Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Daphne
Ididn't go back outside after Garrett left. Instead, I stood at my kitchen window, watching the empty road long after the dust from his truck had settled. My coffee had gone completely cold, but I kept holding the mug anyway, needing something solid to anchor me.
No pressure, he'd said. I'll take what you're willing to give.
The words circled in my mind like birds looking for a place to land. They were kind words, patient words. The kind of words that made you want to believe in them.
That was the dangerous part.
I set the mug down harder than necessary and turned away from the window.
I had work to do—seedlings to water, weeds to pull, a dozen small tasks that would keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.
But as I moved through my afternoon routine, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted.
That by letting Garrett onto my property, by showing him my garden and talking to him about soil and spacing and the careful system I'd built, I'd opened a door I'd meant to keep firmly closed.
The greenhouse was warm when I stepped inside, almost stifling.
I propped the door open and knelt beside the tomato seedlings, checking each one for signs of stress.
My hands moved automatically through the familiar motions, but my thoughts drifted backward, to places I usually refused to let them go.
People always want something, Garrett. Always.
I'd meant those words when I said them. I'd learned them the hard way, starting from the very beginning.
My mother had been beautiful—I remembered that much.
Dark hair like mine, eyes that could shift from warm to cold in an instant.
She'd been an Omega too, though she'd wielded it like a weapon rather than accepting it as just another part of who she was.
I'd been too young to understand the implications then, but the memories were still there, fragments of conversations I'd overheard, arguments through thin walls.
"He'll come around," she'd say to herself, to me, to anyone who would listen. "Once he sees how perfect we are together, he'll realize."
But he—the Alpha whose name I'd never learned, whose face I couldn't remember—never came around. He'd made it clear from the start that whatever had happened between them was a mistake, nothing more. My existence hadn't changed his mind. If anything, it had made him retreat faster.
I moved to the next tray of seedlings, my jaw tight. I didn't like thinking about this. I'd spent years building walls specifically so I wouldn't have to.
My mother had tried, in her own way. She'd kept me fed, clothed, a roof over my head.
But there had always been an undercurrent of resentment, of disappointment that her plan hadn't worked.
I'd been her attempt to tie herself to someone who didn't want to be tied, and when that failed, I became a living reminder of her rejection.
"You look just like him," she'd told me once, when I was maybe six years old. I hadn't known if it was meant as a compliment or an accusation.
By seven, I'd figured out it was an accusation.
I still remembered the day she'd taken me to the orphanage. She'd dressed me in my nicest clothes—a hand-me-down dress that was too big, shoes that pinched my toes. She'd combed my hair until it shone and told me we were going on an adventure.
"They'll take good care of you," she'd said, kneeling down to look me in the eye. Her own eyes had been dry, matter-of-fact. "Better than I can. You understand that, don't you?"
I'd nodded, even though I hadn't understood at all. I'd thought we were visiting, that she'd come back for me. It wasn't until she walked out the door without looking back that reality had set in.
I stood abruptly, needing to move, to shake off the memories clinging to me like cobwebs. The greenhouse suddenly felt too small, too confined. I stepped outside into the afternoon sun, gulping in fresh air.
The orphanage years had been... survivable.
That was the best word for it. I'd learned quickly to keep my head down, to not get attached, to understand that everyone was temporary.
The other kids came and went, some adopted into happy families, others aging out into uncertain futures.
I'd fallen somewhere in the middle—too old to be anyone's first choice for adoption, too young to simply leave.
Until Margaret and Tom.
I walked to the edge of my garden, where the cultivated rows gave way to wild grass and the tree line beyond. This was where I felt most grounded, standing at the border between the world I'd created and the wilderness I couldn't control.
Margaret and Tom had been in their sixties when they'd chosen me. Most couples looking to adopt wanted babies, toddlers at the oldest. But they'd walked into that orphanage looking specifically for an older child, someone who needed a chance but might otherwise be overlooked.
"We've got a lot of love left to give," Margaret had told me during our first meeting. "And a farm that could use another pair of hands, if you're interested."
I'd been interested. Desperately so, though I'd tried not to show it. At seventeen, I'd been months away from aging out of the system with nowhere to go and no real plan. The Evens had offered me something I'd never had: stability. A home that might actually last.
For four years, it had. They'd taught me everything—how to read the soil, how to coax life from seeds, how to preserve the harvest for winter months.
They'd been patient with my walls, my reluctance to trust, my tendency to assume every kindness came with a price.
Slowly, carefully, they'd proven me wrong.
And then they'd died.
A car accident, sudden and senseless. One moment I'd had a family, people who cared about me, a place where I belonged. The next, I was twenty-one and alone again, standing in a farmhouse that felt too empty, too quiet.
The farm had gone to their biological children—adults I'd met maybe twice, who lived in cities far away and had no interest in rural life. They'd sold it within six months. I'd used my small inheritance to buy this property, this cabin, this chance to build something that couldn't be taken away.
That had been five years ago.
I turned back and faced my garden, my sanctuary, my proof that I could survive alone. That I didn't need anyone's help or pity or promises that might evaporate the moment things got difficult.
But Garrett's words kept echoing: What if someone just wanted to help because they respected what you were doing? No expectations, no strings.
"There are always strings," I said aloud to the empty air. "Always."
My mother had wanted strings—wanted to trap an Alpha into staying through me, through obligation. When that failed, when the strings didn't hold, she'd cut me loose rather than figure out how to exist without them.
The orphanage had been full of strings—behavior requirements, rules, the constant awareness that you were only there because nobody else wanted you. Even kindness came with the string of gratitude, of being properly appreciative.
Margaret and Tom had been different, but even they'd had strings, hadn't they? They'd needed help on the farm, needed someone to pass their knowledge to. Their love had been real, I believed that. But it had also been practical. Purposeful.
And when they'd died, the strings had been cut again, leaving me adrift.
So I've learned to live without strings. To build a life where I controlled everything, where nobody could surprise me with abandonment because, I’d made sure, nobody was close enough to leave. It was lonely sometimes—I wasn't so stubborn that I couldn't admit that—but it was safe. Predictable.
Until a blue truck had rumbled down my road, carrying an Alpha with an easy smile and patient eyes who seemed to see more than I wanted him to.
I headed back inside as the afternoon sun began its descent, casting long shadows across my garden. My hands were dirty from the greenhouse work, my knees grass-stained from kneeling in the soil. I felt grounded again, more myself.
But as I washed up at the kitchen sink, I caught sight of the empty coffee mug Garrett had brought, still sitting on my counter. I'd meant to return it to him before he left, but somehow I'd forgotten.
Or maybe I'd held onto it on purpose.
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. It was just a travel mug, nothing special. But keeping it meant I had a reason to see him again, beyond our arrangement about the apple trees. Keeping it meant acknowledging that some part of me—however small, however reluctant—wanted that connection.
"Friday afternoon," I reminded myself. "For the trees. That's all."
But as I set the mug aside instead of washing it immediately, as I found myself already thinking about what I'd say when I saw him again, I knew I was lying to myself.
The walls I'd built were still there, still strong. But Garrett had found a crack, however small. And despite every instinct telling me to seal it up, to protect myself, to remember all the times I'd been left behind—I was curious about what might grow in that crack if I let in just a little light.
Just a little.
Not enough to be dangerous. Not enough to hurt.
At least, that's what I told myself as I prepared dinner in the gathering dusk, as I moved through my evening routine, as I finally climbed into bed with a book I couldn't seem to focus on.
But deep down, in a place I usually kept locked tight, I knew the truth: it was already dangerous. It already hurt. Because wanting something, even just a little bit, meant giving it the power to disappoint you.
And I'd been disappointed enough for one lifetime.
I turned off the light and stared at the ceiling, listening to the familiar creaks of my cabin settling, the distant call of an owl in the woods. This was my life. My choice. My carefully constructed peace.
I just hoped I was strong enough to protect it when Garrett and his pack inevitably wanted more than I could give.
Because they would. They always did.
That's what the strings were for.