Chapter 7
SEVEN
Dex
I'd been awake since an ungodly hour, running perimeter checks on the property like I'd done every morning since we'd arrived.
Old habits died hard. Even though Cedar Falls was objectively safe. Low crime rate, friendly neighbors, the kind of small town where everyone knew everyone. But my training didn't care about statistics. It cared about preparation. About being ready for anything.
About protecting what mattered.
And right now, what mattered most was sleeping in a bedroom upstairs, probably already awake and working despite the early hour.
Michelle.
Our omega.
Who still didn't fully believe she was ours, but who'd jumped on camera last night to protect Lucas when trolls attacked. Who'd broken her own carefully maintained professional boundaries because her pack instinct had overridden her fear.
Progress. That was definitely progress.
I finished checking the barn, structurally sound, good security, no concerns—and headed back toward the house. The sun was just starting to paint the sky, and I could see lights on in the kitchen.
Someone else was awake.
I found Bill at the stove, making coffee and what looked like his breakfast burrito prep.
"Morning, Dex," he said without turning around. "Coffee's fresh. Mugs in the cabinet above the machine."
"Thanks." I poured a cup, black, no sugar, and leaned against the counter. "You're up early."
"Restaurant habits. Never really left." He cracked eggs into a bowl with practiced efficiency. "Plus, Janet has a honey-do list a mile long. Figured I'd get a head start before she wakes up and adds more items."
I smiled slightly. "What's on the list?"
"Christmas lights on the Douglas fir. That's the big one. Been putting it off because it's a two-person job and Josh is useless on a ladder." He glanced at me. "You any good with heights?"
"I can handle heights."
"Perfect. After breakfast, you and I can tackle it. Michelle usually helps, but she's been busy with you boys." His tone was knowing but not judgmental. "Speaking of which, how's it going? The whole... situation?"
The whole fated-pack-bond-with-your-manager situation, he meant.
"Complicated," I admitted. "Michelle's scared of losing her business. We're trying to be patient."
"But it's hard," Bill finished. "Being patient when every instinct says claim and protect and keep."
"Yeah."
"Janet and I weren't fated mates," Bill said, transferring eggs to the pan. "We chose each other after her first husband died. Took us two years of friendship before either of us was ready for more. But the waiting was worth it."
"Michelle's worth waiting for," I agreed.
"She is. But she's also stubborn and scared and convinced she has to do everything alone." He looked at me directly. "Don't let her convince you she doesn't need you. She does. She just doesn't know how to accept that yet."
Before I could respond, footsteps on the stairs announced Michelle's arrival.
She appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair in a messy bun, wearing pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt, no makeup. She looked soft and sleepy and absolutely perfect.
Then she saw me, and her entire demeanor shifted—guard slamming up, professional mask settling into place.
"Morning," she said, heading straight for the coffee maker.
"Morning," I replied. "Sleep well?"
"Fine." But the dark circles under her eyes said otherwise.
Bill and I exchanged glances. She'd been up late, probably working, probably overthinking last night's stream incident.
"Breakfast burritos in twenty minutes," Bill announced. "Michelle, you're eating. No arguments."
"I wasn't going to argue."
"Yes, you were. You always argue about breakfast." He pointed his spatula at her. "And you're helping me with the Douglas fir lights today."
"Bill, I have work—"
"Which can wait two hours for Christmas decorations. It's tradition. You always help with the lights."
Michelle opened her mouth to argue, then apparently thought better of it. "Fine. After breakfast. But only for two hours."
"Perfect. Dex is helping too."
Michelle's eyes cut to me, something flashing in her expression before she could hide it. "Oh. Great. That's... great."
She was nervous. About being alone with me, probably. About the casual intimacy of working together on a family tradition.
Good. Nervous meant she was feeling something.
"I promise not to fall off the ladder," I said.
"That's not…I wasn't…" She took a breath. "I'm sure you're very competent with ladders."
"Former military. I've dealt with worse than a Douglas fir."
"Right. Of course." She buried her face in her coffee mug.
Bill was trying very hard not to smile.
Two hours later, I was on a twelve-foot ladder, stringing lights through the upper branches of the biggest Douglas fir I'd ever seen, while Michelle stood at the base feeding me light strands and looking stressed.
"You're too high," she said for the third time.
"The top branches need lights too."
"Bill usually stops at the ten-foot mark."
"Bill isn't here." He'd been conveniently called away by Janet twenty minutes ago, leaving Michelle and me alone. Very subtle, Janet. "And you mentioned wanting the whole tree lit this year."
"I mentioned it would look nice. I didn't mean you had to risk your life."
"I'm not risking my life. I'm standing on a ladder."
"A tall ladder. That's old. On potentially uneven ground."
I looked down at her. She was gripping the ladder with both hands, knuckles white, her scent sharp with anxiety.
She was worried. About me. About my safety.
My alpha purred with satisfaction.
"Michelle," I said gently. "I'm fine. I've done this kind of thing a hundred times."
"In combat situations, probably. Not decorating trees."
"Is there a difference?"
"YES."
Despite the tension, I smiled. "Hand me the next strand?"
She did, but reluctantly, watching me clip lights with the focus of someone expecting disaster.
We worked in silence for a few minutes, and I let myself enjoy this. Being useful. Doing something tangible for her family. Existing in Michelle's space while she slowly relaxed below me.
"Why do you watch me like that?" she asked suddenly.
"Like what?"
"Like you're... cataloging everything. Assessing threats. Being protective." She looked up at me. "You've been doing it since we arrived. Positioning yourself between me and potential problems. Checking exits. Running security protocols."
"Old habits."
"It's more than that."
I secured another light strand before responding. "You're my omega. Protecting you is instinct."
"I'm your manager," she corrected automatically.
"You're both." I moved to a higher branch, felt the ladder shift slightly. "And my alpha doesn't care about professional boundaries when it comes to keeping you safe."
"Safe from what? We're in Cedar Falls. The biggest threat here is Mrs. Henderson's aggressive holiday baking competition."
"Doesn't matter. My instinct doesn't evaluate threat levels. It just protects."
I heard her sigh below me. "Dex, you can't protect me from everything."
"Watch me."
"That's not—" She stopped. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
I reached for the highest branch I could manage, stretching to clip the light strand. The ladder shifted under me, just slightly, but enough that my weight distribution was wrong.
Time slowed down.
I felt the ladder tipping, calculated the fall trajectory, identified the best landing strategy to minimize injury. Twelve feet wasn't that high. I could take it. Roll on impact, protect my head, probably just bruised ribs—
"DEX!"
Michelle's shriek of terror cut through my tactical assessment.
I hit the ground hard, managing to roll but still feeling the impact jar through my shoulder and ribs. Not terrible. Could have been worse.
But before I could even assess the damage properly, Michelle was there.
She dropped to her knees beside me, hands hovering like she wanted to touch but didn't know where, her scent flooding with distress so sharp it made my alpha whine.
"Oh god, oh god, are you okay? Dex, answer me. Are you hurt? Should I call 911? Don't move, you shouldn't move—"
"Michelle." I sat up carefully, testing my range of motion. Shoulder would be sore, ribs bruised but not broken. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine, you fell twelve feet!"
"I've fallen farther."
"That's not reassuring!" Her hands were shaking as they ran over my shoulders, my arms, checking for injuries with the desperate need to confirm I was okay. "You could have broken your neck. You could have—"
She stopped, her breath catching, and I realized she was crying.
Michelle was crying. Because I'd fallen. Because she'd been scared for me.
"Hey," I said softly, catching her hands in mine. "I'm okay. See? Nothing broken. Just a bruised ego for falling off a ladder like an amateur."
"This isn't funny," she choked out. "You scared me. I thought, when you fell, I thought—"
"You thought I was hurt."
"Yes!" She glared at me through tears. "And you're just sitting there like it's nothing, like you didn't just fall from a ladder, like you're not—"
"Like I'm not what?"
"Like you're not important to me!" The words burst out of her, raw and unfiltered. "You're important, okay? All of you are important. And watching you fall and not being able to catch you was—"
She broke off, burying her face in her hands.
My heart clenched. This was what she'd been fighting, this caring, this connection, this pack instinct that said my pain was her pain, my safety was her concern.
"Michelle," I said gently, pulling her hands away from her face. "Look at me."
She did, eyes red and scared and so full of emotion it took my breath away.
"I'm okay," I said firmly. "A little bruised, but okay. You don't have to be scared."
"I can't help it. When you fell, when I saw you hit the ground—" Her voice cracked. "I've already lost one person I cared about. I can't lose anyone else."
And there it was. The real fear underneath all her professional boundaries and carefully maintained distance.