Chapter 31 – TROY
CHAPTER 31
TROY
T he French press hisses as I push it down. Rich coffee fills Braxley's overpriced kitchen. It's barely dawn, but I've been up for hours. Sleep doesn't come easy when your pack's omega is having her first heat with one of your brothers down the hall.
Not that I'm bitching.
Much.
I pour coffee into Braxley's handmade ceramic mugs that cost more than most people's rent. The kitchen island's already covered in breakfast prep. Pancake batter waiting, bacon crisping in the oven, fresh fruit I chopped while trying not to think about Cole and Bella together.
Cooking's always been my therapy. My rich parents expected me to follow tradition—business school, then taking over some slice of the family empire. Instead, I enlisted, breaking their hearts and my trust fund in one move. Before all that, there was an old cook named Eleanor who let me hide in our kitchen during my parents' fancy parties. She taught me that cooking is one of the purest ways to show people you care.
I'm mixing cinnamon into the batter when Roman appears, looking like he got as much sleep as I did—which is none. His normally perfect posture sags just a fraction, hair slightly mussed. For Roman, that's practically falling apart.
"Tell me that's coffee I smell," he says, voice rough with exhaustion.
I slide a mug toward him. "Black as your tactical gear."
He takes a long sip, eyes closing briefly. "Thanks."
"Food'll be ready soon. Go wake the others?" I ask, pouring batter onto the griddle.
Roman nods, taking another gulp before disappearing down the hallway. My focus shifts to the pancakes, trying to keep my mind on the rhythm of cooking rather than wondering how Bella's doing after her first night with one of us. With Cole, of all people.
Not that I'm jealous.
Okay, maybe a little.
But mostly, I'm worried. Cole hasn't been with anyone since his ex-fiancee took one look at his new face and walked out on him. He's been carrying that rejection like an anchor, dragging him deeper every day. And now Bella—our miracle omega, our impossible match—chose him first.
Yeah. Lots of shit on my mind today.
The pancake bubbles, ready to flip. I slide the spatula underneath, revealing a perfect golden-brown surface. At least I can control this. Can't control much else lately.
Liam barrels in next, looking like he fought his demons all night. His massive frame fills the kitchen as he beelines for the coffee.
"Morning, sunshine," I say cheerfully, just to watch him scowl.
"Fuck off," he grumbles, no heat behind it. He downs half his coffee in one go. "Didn't sleep for shite."
"None of us did." I flip another pancake. "Hard to sleep when?—"
"When our omega is getting knotted by Cole down the hall?" Liam finishes bluntly. "That'll keep a man awake."
I wince at his phrasing but can't argue. "At least they found some happiness, yeah?"
Liam's expression softens slightly. "Mm. And Cole deserves it more than most." He peers over my shoulder at the growing stack. "Need help with anything?"
"Fruit's already cut. Bacon's in the oven. Maybe set the table?" I suggest, grateful for the distraction.
Savva glides in next, looking irritatingly put-together despite the sleepless night. His long auburn hair tied back neatly, already dressed in dark jeans and a fitted henley. Only the slight darkness under his eyes betrays his exhaustion.
"Morning," he says, voice neutral as ever.
A coffee mug slides his way without comment, knowing he'll appreciate caffeine more than conversation this early. Savva nods in thanks, moving to help Liam with the table. They work in silence, a practiced dance from years of shared space.
By the time Roman returns, I've laid out a feast. A stack of cinnamon pancakes, crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and enough coffee to fuel a small army. Or five sleep-deprived alphas, which demands roughly the same amount of caffeine.
"Any sign of them?" I ask as Roman sits at the island.
He shakes his head. "They'll come out when they're ready."
The unsaid hangs in the air. None of us mentions that we can all smell them—Bella's sweet omega scent kicked up by her partial heat, mixed with Cole's pine and stone. The combination hits hard, even through closed doors, even with the scent blockers we're all wearing.
The final pancake joins the already impressive stack as I survey my handiwork with satisfaction. Not bad for a guy running on zero sleep and enough alpha hormones to power through a crisis.
"Think you made enough?" Liam asks, eyeing the spread as he sets down the last plate.
"For five alphas and an omega coming off her first night with one of us?" A chuckle escapes me, though it sounds strained even to my ears. "This might be a light snack."
Roman shoots me a look that clearly says behave, but I catch the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Even our fearless leader isn't immune to the current flowing through the penthouse this morning.
"You're thinking too loud," Savva murmurs, appearing at my elbow with that freaky stealth of his.
"Yeah, well, not all of us can be zen masters." I slide a plate of bacon his way. "Some of us are just mere mortals with actual feelings."
His eyebrow arches slightly. "And you believe I don't have feelings about this situation?"
That pulls me up short. Savva's always been the most controlled of us, emotions locked down tighter than a military installation. But there's something in his eyes now—a flash of vulnerability so brief I almost think I imagined it.
"Sorry," I mutter, feeling like an ass. "Of course you do. We all do."
He accepts my apology with a slight nod, moving to refill his coffee cup. That's the thing about our pack—we don't need long, drawn-out conversations to understand each other. Years of having each other's backs through hell and worse forges a connection that goes beyond words.
Liam stands by the window, staring out at the LA skyline like it might hold answers to questions none of us want to ask. His massive frame is wound up, evident in the rigid set of his shoulders and the restless movement of his hands. The tattoos on his arms seem to shift with each motion, almost alive in the morning light.
"You good?" I ask, knowing full well he's not.
"Peachy," he grunts, not bothering to turn. "Just grand."
No point pushing. We're all barely holding it together, walking the edge between happiness for Cole and Bella and our own primal instincts screaming at us to claim what's ours. Because that's the ugly truth, isn't it? As much as we want to be evolved and respectful, there's a part of every alpha—even in a bonded pack like ours—that's possessive as hell.
"They're coming," Roman says suddenly, his head lifting like a predator catching a scent.
And just like that, every one of us goes still. Alpha instincts on high alert, bodies braced for fight or flight, though there's nothing to fight and nowhere to flee. Just the impending reality of facing our omega and our packmate after they've spent the night together.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway has me gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to leave fingerprints in the marble. Breathe, I remind myself, recalling those meditation techniques Savva tried to teach me that I usually ignore.
When they finally appear in the doorway, the sight hits me with physical force.
Bella stands there in Cole's oversized shirt that drapes to mid-thigh. Her hair is damp and tousled, her skin practically glowing, her green eyes bright with a contentment I've never seen in them before. Cole towers behind her, one hand resting lightly at the small of her back, the gesture unmistakably protective.
And their scents…
Even with powerful blockers, there's no missing it. They're covered in each other's essence, the notes blended in that unmistakable way after a night spent wrapped around each other.
Okay. Maybe I am a little jealous.
"Good morning," Bella says, a slight blush coloring her cheeks as she takes in our frozen expressions.
My humor defense kicks in first, years of using it as a shield taking over. "Morning, sunshine. Hope you brought your appetite. I've been stress cooking since dawn."
Her smile widens, some of the stiffness leaving her shoulders. "It smells amazing, Troy."
I grin like a dumbass. "Thanks."
Cole hovers protectively as Bella moves toward the island, his mismatched eyes scanning each of us like he's assessing threats. The rational part of me knows he's just being cautious—this whole situation is new territory for all of us—but the alpha in me bristles slightly at the implication.
Roman, ever the peacekeeper, steps forward. "You both look well-rested," he says, voice carefully neutral as he pulls out a stool for Bella.
I catch the flash of amusement in her eyes at his diplomatic phrasing. She knows exactly what we're all thinking, what we all heard last night through these ridiculously thin walls of Braxley's designer penthouse. But she accepts the seat with grace, murmuring a quiet "thank you" that somehow feels more intimate than it should.
"Coffee?" The pot tilts toward a fresh mug before she can answer.
"Please," she says, then hesitates. "Actually, maybe tea instead? I'm still feeling a little... warm."
And that's when I notice it. The subtle flush to her skin that has nothing to do with embarrassment, the slight dilation of her pupils, the way she shifts in her seat like she can't get comfortable. The suppressants are starting to wear off. Not drastically, not yet, but enough that every alpha in the room can sense it.
Just taking one alpha's knot won't be enough. Not unless she wants to load up on meds that might make her feel even worse.
Savva smoothly takes over, preparing her tea with the same precision he applies to everything. "Chamomile," he says, placing the cup in front of her. "It should help stabilize your temperature."
"Thanks," she murmurs, wrapping her hands around the mug like she's trying to ground herself.
Cole settles into the seat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touch. Good. He hasn't gone back to being closed off in his emotional fortress, then.
"Pancakes?" A stack slides onto a plate. "They're cinnamon. My specialty."
"They smell incredible," Bella says, her genuine appreciation warming part of me that has nothing to do with alpha instincts and everything to do with the simple pleasure of feeding someone I care about.
For a few blessed minutes, we fall into an almost normal rhythm. Plates are passed, coffee is poured, food is served. The conversation stays light—comments about the weather, compliments on the food, gentle teasing that skirts around the elephant in the room without directly acknowledging it.
It's Liam who eventually breaks the fragile peace, his voice rough as he addresses Bella directly. "How are you feeling this morning, lass? Truly?"
The question is loaded, but Bella doesn't shy away from it, meeting his gaze steadily as she sets down her fork. "I'm okay," she says easily. "Better than okay, actually. For the first time in a long time, I feel... real."
The simple honesty of her answer bleeds some of the tension out of the air. A knot I didn't know I was carrying loosens in my chest.
"Good," I say, meaning it. "That's really good, Bella."
She smiles at me, a genuine smile that reaches her eyes, and suddenly I don't care at all that she chose Cole first. I'm just grateful she's here, that she's happy, that she's looking at all of us like we're valuable instead of dangerous.
"These really are amazing pancakes," she says, changing the subject with gentle deliberateness. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
Her question offers an easy shift in conversation. Soon I'm sharing stories about Eleanor, the cook who practically raised me while my parents were busy being corporate royalty. Watching Bella's eyes light up as I describe the elaborate French techniques Eleanor taught me in secret feels surprisingly natural.
"So there I am, ten years old, covered head to toe in flour because I got overexcited with the mixer, and my mother walks in with the board of directors," I say, gesturing wildly. "Eleanor takes one look at me, then at my mother's horrified face, and says 'I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Shepherd, but your son has shown such an aptitude for patisserie that I couldn't possibly discourage his natural talents.'"
Bella laughs. "What did your mother do?"
"Fired Eleanor on the spot," I say with a shrug. "Rehired her the next day when she realized none of the other staff could make her precious Earl Grey exactly the way she liked it. But I was banned from the kitchen for a month."
"Did that stop you?"
"Please," I say with a wink. "Eleanor and I just shifted our lessons to midnight. Made the whole thing feel like a spy operation, which was way cooler for a kid my age."
The story earns me another laugh, this one accompanied by a sympathetic shake of her head. "Your parents sound like a piece of work."
"They're a case," I agree, keeping my tone deliberately light. "Dynasty builders, my folks. Everything's about the legacy, the family name, the bottom line. Didn't take too kindly to their heir apparent running off to play soldier instead of taking his rightful place at Shepherd Industries."
I don't miss the understanding softening her eyes. "I know about family expectations," she says quietly.
And she would, wouldn't she? Pushed into an engagement with Braxley by parents more concerned with financial security than their daughter's happiness. We're not so different, really, though she's handled it with a lot more grace than I ever did.
"Well, their loss is our gain," Liam says, raising his coffee mug in a mock toast. "Can't imagine this lot surviving without your cooking."
"Or my winning personality," I add, grinning.
"Mostly the cooking," Savva deadpans, earning a chorus of chuckles that eases the last of the stiffness.
We settle into comfortable conversation after that, swapping stories and sharing food like we've been doing this forever. It feels right, having Bella here among us, her laughter mingling with ours, her eyes bright with genuine interest as we reveal bits and pieces of ourselves. For the first time since we arrived at this overpriced penthouse, the pack feels complete.
Of course, that's when Braxley decides to make his grand entrance.
His timing is impeccable, I'll give him that. Just when we're all relaxed and happy, the living embodiment of everything wrong with trust fund alphas saunters into the kitchen, dressed in designer loungewear like some kind of asshole prince.
He pulls up short when he spots us, his expression cycling through surprise, irritation, and a carefully constructed indifference so fake it practically squeaks. His eyes land on Bella —specifically on her bare legs and oversized shirt—and narrow dangerously.
"Well, isn't this cozy," he mutters, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "The help having a little breakfast party. How quaint."
Cole's growl is low and immediate. "Thought I told you to stay in your room."
The threat in his voice is an unmistakable alpha warning that makes even my hackles rise. Braxley takes an instinctive step back, fear flashing across his face before he masks it with a tight smile.
"Last time I checked, this was my penthouse," he says, though there's a slight tremor in his voice that betrays his bravado. "I can go wherever I please."
"Braxley," Bella says, her tone firm but not unkind. "We need to talk."
He tears his gaze away from Cole with visible effort, focusing on Bella instead. A calculating look crosses his face. "Yes, I suppose we do."
Here we fuckin' go.