Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Levi
The taillights of Daphne's truck disappeared around the bend, swallowed by the darkness of the tree-lined road, and I stood there on the porch long after the rumble of her engine faded.
The night air was thick with the scent of pine and the lingering sweetness of Mrs. Chen's apple pie, but underneath it all, I could still catch traces of her—that delicate blend of honeysuckle and fresh earth that had wrapped around my senses the moment she'd walked through our door.
Oliver's hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and grounding. "She'll be okay."
"I know." But the words felt hollow, even to my own ears. Because the truth was, I didn't know. None of us did. Trinity's dead plant and that vicious note—
Some things aren’t meant to grow. Know your place.
—played on repeat in my mind, each word a shard of glass I wanted to shield Daphne from.
"Come inside," Garrett said from the doorway, his voice carrying that steady calm that made him the rock of our pack. "We need to talk. All of us."
I took one last look at the empty road, at the darkness that had swallowed Daphne whole, and turned back toward the warmth of the house.
The kitchen still smelled like dinner—the rosemary from my focaccia, the char of perfectly grilled steaks, the sweetness of wine and candlelight.
The atmosphere had shifted, the earlier ease of our meal replaced by something heavier, more urgent.
Micah sat at the table, his green eyes sharp and calculating in a way that told me he was already three steps ahead, planning contingencies and strategies.
The dead plant sat in front of him like evidence at a crime scene—which, I supposed, it was.
Oliver took his usual position at the head of the table, his presence filling the room the way it always did, commanding without demanding.
Garrett settled into the chair beside me, and I found myself grateful for his proximity. Sometimes, when the protective instincts ran too hot, having him nearby helped me remember to breathe.
"So," Oliver began, his voice low and measured. "Trinity."
The name landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples of tension through all of us.
I'd dealt with Trinity before—we all had.
The woman was a hurricane of entitlement and desperation, convinced that persistence would eventually wear down our resistance.
But this... this was different. This was targeted. Malicious.
"She's escalating," Micah said, stating what we all knew.
His finger traced the edge of the note through the plastic bag we'd sealed it in.
"The confrontation at the market was public humiliation, designed to isolate Daphne socially.
The package is private intimidation—psychological. Classic stalker behavior."
"She's not a stalker," I heard myself say, though the words tasted wrong even as I spoke them. "She's just—"
"What?" Garrett cut in, an edge to his voice I rarely heard. "Persistent? Dedicated? Levi, she sent a dead plant to our potential omega. A plant that looked like it had been deliberately killed. That's not persistence. That's a threat."
Our omega. The words settled into my chest like warm honey, spreading through my veins.
Because that's what Daphne was, wasn't she?
Whether she'd fully accepted it or not, whether the formal courtship had been declared or not—she was ours.
Had been from the moment I'd seen her at the store, all prickly defenses and hidden vulnerability.
"You're right," I conceded, running a hand through my hair. "I just... I don't want to believe someone could be this vindictive. Over what? Rejection?"
"Trinity doesn't see it as rejection," Oliver said quietly, his grey eyes distant, like he was seeing something the rest of us couldn't. "She sees it as a mistake.
Something to be corrected. In her mind, we belong together—we just haven't realized it yet.
Daphne isn't a person to her. She's an obstacle. "
A chill crawled down my spine despite the warmth of the kitchen.
I'd encountered people like that before, back in Chicago.
People so convinced of their own narrative that reality became malleable, something to be bent and twisted until it fit their expectations.
My brother's ex-girlfriend had been like that—charming on the surface, utterly unhinged beneath.
The memory surfaced unbidden: Marcus at his lowest, trembling on the bathroom floor while she pounded on the door, screaming that she loved him, that she'd never let him go.
The restraining order had taken months to secure, and even then, she'd found ways around it.
Notes left on his car. Messages sent through mutual friends.
A constant, insidious presence that had nearly broken him completely.
I wouldn't let that happen to Daphne.
"What's our play?" I asked, my voice coming out harder than I'd intended. "We can't just wait around for Trinity to escalate further. And we can't let Daphne face this alone."
Oliver pulled out his phone, already typing.
"I’ll message in the family work chat. My Dad and Garret’s, have contacts around town…
especially law enforcement… Morrison's a good man—he'll take this seriously.
I'll send him the photos of the plant and the note first thing tomorrow, get a paper trail started. "
"We should also document every interaction," Garrett added, his contractor's mind already building the framework of our defense. "Every time Trinity approaches Daphne, every encounter at the market, every comment made. Build a case before we need one."
Micah nodded slowly, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"Agreed. But we need to be careful about how we handle this with Daphne.
She's already overwhelmed—being courted by four Alphas, opening up after five years of isolation, dealing with Trinity's harassment on top of it all. We can't smother her."
"I'm not suggesting we smother her," I said, trying to keep the frustration from my voice.
"But we can't just stand by and do nothing either.
Did you see her face when the plant was pulled out?
The way her hands shook? She was terrified, Micah.
Terrified and trying so damn hard to pretend she wasn't."
The table fell silent. Because I was right, and they knew it.
Daphne had spent the entire evening with her walls up, trying to participate in our dinner, trying to let us in, all while carrying the weight of Trinity's threats on her shoulders.
She'd been brave—so incredibly brave—but I'd seen the fear lurking beneath the surface.
The way her eyes had darted to the windows when the wind picked up outside.
The slight flinch when Oliver had raised his voice during a joke.
She'd been hurt before. Abandoned. Left behind by people who should have protected her. And now, just as she was starting to trust again, starting to believe that maybe she deserved something more than her isolated existence, Trinity was trying to tear it all apart.
The fury that rose in my chest was unlike anything I'd felt in years.
Not since Marcus had called me at three in the morning, his voice barely a whisper, telling me he didn't want to live anymore.
That helpless, desperate rage—the need to protect someone who was being systematically destroyed by another person's selfishness.
"I'll bake," I said abruptly. Three sets of eyes turned to me, confusion evident in their expressions.
"Tomorrow," I clarified, pushing back from the table. "I'll bake. Sourdough, cinnamon rolls, whatever. Something I can bring to her. Not as a pack thing, not as a courting gesture, just... just as me. Levi. Checking on a neighbor. Bringing fresh bread because that's what neighbors do."
Garrett's expression softened, understanding dawning in his blue eyes. "Give her normalcy."
"Exactly." I stood, needing to move, to do something with the restless energy thrumming through my veins.
"She's been living alone for five years.
Self-sufficient. Independent. We can't just swoop in and take over—that would undo everything she's built, everything she's proud of.
But we can be present. Available. Show her that being part of a pack doesn't mean losing herself. "
Oliver studied me for a long moment, something warm flickering in his grey eyes. "You understand her."
"I understand walls," I corrected quietly. "I understand building them so high that you forget there's even a world outside. Marcus taught me that. And breaking them down... it takes time. Patience. Small moments of connection that don't demand anything in return."
The mention of my brother seemed to shift something in the room.
They all knew about Marcus—about the addiction, the depression, the long road to recovery that was still ongoing.
I didn't talk about it often, but they understood.
They'd seen me fly back to Chicago every few months, seen me on the phone at odd hours, heard my half of conversations that ranged from encouraging to terrified.
"I should get started," I said, already moving toward the kitchen trying to get the memories out of my mind. "Good sourdough takes time. If I want to bring her something tomorrow afternoon, I need to begin the preferment tonight."
The familiar ritual of baking settled over me like a warm blanket. I pulled out my starter—Mabel, I called her, a name that made the others roll their eyes every time—and checked her consistency. She was bubbly and active, the yeasty scent rising to meet me like a greeting from an old friend.
As I measured flour and water, my mind wandered to Daphne.
To the way she'd looked sitting at our table, her green eyes wide and uncertain but somehow hopeful.
The outfit she'd worn—those dark jeans and the soft green top that brought out the color of her eyes—had been a statement, whether she realized it or not. She'd made an effort. She'd tried.
God, she was trying so hard.
"You're thinking about her." Garrett appeared beside me, leaning against the counter with an amused smile.
"Aren't we all?" I didn't bother denying it. The others had already drifted off to make plans. Garrett and I had always worked best together in quiet moments like this, sharing space without needing to fill it with words.
"She fits," Garrett said after a while, watching me knead the dough with practiced movements. "I didn't expect it to feel so natural, but... she fits."
"Like a missing piece." I shaped the dough into a ball, covering it with a damp towel to proof overnight. "The way she talked about her garden, about building something from nothing... I understood that. "
Garrett was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant.
"When I first saw the Henderson property, before we bought it, it was such a mess.
Overgrown, falling apart, forgotten. Everyone told me it was a lost cause.
But I looked at it and saw... potential.
A foundation worth building on." He turned to meet my eyes.
"That's what I see in Daphne. Not someone broken.
Someone with an incredible foundation who's been waiting for the right people to help her build. "
I nodded slowly, understanding exactly what he meant. Daphne wasn't a project to be fixed or a problem to be solved. She was a person—complex, wounded, fiercely independent—who deserved to be loved for exactly who she was, walls and all.
"We have to protect her," I said quietly. "From Trinity, from her own doubts, from everyone who's ever made her feel like she wasn't enough. I know we can't fix her past, can't undo the damage that's already been done. But we can be different. We can prove that not everyone leaves."
"That's the plan." Garrett clapped a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it reassuring. "One day at a time. One small gesture at a time. Until she believes it."
Long after Garrett headed to bed, I stayed in the kitchen, watching the dough slowly rise beneath its cotton shroud. The house was silent around me, only the distant hooting of an owl and the settling creaks of old wood breaking the stillness.
I pulled out my phone and stared at Daphne's contact for a long moment.
Oliver had texted her earlier, and she'd confirmed she'd made it home safely.
But I wanted... I didn't know what I wanted.
To hear her voice. To know she was okay.
To tell her that tomorrow, when I showed up with fresh bread, it wasn't just about the bread.
In the end, I typed out a simple message:
Tonight was really nice. Thank you for trusting us enough to come. Sleep well, Daphne.
I hit send before I could overthink it, then set the phone face-down on the counter. The reply came faster than I expected, the buzz making my heart stutter.
Thank you for making me feel welcome. And for the focaccia—it was incredible. Goodnight, Levi.
A smile spread across my face, wide and probably ridiculous. Such simple words, but they meant everything. She'd complimented my baking. She'd said goodnight, a small intimacy that felt like a door cracking open.
Tomorrow, I'd bring her fresh sourdough, still warm from the oven. I'd check on her, make sure Trinity hadn't tried anything else. I'd keep showing up, keep proving that some people stayed.
Because Daphne was worth it. Worth every early morning spent kneading dough, every patient conversation, every moment of waiting for her to trust us. She was worth it all, and somehow, against all odds, she was choosing to give us a chance.
I wasn't about to waste it.
The kitchen light cast warm shadows on the walls as I finally turned off the stove and headed toward my room. I fell asleep with the scent of yeast on my hands and the image of Daphne's tentative smile burned into my memory, the promise of tomorrow's bread already taking shape in my dreams.