand. "Why target me specifically?"
Corvus answers, his voice clinical but not cold. "Initially? Because you were competition. A scholarship student threatening the established hierarchy. But then..."
"Then you became an obsession," Dorian finishes. "The more you fought back, the more we wanted to break you. And the more we wanted you."
"That's fucked up," I point out, whisking the eggs harder than necessary.
"Profoundly," Dorian agrees. "And we can't undo it. Can't take back the months of psychological warfare, the fear we made you live with, the way we tried to break you down to nothing. But we can try to do better. If you'll let us."
I plate the eggs, add the bacon I managed to save, and carry everything to the island. We eat in silence for a while. Then I set down my fork.
"I need Robbie safe," I say. "He was expelled because of me. Because he helped me, gave me suppressants, tried to protect me from you. And you destroyed him for it."
"Yes," Corvus says simply. "We did."
"So fix it." I lean forward. "Get him back into school. Clear his record. Give him his future back."
"That's extensive," Corvus says, but he's already thinking. "The expulsion would require manipulation of administrative records, strategic pressure on key decision-makers, calling in significant favors—"
"I don't care how hard it is," I interrupt. "I care that you do it. That you prove you can fix what you break."
"And Stephanie?" Oakley asks quietly.
"She abandoned me." The words still hurt. "When things got bad, when I needed her most, she chose her own safety over our friendship."
"But you want us to make sure she's safe anyway," Dorian says, understanding in his voice.
"I want you to make sure she CAN come back if she wants to. I want her to know that being my friend won't destroy her life. That you won't punish her for choosing me."
"Done," Dorian says immediately. "Both of them. Safe. Protected. We'll make it clear that anyone who helped you is off-limits."
"And Robbie gets back into school," I press.
Corvus nods slowly. "It will take time. Resources. But yes. I can make it happen."
"How long?"
"If I prioritize it completely?" He's already calculating. "Forty-eight hours. Maybe less if I call in the right favors immediately."
"Then you have twenty-four hours." I take a sip of coffee, watching his eyes widen slightly. "Prove you can do the impossible, Corvus. Prove that when it matters, you don't just strategize—you execute."
"Twenty-four hours is—"
"What you have." I hold his gaze. "Starting now."
The challenge hangs in the air, but there's no hostility in it. Just a clear boundary, a specific demand, a way for them to show they're serious about being better.
"We'll prove it," Dorian promises. "Whatever it takes."
After breakfast, Dorian takes me outside.
The lake house grounds are beautiful—sprawling lawn leading down to clear water, surrounded by trees that provide privacy. The lake itself is calm, reflecting the morning sky.
"It's gorgeous," I breathe, walking down to the dock.
"My family's had this place for generations." Dorian follows, hands in his pockets. "I used to come here as a kid. Before everything got complicated."
"What was it like? Before?"
He's quiet for a moment, staring out at the water. "Easier. Simpler. My brother and I would swim all day. My parents actually liked each other back then."
"Your brother?" I glance at him. "You've never mentioned him."
"He was disowned." Dorian's jaw tightens. "Fell in love with an Omega who wasn't approved by the family. They eloped. My parents cut him off completely."
"That's awful."
"It is." He turns to me. "My mother warned me not to make the same mistake. But I think my brother made the right choice. He chose love over money. Over family approval. Over everything."
"Is that what you're doing?" I ask. "Choosing me over your family?"
"If I have to." His eyes meet mine. "I don't want to lose you, Vespera. I don't want to go back to who I was before. Even if it means losing everything else."
The confession steals my breath. This is Dorian—golden boy, Alpha heir, the one who had everything—saying he'd give it all up.
"You might not have to lose everything," I say carefully. "But things do have to change."
"I know." He steps closer. "Can I... can I touch you?"
The question is so tentative, so unlike the demanding Alpha who pinned me down days ago, that I can't help but smile.
"Yes."
He pulls me into his arms, gentle and careful, like I might break. I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, and let myself feel safe.
"Thank you," he murmurs. "For giving us a chance."
"Don't make me regret it."
"I won't. I promise."
We spend the afternoon at the lake. We end up in the water—swimming and floating and just existing together.
It's normal. Blissfully, wonderfully normal.
Oakley swims up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. "This is nice."
"It is." I lean back against him. "I didn't think we could have this."
"Have what?"
"Peace. Quiet. Just being together without all the drama."
"We can have this," he says. "If you want it. If you let us keep trying."
I turn in his arms. "I want it. But I'm scared."
"Of us?"
"Of getting hurt again. Of trusting you and having you turn back into the people who tormented me."
"We won't." He brushes wet hair from my face. "I know that's not enough. I know we have to prove it. But I swear to you, Vespera, I will spend every day showing you that you can trust me."
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
He kisses me, soft and sweet, and it's nothing like the desperate claiming kisses during heat. It's gentle. Reverent. Real.
When we surface, Dorian and Corvus are watching from the dock, identical expressions of longing on their faces.
"Come in!" I call to them. "The water's perfect!"
Dorian grins and dives in. Corvus follows more carefully, but he comes.
We spend hours in the lake. Playing. Laughing. Splashing each other like kids. Dorian attempts an elaborate dive that ends in a spectacular belly flop, and Corvus actually laughs—a real laugh, surprised out of him. Oakley holds me up while I float on my back, staring at the clouds.
It's the most normal I've felt in months, and I hold onto it desperately.
As the sun starts to set, we make our way back to the house, wrapped in towels, still laughing.
"I'm hungry," I announce. "And if you three try to cook again, I'm calling for pizza."
"Pizza sounds perfect," Oakley agrees.
We end up on the huge couch in the living room, pizza boxes spread across the coffee table, a movie playing that none of us are really watching.
I'm tucked between Dorian and Oakley, my feet in Corvus's lap. His hands are absently massaging them, and it feels impossibly domestic.
"This is what I want," I say quietly. "This. Not the drama. Not the warfare. Just... this."
"Then this is what we'll give you," Dorian promises.
"Every day," Oakley adds.
Corvus's hands still on my feet. "We can be this. If you let us."
"I'm letting you," I say. "I'm choosing this. But you have to keep choosing it too. Every day. Even when it's hard."
"We will," they promise, almost in unison.
And lying there, surrounded by them, full of pizza and lake water and something that might actually be happiness, I let myself believe them.
For tonight, at least, we can have peace.
Tomorrow, we'll figure out the rest.