Chapter 10 – BELLA
CHAPTER 10
BELLA
B raxley's penthouse feels like a gilded cage, all sleek surfaces and ostentatious luxury that does nothing to ease the knot of anxiety in my stomach. I wander from room to room, trying to find a quiet corner where I can breathe without Braxley's incessant chatter and demands grating on my last nerve.
But there's no escape. His voice echoes off the marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows, a constant reminder of the life I've somehow stumbled into.
"Bella, baby! Where are you? We need to make sure everything is perfect before the bodyguards arrive!"
I cringe, ducking into the guest bathroom and locking the door behind me. It's ridiculous, hiding from my own fiancé in the apartment we now have to share after the assassination attempt, but I need just a moment of peace. Just one goddamn minute where I don't have to paste on a smile and pretend that this is the life I've always dreamed of.
It was bad enough when I moved to Los Angeles a few months ago at the insistence of our families. But at least then, I had my own apartment. It was nicer than any apartment I'd ever seen before, but according to the Worthingtons, it was "humble." They wanted me to stay "down to earth" to make the Cinderella story more enticing to the masses.
Feels less like Cinderella and more like Beauty and the Beast. Only my fairy tale ending is going to be a million times worse.
Because I'm stuck with Gaston.
I stare at my reflection in the ornate mirror, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me. My hair is perfectly styled, my makeup flawless—all courtesy of the glam squad Braxley insists I use. I almost look like I belong in this world of wealth and excess.
But my eyes give me away. They're tired, wary, a silent cry for help that no one seems to hear.
How did I end up here?
The memory of my conversation with Skye at the hospital feels like a lifetime ago, even though it's only been a few days. Her words echo in my mind, a lifeline I'm too afraid to grab onto.
"You don't owe that mannequin anything, Bella. You don't have to go through with this."
But I do owe him.
Or rather, I owe my family.
The debts that will be erased, the opportunities this marriage will bring them. It's a weight around my neck, dragging me down into a life I never wanted.
Even though I was clearly distressed by the change in scenery, they didn’t hide their excitement that Braxley’s parents insisted I move into the penthouse after the assassination attempt. Didn’t hide their excitement that I’d be one step closer to being a married omega with a rich alpha husband, one step closer to sending some of the excess their way.
A sharp knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts.
"Are you in there? Come on, we need to document everything before the bodyguards get here. It'll make great content!"
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. Just a few more minutes, I tell myself. Just a few more minutes of sanity before I have to face him again.
"I'll be right out," I call, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. "Just… freshening up."
"Well, hurry up! They'll be here any minute, and I want to capture their first impressions for my followers!"
Of course he does. Everything in Braxley's life is content, a carefully curated feed of hashtag moments and aspirational lifestyle shots. Even a traumatic event like an assassination attempt becomes fodder for his insatiable need for attention.
With a sigh, I unlock the door and step out into the hallway. Braxley is there, phone in hand, already recording.
"There she is, folks! My beautiful fiancée, always keeping me waiting," he says with a wink to the camera that only shows the side of his face that doesn't have a gauze bandage covering the area above his perfectly manicured eyebrow. Pretty sure he doesn't even need a bandage, but God forbid someone sees he has two stitches. "Bella, darling, tell the people how excited you are to meet our new security team!"
I force a smile, hating how fake it feels on my face. "Oh, very excited," I lie smoothly. "I'm sure they'll help us feel much safer."
Braxley beams, clearly pleased with my performance. "Isn't she just the sweetest? Now, let's give everyone a tour of the penthouse before our guests arrive!"
He grabs my hand, pulling me along as he narrates every detail of our surroundings for his virtual audience. The Italian marble countertops in the kitchen, the custom-built walk-in closet that's bigger than my old apartment, the "content creation room" with its professional lighting and backdrops.
It's all so... empty.
Soulless.
A showroom masquerading as a home.
I tune out Braxley's chatter, nodding and smiling at appropriate intervals as my mind wanders. I wonder what these bodyguards will be like. Probably more musclebound brutes like the last batch, all crew cuts and monosyllabic grunts. But maybe they'll provide some buffer between me and Braxley's constant need for attention.
The sound of the doorbell cuts through Braxley's monologue, and his face lights up with an excitement that makes my stomach churn.
"They're here!" he squeals, grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the entrance. "Quick, how do I look? Is my hair okay?"
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "You look fine, Braxley. Perfect, as always."
He preens at the compliment, adjusting his already impeccable hair in the hallway mirror. "You're right, of course. Alright, let's go meet our new protectors!"
As Braxley flings open the door, phone at the ready to capture the moment, I hang back slightly. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't... this.
Five men stand in the doorway, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. They're all impossibly tall, well over six feet, with the kind of muscular builds that speak of years of hard training rather than hours in a gym. But it's not just their physical presence that's overwhelming. There's an aura of danger around them, barely contained power simmering just beneath the surface.
These aren't the cookie-cutter security guards I was expecting. These men look like they've walked straight out of a war zone.
Braxley, oblivious to the sudden tension in the air, thrusts his phone forward, nearly smacking it into the chest of the alpha in front. "Welcome to Casa de Worthington!" he chirps, his voice grating in the sudden silence. "I'm Braxley, and this is my lovely fiancée, Bella. Say hi to the camera, boys!"
The alpha, tall with bronzed skin, messy dark hair, and piercing golden-hazel eyes, doesn't even glance at the phone. His gaze sweeps over us, assessing, calculating. When his eyes meet mine, I feel a strange jolt. Judging from the way he freezes when he sees me, he feels it, too.
Whatever it is, it makes my heart race.
The alpha tears his gaze away from me, the muscles in his neck standing out in stark relief. "Mr. Worthington," he says, his voice deep and controlled. "I'm Roman De Luca, head of the Vanguard Pack. We're here to ensure your safety, not to be part of your social media presence."
Braxley's smile falters for a moment, but he rallies quickly. "Oh, come on! My followers are dying to meet you guys. Just a quick intro for the 'Gram, yeah?"
He pushes forward, shoving the phone into the face of the alpha standing slightly behind Roman. Then Braxley turns as white as the alpha’s choppy hair. “Oh, holy fuck, your face?—“
And that's when things go sideways.
It happens so fast I almost miss it. There's a blur of movement and the phone goes flying, clattering across the marble floor as Braxley yelps in surprise.
"What the hell?" Braxley sputters, his face reddening with anger as he rushes to collect his phone, already moaning over a chip in the pearly edge. "Do you know how much that phone costs? It’s limited edition!"
I get my first glimpse at the alpha who knocked the phone away, but it's too quick for me to register anything other than the burn scars marring the right side of his face. They're partially hidden by the angle he's standing at and his stark white hair.
"We were hired to protect your ass, not make you happy," he growls, his voice low and gravelly.
Braxley puffs up, clearly about to launch into one of his trademark tantrums, but Roman smoothly steps between them.
"I apologize for the misunderstanding," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument even as he gives the scarred alpha a wary look. "Now, if you'll allow us inside, we can discuss the details of our arrangement."
I hold my breath, waiting for Braxley's inevitable explosion. But before he can open his mouth, another of the bodyguards—this one with a shock of light hair and an easy smile—steps forward.
"Troy Shepherd," he says, extending a hand to Braxley as if nothing out of the ordinary has just happened. "Vanguard Pack explosives expert. Nice to meet ya!"
When Braxley just stares at Troy's hand in shock, the big alpha waltzes past us into the penthouse, whistling appreciatively. "Damn, nice digs you got here. Is that a La Marzocco espresso machine? Sweet!"
But as the rest of the team files into the penthouse apartment, something strange happens.
Their eyes land on me, and they just... stop.
Stare.
Like they're looking at a ghost.
Their eyes bore into me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. I shift uncomfortably, fighting the urge to check if there's something on my face or if my dress has somehow come undone. But no, everything's in place. So why are they looking at me like... like that?
It's unnerving, the way their gazes seem to penetrate right through me. Like they can see every secret, every hidden thought I've ever had. I feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with the revealing dress Braxley insisted I wear.
The silence stretches, becoming almost unbearable. I open my mouth, not sure what I'm going to say, when Braxley's voice cuts through the quiet like a knife.
"Hello? Earth to muscle men! I know my fiancée is gorgeous, but try to contain yourselves, yeah?" He laughs, but there's an edge to it. Braxley doesn't like not being the center of attention.
His words seem to break whatever spell had fallen over the group. They blink, almost in unison, and I watch as masks of professionalism slide back into place. All except for the scarred alpha with the stark white hair, who continues to stare at me with an intensity that's both thrilling and terrifying.
Roman, the leader, clears his throat. "My apologies, Miss Emerson. We didn't mean to stare. It's just... you remind us of someone."
I nod, not quite believing him but grateful for the explanation all the same. "It's... it's fine. And please, call me Bella."
He inclines his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Bella, then."
There's something in the way he says my name, a warmth that sends a shiver down my spine. I push the feeling aside, reminding myself that these men are here to do a job. Nothing more.
The others begin to introduce themselves, each stepping forward in turn. The blonde one with the easy smile—Troy, I remember—winks at me as he shakes my hand. His grip is firm but gentle, and I can't help but notice the calluses on his palm. These aren't the hands of someone who's lived an easy life.
"Good to meet you, Bella," he says, his voice warm and friendly.
I can't help but smile at that. There's something disarming about Troy, a charm that puts me at ease despite the circumstances.
Next is a mountain of a man with intricate black-and-gray tattoos peeking out from under his collar and sleeves. His handshake is firm, bordering on too tight, but his eyes are kind.
"Liam Rourke," he says with a rich Irish accent. "At your service, lass."
The contrast between his intimidating appearance and the gentleness in his voice is striking. I find myself wondering about the stories behind those tattoos, the experiences that have shaped this man.
The fourth alpha steps forward with a grace that seems at odds with his imposing frame. He's strikingly handsome, with sharp features and long auburn hair that complements his dark bronze skin. It’s tied back in a neat ponytail, but a few strands are loose around his face. When he takes my hand, it's not to shake it but to bring it to his lips in an old-fashioned gesture that would seem ridiculous coming from anyone else.
"Savva Kaschak," he introduces himself, his voice smooth as silk. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bella."
I feel my cheeks heat at the formality of his greeting. There's something almost regal about Savva, like he'd be equally at home in a royal court as he is in this modern penthouse.
The last alpha, the one with the scars, doesn't step forward. He hangs back, his mismatched eyes—one a startling deep blue, the right a paler shade—never leaving my face. The right side of his face is heavily scarred, pulling his mouth into a permanent half-snarl. His white hair partially obscures the worst of the damage on that side, but it does little to soften his striking appearance.
I wait for him to introduce himself, but he remains silent. The others exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them.
Finally, Roman speaks up. “And that's Cole. He's not much for small talk.”
Cole gives a curt nod, but still says nothing. I offer him a soft smile and say, “Hi,” but he flinches like I’ve just shot at him.
Braxley, who's been uncharacteristically quiet during the introductions, suddenly claps his hands together. I jolt at the sound instinctively. Guess loud, sharp noises are a trigger now. "Well! Now that we all know each other, let's get down to business, shall we? I've got a video to film in an hour, and I need to know you boys can keep a low profile. Can't have you muscle-ing in on my shots, you know?"
I wince at his choice of words, but the alphas don't react. They're professionals, I remind myself. They've probably dealt with far worse than Braxley's casual rudeness.
As Braxley leads them further into the penthouse, chattering away about his filming schedule and social media presence, I hang back. I need a moment to collect myself, to process the whirlwind of emotions their arrival has stirred up.
That's when I notice it. A scent cutting through the mildly offensive mix of Braxley's expensive cologne and the equally expensive artificial scents he insists on pumping through the ventilation system. It's faint, barely there, but unmistakable. The usual warm, woodsy scent of alpha, but... different. Layered with something else. Something dangerous and strangely enticing.
Gunpowder. Smoke.
I breathe deeply, trying to separate the individual scents, but they blend together in a heady mix that makes my head spin. All except for one. Troy’s scent stands out, reminiscent of fireworks on a summer night. It's oddly comforting, a spark of joy in the midst of so much intensity.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. What am I doing, standing here sniffing the air like some lovesick teenager? These alphas are here to protect us, nothing more.
I trail behind the group as Braxley leads them on a tour of the penthouse, his voice echoing off the marble floors and floor- to-ceiling windows. He's in full showman mode now, gesturing grandly at each overpriced piece of furniture, each carefully curated art piece.
"And this," he announces, throwing open a set of double doors, "is my content creation studio. State of the art equipment, perfect lighting... everything an influencer needs to stay on top of his game."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The "studio" as Braxley calls it, is really just a room filled with ring lights, cameras, and an obscene number of mirrors. It's where he spends most of his time, crafting the perfect image of a life that bears little resemblance to reality.
The alphas take in the room with varying degrees of interest. Troy whistles, low and appreciative, but I can't tell if he's genuinely impressed or just being polite. Savva's eyebrows rise slightly, a look of mild amusement crossing his face. Liam and Cole remain impassive, while Roman's expression is unreadable.
"Impressive," Roman says, his tone neutral. "Now, if you don't mind, we'd like to discuss the security measures we'll be implementing."
Braxley waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, sure, sure. Knock yourselves out. Just remember, nothing too obtrusive. Can't have you guys ruining my aesthetic, you know?"
Braxley’s eyes land on Cole with a nervous grimace. I narrow my eyes in response, hoping Braxley can somehow hear my irritated thoughts even though I know that’s impossible and he’d clutch his pearls at my language.
Stop being such an asshole.
I watch as Roman's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He seems pretty good at hiding his reactions, but I'm starting to pick up on the little tells. The slight hardening of his eyes, the way his fingers flex at his sides. He's not used to clients like Braxley, that much is clear.
"Of course," Roman says smoothly. "We'll do our best to remain... unobtrusive. Now, about the recent incident?—"
"Oh, that?" Braxley interrupts, his voice suddenly high and brittle. “Ancient history, my friend. Probably just some crazed fan who was upset I didn’t respond when she slid into my DMs.” He makes a shimmying sliding motion with one hand on top of the other. “I’ll figure out who it was.”
I watch as the alphas exchange glances. They're not buying Braxley's nonchalant act any more than I am. He’s clearly still freaked out, and for once, he has a right to be. But they say nothing, letting him continue his grand tour.
As we move from room to room, I find my attention drifting. My eyes keep being drawn to the alphas, studying them when I think they're not looking. They move with a fluid grace that speaks of years of training, always positioning themselves strategically. Roman takes point, his eyes constantly scanning for potential threats. Liam and Troy flank the group, while Savva seems to float between positions, his keen gaze missing nothing.
And Cole is a shadow. Always there, but never quite part of the group. He moves silently, his scarred face a mask of concentration. More than once, I catch him looking at me, his mismatched eyes intense and unreadable.
It's during one of these moments that I realize something odd. Despite the alphas' imposing presence, their scents are still remarkably faint. In such close quarters, I should be overwhelmed by the mix of alpha pheromones. But instead, I have to concentrate to pick up even a hint of their unique blend of woodsy notes and gunpowder.
It's Troy's scent that stands out the most—that spark of summer fireworks cutting through the artificial smells of the penthouse. But even that is muted.
No wonder I’ve been getting headaches since moving in with Braxley. Then again, it’s also how I’ve managed to avoid going to bed with him. I lie and tell him the air is better in the living room, where I can sleep on the couch that’s still bigger and more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever had. Truthfully, it’s just as pungent as anywhere else in the penthouse. Sure, I got freaked out last night by the wide open space and ended up in a guest room with my alarm on my phone so I could get back to the couch before Braxley woke up, but it’s still better than my other options.
My musings are interrupted as we reach the final stop on Braxley's grand tour—the master bedroom. He throws open the doors with a flourish, revealing a space that's more showroom than bedroom. Everything is white and chrome, sleek and modern and utterly soulless.
"And this," Braxley announces, "is where the magic happens!"
I cringe internally at his words, hating the implication. The alphas' faces remain impassive, but I swear I see a flicker of disgust in Roman’s eyes. Or maybe it’s pity. I'm not sure, but it flashes there when he makes eye contact with me, and it's gone as quickly as it appeared.
What was that about?
"We'll need to implement additional security measures here," Roman says, all business. "Window reinforcements, panic buttons, possibly a safe room."
Braxley's face falls. "But... but that'll ruin the aesthetic! Do you know how long it took to get this room perfect?"
I watch as Roman takes a deep breath, clearly summoning every ounce of patience he possesses. "Mr. Worthington, I understand your concerns about maintaining your image. But our primary concern is your safety. Yours and Miss Emerson's."
At the mention of my name, all eyes turn to me. I feel a flush creeping up my neck under the weight of their collective gaze. "I... I think we should listen to them, Braxley," I say, my voice sounding small even to my own ears. "They're the experts, after all."
Braxley pouts, looking for all the world like a child who's been told he can't have dessert. "Fine," he huffs. "But I want final approval on everything. And it all better be removable. I can't have my followers thinking I live in Fort Knox."
Roman nods, a tight smile on his face. "Of course. We'll work with you to ensure everything meets your... aesthetic requirements."
As Braxley launches into a detailed description of his preferred color scheme and materials, I find myself drifting toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of Los Angeles spread out below us is breathtaking, the city lights twinkling like stars fallen to earth.
It's beautiful, in a distant sort of way. But standing here, looking down at a world I'm no longer part of, I've never felt more alone.
A presence at my side startles me out of my melancholy thoughts. I turn to find Cole standing there, looking out at the same view. He doesn't speak, doesn't even look at me, but somehow his silent presence is comforting. This side of his face is unscarred, save for a fresh-looking scratch on his cheek. Like the other Vanguard Pack alphas, Cole is relentlessly handsome. His features are sharp, almost beautiful. Like a fallen angel. His bone-white hair, falling in choppy layers that almost brush his broad shoulders, makes the comparison even more apt.
Is it white from shock? He can’t be beyond his late twenties at the most, and his eyebrows are darker with just a few white flecks. At least, the one I can see is. I think the other might be scarred over. What hell has this alpha been through?
We stand there for a moment, two outcasts in a world of glitz and glamor, watching the city below. I breathe deeply, catching a hint of his scent. Stone, with a hint of smoke and cool mountain air. It's subtle, barely there beneath all the scents Braxley pumps through the ventilation system, but it grounds me in a way I can't explain.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" I say softly, not really expecting a response.
To my surprise, Cole grunts, a low sound that might be agreement. When he speaks, his voice is rough, like gravel underfoot. "Looks can be deceiving."
Before I can respond, he's moving away, melting back into the shadows as if he was never there.
I'm left staring after him, a strange ache in my chest. In those few words, Cole managed to articulate everything I've been feeling since I entered this glittering, empty world.
Looks can be deceiving indeed.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of technical discussions and thinly veiled power struggles. Braxley insists on having his say in every decision, from the placement of security cameras to the type of locks on the doors. The alphas, to their credit, remain patient throughout, though I catch more than one exasperated glance exchanged between them.
As the night wears on, I find myself growing increasingly exhausted. It's not just physical tiredness, though that's certainly part of it. It's an emotional fatigue, born from months of playing a role I never wanted, of smiling and nodding and pretending this is the life I've always dreamed of.
Finally, mercifully, Roman calls an end to the discussions. "I think that's enough for tonight," he says, his voice brooking no argument. "We'll reconvene tomorrow to begin implementing the security measures we've agreed upon."
Braxley yawns dramatically, stretching his arms above his head. "Yes, yes, I suppose that's best. Beauty sleep and all that. You understand."
I watch as the alphas start to gather their things, exhaustion settling deep in my bones. The valet must have brought up their luggage while we were busy with Braxley's grand tour, because suddenly there are bags scattered around the living room. It's not much. Just a few pieces here and there. Savva seems to have the most, his luggage looking sleek and expensive. In contrast, Cole has nothing but a single, well-worn duffel bag.
As they busy themselves with their luggage, I move toward the cabinet where I keep my bedding. The familiar routine is almost comforting after the chaos of the day. I pull out my pillows and blankets, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the cold, modern aesthetic of the penthouse.
I can feel eyes on me as I make my way to the couch, arms full of bedding. When I look up, I'm met with five pairs of surprised eyes. Troy's eyebrows are practically in his hairline, his mouth slightly agape.
"Uh, Bella?" he says, his voice tinged with confusion. "What are you doing?"
I freeze, suddenly feeling like a child caught doing something wrong. "I... I'm getting ready for bed?"
The alphas exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them. It's Roman who speaks up, his voice carefully neutral. "On the couch?"
Before I can answer, Braxley's voice cuts through the tension. "Oh, right! I forgot to mention. Bella sleeps out here." He laughs, but it sounds forced, even to my ears. "It's a... trauma thing. You know how it is."
I wince at his words, hating the way he throws around "trauma" like it's just another quirky personality trait. Like it's something to be casually mentioned to strangers. But then again, these men aren't exactly strangers anymore, are they? They're going to be living with us, protecting us. They're bound to find out sooner or later.
And I don’t sleep out here because of trauma, but it’s easier to explain than the fact that I have no interest in Braxley trying to make a move on me all night.
Roman's eyes narrow slightly, his gaze moving from me to the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the couch. "You sleep here? By these windows?" His voice is calm, but I can hear the undercurrent of concern. "That's a significant security risk."
I clutch my blankets tighter, suddenly feeling defensive. "The back of the couch blocks the view," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "It's fine. Really. I like knowing I have escape routes out here."
I decide not to tell them I got freaked out last night and hid in the guest area they’re going to be using from now on.
Roman doesn't look convinced. Neither does Liam. The other alphas don’t seem sure what to think about it.
"I think she just doesn’t want to be in my bedroom," Braxley chimes in with an accusing smirk. Like they might tell me I don’t have a choice.
I freaking hope they don’t.
Annoyance flashes in Roman's eyes, but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “That’s her choice, no one else’s,” he replies smoothly.
I brace myself for Braxley's inevitable tantrum. He hates being contradicted, especially by people he considers beneath him. But to my surprise, he just shrugs. “Yeah, whatever. You said Savva and Cole are night owls anyway, right? They can keep watch.”
I glance at Savva and Cole, not sure what their reaction will be to being volunteered for night duty. Savva's expression is unreadable, but there's a slight tightening around Cole's eyes. Or maybe it's just a trick of the light, shadows playing across his scarred face.
“We’re alphas,” Roman says warily. “It isn’t typical for strange alphas to share a space with an omega. Especially not at night.”
“I don’t feel all that threatened by you guys,” says Braxley, preening.
The Vanguard Pack exchanges another look. It seems like they’re about to ask me if I mind and start off a whole conversation that has a strong likelihood of resulting in me getting stuck in Braxley’s master bedroom, but luckily, they keep whatever’s on their minds to themselves.
Braxley nods, already losing interest in the conversation. He turns to me, a practiced smile on his face. "Well, goodnight then, darling. Sweet dreams."
He leans in for a kiss, and I have to fight the urge to pull away. Instead, I turn my head slightly, letting his lips graze my cheek. Before he can react, I nuzzle into his neck, hoping he'll mistake my avoidance for affection.
It works. Braxley pulls back, looking pleased. "Mm, frisky tonight, are we?" he says with a wink that makes my skin crawl. "Save that energy for the honeymoon, baby."
I force a laugh, hating how fake it sounds to my own ears. "Goodnight, Braxley."
As he saunters off to the bedroom, I'm left standing there, still clutching my bedding like a shield. The alphas are pointedly not looking at me, busying themselves with their bags or studying the room's layout.
Roman glances up at me, and for a moment, I think he's going to say something. But then he turns away, disappearing down the hallway without a word.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my shoulders sagging under the weight of... everything.
"You okay there, lass?" Liam's surprisingly gentle voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. I look up to find him watching me, concern etched on his rugged features. For the first time, I notice there’s a blackletter tattoo on the left side of his head. I’d originally thought it was his hair, which is shorter on the sides than it is on top, where he’s styled it back and away from his face. I don’t get a chance to read it, though, unless I want to openly gawk at him.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, the lie slipping out with practiced ease. "Just tired."
Liam nods, but I can tell he doesn't believe me.
"Well, don't let us keep you up," Troy says, flashing me that easy smile of his. "We'll try to keep the noise down."
I nod gratefully, finally moving to set up my makeshift bed on the couch. As I arrange the pillows and blankets, I can hear the alphas moving around, speaking in low voices. They're probably discussing security protocols or watch rotations, but I tune it out.
Right now, all I want is to at least try to rest.