Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Daphne
The afternoon crawled by with excruciating slowness.
After lunch with Viola—where she'd talked me down from at least seven different panic spirals—I'd driven home and immediately wanted to text Oliver that I couldn't make it.
That I'd come down with something. That my truck wouldn't start.
Any excuse that would let me retreat to safety.
Instead, I forced myself through my normal routine. Checked the garden even though everything was fine, watered plants that didn't need watering. Reorganized the greenhouse for the third time this week. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from spinning out completely.
By four o'clock, I couldn't avoid it anymore. I needed to get ready.
I stood in my bathroom, staring at the shower like it was an enemy to be conquered.
This was ridiculous. I'd showered thousands of times.
But today it felt significant, weighted with meaning.
I was washing off the dirt and sweat of my normal life to prepare for.
.. what? A potential new life? A chance at something I'd convinced myself I didn't want?
The water was too hot at first, scalding against my skin, and I adjusted it with shaking hands.
Steam filled the small bathroom, carrying the scent of my soap—unscented, practical, the same kind I'd been using for years.
As I washed my hair, I found myself wishing I had something nicer.
Something that smelled like flowers or fruit or whatever it was that other women used to make themselves appealing.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. They've already met you. They know what you smell like. If they wanted someone who smelled like a perfume counter, they wouldn't have asked you to dinner.
But Trinity's words kept echoing: They don't want some antisocial little omega who plays in gardens.
I scrubbed harder, as if I could wash away the doubt along with the dirt.
By the time I stepped out, my skin was pink from the heat and probably from scrubbing too hard.
I wrapped myself in a towel and stared at my reflection in the fogged mirror.
Brown hair with light blond streaks hanging in wet tangles.
Dirt under my nails that soap couldn't quite reach.
The faint scar on my collarbone from a childhood accident I barely remembered.
This was me. No artifice, no pretense. Just Daphne, who grew things and kept to herself and was apparently terrifying herself over dinner with four men who'd shown her nothing but patience.
I dried off and looked at the new outfit hung on the back of my door, the sage green shirt and dark jeans looking impossibly nice compared to my usual wardrobe.
Beside it, the brown leather boots sat waiting.
My hair took longer than expected. It had grown past my shoulders over the years, easier to just braid it back than worry about styling.
But tonight felt like it required more effort.
I combed through the tangles, wincing at the knots, and debated what to do with it.
Braided felt too utilitarian. Down felt too vulnerable. After ten minutes of internal debate, I settled on leaving it down but tucking one side behind my ear. Simple. Not trying too hard. Still me.
The clock on my nightstand read four forty-seven. Just over an hour until I needed to leave.
I pulled on the new jeans, and the difference from my work pairs was immediately apparent.
These actually fit properly, hugging my hips and legs without being tight or uncomfortable.
The fabric was soft, broken in somehow despite being new.
I could move in these, could breathe in them.
That helped. I threaded the cognac belt through the loops, then stood in front of my full-length mirror—the one I normally avoided—and took in the full effect.
I looked... nice. Not trying to be someone I wasn't, but definitely a more polished version of myself. The sage green brought out the green flecks in my eyes that I usually didn't notice. The jeans made my legs look longer. The belt gave the whole outfit structure without feeling restrictive.
"Okay," I whispered at my reflection. "You can do this. It's just dinner."
Just dinner with four Alphas who wanted to court me. Four men who'd somehow slipped past my walls despite my best efforts to keep everyone out. Four people who made me feel things I'd convinced myself I was better off without.
My phone buzzed on the dresser.
Viola: How are you doing? Need a pep talk? I'm available for emergency phone calls until five forty-five.
I smiled despite my nerves, typing back: I'm getting dressed. Trying not to panic.
Her response was immediate: You looked amazing in that outfit. Remember that. And remember they already like you—they invited you over. Now stop spiraling and finish getting ready. You've got this.
I set the phone down and moved to my small jewelry box—a simple wooden thing Margaret had given me years ago.
Inside was the sum total of my accessories: a pair of small silver hoop earrings, a delicate silver chain with a tiny leaf pendant, and Margaret's wedding ring that I couldn't bring myself to wear but also couldn't bear to part with.
The earrings felt right. Simple, understated, but a little bit of effort.
I threaded them through my ears, then fastened the necklace.
The leaf pendant settled just above my collarbone, barely visible but there.
A small reminder that I was someone who grew things, who nurtured life, who had value beyond what anyone else decided.
The boots came last. I'd been worried they'd pinch or rub, but they felt like butter-soft leather against my feet and ankles. Comfortable enough to walk in, nice enough to look intentional. Perfect.
I checked the clock again: Five Twenty-Three.
Time to deal with Trinity's gift.
I'd left the box in the spare room, not wanting it anywhere near my daily life. Now I retrieved it, along with the photos Viola had taken. The pack needed to see this, needed to understand what they were potentially dealing with by being associated with me.
The dead plant still looked as malevolent as it had yesterday morning—blackened, withered, deliberately killed.
I wrapped it back in the tissue paper and sealed the box, then placed it and the printed photos in a canvas bag.
Not exactly the kind of thing you brought to a first dinner, but necessary.
My stomach churned with anxiety as I looked around my cabin.
Everything was in order—dishes done, surfaces clean, nothing that required my immediate attention.
No excuse to stay home. I grabbed my keys, my phone, and the canvas bag, then stood by the door for a long moment.
This was it. The moment where I either walked out the door and take another step forward, or I text Oliver with some excuse and retreat back into my comfortable, lonely safety.
One step at a time, everyone kept saying.
So I took one step. Then another. Out the door, down the porch steps, to my truck. Each movement felt both monumental and mundane. By the time I was sitting in the driver's seat with the engine running, I was shaking slightly, adrenaline and anxiety mixing in my veins.
The drive to the pack's property took less than three minutes—close enough that I could probably walk it if I ever wanted to, though the thought of being that accessible made my anxiety spike.
As I turned down their gravel drive, I could see the farmhouse lit from within, warm golden light spilling from the windows into the early evening dusk.
It looked welcoming. Like the kind of place where people gathered and belonged, but didn't have to be alone if they didn't want to be.
I parked beside what I now recognized as Levi's truck, Garrett's blue one, and Micah's darker vehicle.
Oliver's was probably in the garage or around back.
Four trucks for four Alphas, and now my old pickup joined them like it had any right to be here.
For a moment, I just sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to breathe through the anxiety pressing against my ribs.
Through the kitchen window, I could see movement—someone passing by, the light shifting.
They were in there, probably making final preparations, maybe feeling their own nerves about tonight.
That thought helped somehow. The idea that I wasn't the only one who might be nervous, who might be hoping this went well, who might be taking a risk by being here.
I climbed out of the truck before I could talk myself into leaving.
The evening air was cool and carried the scent of pine and something cooking—meat on a grill, herbs, the warmth of fresh bread.
My stomach reminded me I'd barely eaten all day, too anxious to manage more than a few bites of the sandwich Viola had insisted I order.
The gravel crunched under my boots as I walked toward the porch, each step feeling both too fast and too slow. I could hear voices now, low and masculine, mixed with occasional laughter. Pack sounds. Home sounds. The kind of casual, comfortable interaction I'd denied myself for five years.
I climbed the porch steps, the canvas bag with Trinity's box feeling heavier with each step. This wasn't exactly romantic dinner conversation—showing them evidence of harassment and threats. But they needed to know. Especially if Trinity was escalating.
My hand hovered over the doorbell for a moment. I could still leave. Could still send a text apologizing for the short notice and drive home to my safe, solitary cabin.
Instead, I pressed the button.
The doorbell chimed inside—a warm, welcoming sound—and immediately the voices stopped. I heard footsteps approaching, multiple sets, and my heart rate kicked up another notch. The door swung open, and Oliver stood there, his blue eyes brightening when he saw me.