Chapter 13
Viral Complications
~LUCA~
Numbers don't lie. People do. Feelings do.
But spreadsheets? Spreadsheets are honest.
The ranch office smells like old leather and horse feed, October light filtering through windows that haven't been properly cleaned since the Clinton administration.
I've been staring at the same financial projection for twenty minutes, but the numbers keep rearranging themselves into hazel eyes and flour-dusted hands.
Focus, Maddox. The rescued horses don't care about your emotional crisis.
The spreadsheet glares back at me, demanding attention. Feed costs up twelve percent. Vet bills are holding steady. Donation revenue is increasing thanks to the fire department partnership. Everything organized, color-coded, exactly how I need the world to be—predictable, manageable, contained.
Unlike the way my chest tightens every time I catch vanilla and cinnamon on the wind from across town.
Stop. She's not yours to think about.
"LUCA! HOLY SHIT, LUCA!"
The office door explodes open, and my twin brother barrels in like a golden retriever who's discovered cocaine. His phone waves in the air like a flag of surrender or possibly victory—with Levi, it's hard to tell.
"We agreed on knocking," I say, not looking up from my spreadsheet. "It's a simple concept. Knuckles hit wood. Sound occurs. Permission is granted or denied."
"Fuck knocking, we're viral!"
We're what now?
"Unless we've developed a revolutionary cow disease, I doubt we're—"
"Not the ranch, asshole. Us! Well, me, and Hazel, but also you by association, and now the whole town's losing their minds and—just look!"
He shoves his phone in my face with enough enthusiasm to nearly break my nose. On the screen, a video plays. Shaky footage from the haunted house last night, focusing on the witch's bakery station.
On Hazel and Levi.
Oh.
The video quality is shit, but the content is clear. Levi feeding Hazel a cookie, her laughing with her head thrown back, their bodies angled toward each other like magnets finding north. The chemistry is so obvious it might as well have subtitles.
"Look at the views," Levi says, bouncing on his heels. "Fifty thousand! In twelve hours! We're TikTok famous!"
"TikTok fame isn't real fame."
"All fame is real fame in the digital age, grandpa."
I take his phone, needing to see for myself. The comments are... extensive.
OMG the way he looks at her!!! #OakridgeAlphas is my new obsession brO IS DOWN BAD The sexual tension could power a small city Small town romance is ALIVE #BakerAndHerBeaus forever
The hashtags multiply like rabbits with commitment issues. #SmallTownRomance. #AlphaGoals. #GetYouAManWhoLooksAtYouLikeThat.
"There's more," Levi says, swiping. "Someone made a compilation."
A compilation. Of course there is.
The new video shows multiple moments—Rowan catching Hazel at the pumpkin patch, me fixing her door (how did they even get that footage?), Levi with the flowers, all set to what I think is Taylor Swift but could be any woman singing about feelings.
"We're a ship," Levi announces proudly.
"We're a what?"
"A ship. A relationship that people root for. Well, technically we're a poly ship, which is more progressive—"
"Stop saying ship."
"Ship ship ship."
"I will put you down like a sick horse."
"You love me too much."
He's not wrong, which is annoying.
I watch the video again. Then again. The way Hazel laughs, uninhibited and bright. The softness in Levi's eyes that I haven't seen since... ever. The careful way he doesn't crowd her space even while feeding her.
Something hot and possessive uncurls in my chest.
Mine, my hindbrain growls.
Not yours, logic reminds me. Not anyone's. Not yet.
My phone buzzes. Rowan calling.
"Have you seen it?" His voice is tight through the speaker.
"Currently watching Levi have a social media aneurysm about it."
"I'm celebrating!" Levi protests. "This is what celebration looks like!"
"The whole town's going insane," Rowan continues. "Dottie James has started a newsletter. A NEWSLETTER. About us. She's calling it 'Alpha Watch.'"
"Jesus Christ."
"There's a betting pool at the diner. Odds on who Hazel picks. You're currently the dark horse at 5-to-1."
"What are your odds?"
"Even money. Levi's the favorite at 2-to-1."
"I'm the people's champion!" Levi crows.
I want to throw something at him, but he's across the room and I'm comfortable in my chair.
"This changes things," I say carefully. "Everyone's assuming we're... something. That she's our omega."
"Are we?" Rowan asks. "A pack?"
The question hangs heavy. We've been dancing around this for weeks, three friends who happen to want the same woman, pretending it's casual, pretending we haven't each imagined claiming her, keeping her, making her ours.
"We're not a traditional pack," I say finally. "We don't have an Alpha hierarchy. No one's in charge."
"But we all want her." Rowan's statement, not a question.
"Yes."
"And she maybe wants us."
"Unclear, but data suggests possibility."
"Data," Levi snorts. "Just say she eye-fucks all of us and move on."
"Eloquent as always."
"I'm a poet of truth."
Through the phone, Rowan sighs. "We need to talk. In person. All three of us."
"Tonight," I agree. "After she closes the bakery."
"Why after—"
"Because I'm going to see her. We all are, separately probably. And we need to know where we stand before some other pack sees this video and decides to make a move."
The thought of another pack, other Alphas circling her, touching her, claiming her—
I crack my neck, trying to release the sudden tension.
"Agreed," Rowan says. "Midnight? Your place?"
"Bring beer."
"Bring good beer," Levi adds. "Not that IPA shit you pretend to like."
"All beer is shit," I mutter, but they're already hanging up and planning, respectively.
I stare at my abandoned spreadsheet, but the numbers have lost their comfort.
All I can think about is the way Hazel looked in that video—happy, relaxed, glowing.
The way she looked in my arms that first day when she almost fell through her broken door.
The way she smells like Christmas morning and bad decisions.
Do something about it.
I close the laptop, decision made. If we're doing this—really doing this, courting her properly—then I need to step up. No more fixing doors in the dark and disappearing. No more watching from the sidelines while my brother feeds her cookies and Rowan saves her from falling.
Research first. I pull up my phone, typing quickly.
Omega wellness needs Scent-calming techniques for anxious omegas Post-traumatic omega care How to court an omega without being a possessive asshole
That last one might be too specific, but Google's seen worse.
The results are overwhelming. Articles about nesting materials, scent compatibility, proper courtship gifts that don't appear threatening. Forums full of omegas discussing what makes them feel safe versus claimed.
One thread catches my eye: "Small gestures that made me feel seen."
He brought me tea exactly how I like it without me telling him Fixed things around my house without making a big deal about it Scent-calming candles that didn't overwhelm my space Remembered my favorite author and brought me their new book Never assumed, always asked
Scent-calming candles. I can do that.
Araminta Vale's shop is only two towns over. Sells handmade, omega-specific products that don't trigger sensitivities. I've driven past it a hundred times, never having a reason to go in.
Until now.
I grab my keys, then pause. Levi's still in my office, now lying dramatically across my couch like he's posing for a Renaissance painting about suffering.
"I'm going out," I tell him.
"Where?"
"Errands."
"Bullshit. You're going to see her."
"I'm going to Araminta Vale's, then maybe to see her."
He sits up, interested. "The fancy omega shop? Why?"
"Candles."
"Since when do you buy candles?"
"Since now."
"Luca." His voice goes serious, the playful mask dropping. "We need to talk about this. About her. About us."
"Tonight. After."
"I mean it. We can't just all pursue her without—"
"Without what? Rules? Agreements? A documented understanding of acceptable parameters?"
"Without hurting each other," he says quietly.
The words settle between us, heavy with years of shared everything. We're twins, but more than that. Best friends, business partners, the only family each other has since our parents died. We've shared everything—toys, cars, clothes, secrets.
But never a woman. Never like this.
"I won't compete with you," I say carefully.
"I won't compete with you either." He stands, crosses to me. "But I'm not stepping aside. I can't. She's—"
"I know."
"Do you? Because I've never felt anything like this. Like my chest is too small and too big at the same time. Like I could run for miles or sleep for days as long as she's there when I stop. Is that insane?"
"Yes. But I understand it."
Because I do. Because I feel it too, just quieter, deeper, less sunshine and more moonlight but just as consuming.
"Her choice," Levi says firmly. "Whatever happens, whoever she picks, if she picks any of us—her choice."
"Agreed."
"And we don't fuck up our friendship over it."
"We won't."
"Promise me, Luca. Promise me that no matter what, we're brothers first."
I look at him, really look. Past the golden boy exterior to the fear underneath. He's terrified—not of losing Hazel, but of losing us. The partnership we've built, the life we've created from the ashes of our parents' death.
"Brothers first," I promise. "Always."
He nods, tension releasing from his shoulders. Then his grin returns, sharp and competitive.
"But I'm still going to court the fuck out of her."
"Get in line."
"Make me."
"Later. After I buy candles like some kind of Pinterest-addicted suburban mom."
"The fact that you know what Pinterest is concerns me."
"The fact that you don't understand market research concerns me more."