Chapter 34 – BELLA
CHAPTER 34
BELLA
T he SUV's tires crunch over gravel as we wind our way up the mountain road. Tall pines crowd close on either side, their branches scraping against the windows. We've been driving for what feels like hours, the scenery growing wilder and more remote with each passing mile. My body aches from sitting so long, but a thrum of excitement keeps me alert.
This is it. We're really doing this.
I steal a glance at Cole beside me. His face is impassive as ever, but I catch the way his eyes constantly scan our surroundings. Always vigilant, always on guard.
Roman's voice carries from the front seat. "We're approaching the property line. Savva, run a perimeter check."
"On it," Savva replies smoothly. He taps at a tablet, his elegant fingers flying over the screen. "No unauthorized vehicles or heat signatures detected within a five-mile radius."
I blink, impressed despite myself. "You can see that far?"
Savva's lips quirk into a small smile. "We have eyes everywhere, little dove. Satellites, drones, motion sensors... this mountain is more secure than most military installations."
"And infinitely more comfortable," Troy chimes in from the driver's seat. He catches my eye in the rearview mirror and winks. "Wait till you see the hot tub."
The idea of sinking into warm, bubbling water after the long journey sounds like heaven. But it also conjures images of wet, half-naked alphas that make my cheeks flush. I look away quickly, hoping no one notices.
The trees thin out as we round a final bend, revealing a sprawling log cabin nestled against the mountainside. It's larger than I expected, with a wraparound porch and huge windows that reflect the late afternoon sun. A small dock juts out into a crystal-clear lake that stretches toward distant, snow-capped peaks.
I've barely seen the place, but it already feels more like home than Braxley's sterile penthouse ever did.
Cole is out of the car before it fully stops, prowling the perimeter with predatory grace. Liam follows close behind, his massive frame dwarfing the SUV as he stretches.
"Clear," Cole grunts after a moment.
Roman nods, satisfied. "Alright, let's get everything inside. Troy, start on dinner. Savva, set up comms. Liam, run a full property check. Cole..." He pauses, his golden eyes flickering to me. "Help Bella get settled."
My heart skips a beat at that. Cole nods sharply, his mismatched eyes finding mine. There's heat there, banked but unmistakable. My body responds instinctively, a low throb of desire pulsing between my thighs.
Focus, Bella, I chide myself.
There will be plenty of time for... that... later.
Right now, I need to keep a clear head.
I follow the alphas up the porch steps, drinking in the sight of the cabin. It's beautiful in a rugged, understated way. The logs are weathered to a soft gray, and hanging baskets overflow with vibrant wildflowers. So different from the soulless modernity I've grown used to.
Roman opens the heavy wooden door, revealing an open living area bathed in golden light from the setting sun. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, flanked by built-in bookshelves crammed with well-worn paperbacks. Overstuffed leather couches and chairs form a cozy semicircle, folded throw blankets draped invitingly over their arms.
"Wow," I breathe, taking it all in. "This is..."
"Not what you expected?" Troy asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"It's perfect."
He gives a low chuckle. "Bedrooms are down that hall," he says, gesturing. "You can have your pick. Except the big one at the end—that's apparently for the pack leader. Although I'm sure he'd be open to sharing."
There’s no mistaking the teasing in Troy’s words and it’s clearly directed at Roman for some past scuffle between them.
Roman shoots him an irritated look. "Don't start." When he turns back to me, he's nothing but warm. "You can have any room."
I grin a little. "Noted."
As we move deeper into the cabin, I try to take in every detail. The wooden beams overhead are massive, crossing the vaulted ceiling like the ribs of some great beast. The floors are wide-plank hardwood, worn smooth by years of use and gleaming with a warm patina that only comes with age and care. Everything here feels substantial, built to last. Nothing like the trendy, disposable furnishings that filled the penthouse.
I step further into the main room, taking it all in. The kitchen opens to the right. Not the sleek, barely-used showpiece of Braxley's penthouse, but a warm, functional space with copper pots hanging from a rack and a massive island topped with butcher block. Troy immediately makes his way there, opening the refrigerator and cabinets with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where everything is.
"Anyone hungry?" he calls out, already pulling ingredients from the fridge. "I'm thinking comfort food for our first night. Baked mac and cheese with that smoked salmon I froze last time we were here?"
"You had me at mac and cheese," I say, wandering over to lean against the counter.
The windows along the back wall frame an incredible view of the mountains and lake. The sun hangs low now, coloring everything in warm, rich amber hues straight out of a Bob Ross painting. Happy little trees as far as the eye can see.
"Go explore," Troy says, nodding toward the hallway. "Cole can show you around while I get this started. All he does is lurk. Knows all the best spots."
Cole appears silently at my side with my luggage as if he'd been there all along, gesturing for me to follow him. I do, happily. Maybe he'll be less aloof if we get a few minutes alone together.
"All the rooms are similar," Cole says, opening the first door to reveal a cozy bedroom with a queen-sized bed and rustic furnishings. "Take your pick."
I peek into several rooms, each with its own character—different quilts, different views from the windows, but all sharing the same comfortable, lived-in feel. None of the rooms look like hotel suites or like they're just for display. They look like homes.
"This one," I decide when we reach the fourth door. The room faces the lake, with a huge window spanning the entire wall and a small private deck. A handmade quilt in shades of blue and green covers the bed, and a reading nook is tucked into the corner with a plush chair and a small bookshelf full of paperbacks.
Cole nods, setting my suitcase just inside the door. His eyes scan the room, assessing. "Good sight lines."
I can't help but smile at his security assessment. "That's why I picked it. Totally. Not because of the view or anything."
The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be the beginning of a smile. "The view's not bad either."
Judging from the way he's looking at me, he doesn't just mean the landscape. My cheeks heat up all over again, watching him as he effortlessly lifts my luggage onto the foot of the bed.
He doesn't leave after that. Instead, he hovers near the door, his gaze still following me like I'm the most interesting thing in the world as I move through the space. I run my fingers over the quilt, the skilled stitches bumpy beneath my fingertips.
"Handmade?" I ask.
Cole nods. "Savva."
I blink in surprise. "Savva made this?"
"Picked up sewing in spec ops. Needed something to do with his hands during downtime." Cole shifts his weight, looking almost uncomfortable sharing this information. "I carve, he sews. Fitting, I guess."
I try to picture elegant, aristocratic Savva hunched over a sewing machine, creating this intricate piece of art, and somehow it makes sense. His perfectionism, his attention to detail… all of it shows in the careful pattern of the quilt.
"What else don't I know about you guys?" I ask, genuinely curious.
Cole's expression softens slightly. "Guess we'll figure that out over the next couple of weeks."
"Guess so," I agree, smiling as I move to the window to take in the view that will greet me every morning. "I've never lived anywhere like this," I admit quietly. "It's so... peaceful."
Cole moves to stand beside me, his large frame radiating heat that I can feel even without touching him. "That's why we bought it. After enough time in war zones, peace becomes a priority."
It's the most he's said at once since we arrived, and I treasure these small insights into who he is beneath the silence.
"What's the rest of the cabin like?" I ask, turning away from the window.
Cole leads me back into the hallway, pointing out more features as we go. "Bathroom there. Linen closet. Emergency exit." He gestures to each door or passage with military precision. "Roman's room's at the end, next to the office.”
I follow him back toward the main living area, where activity has increased in our absence. Liam has returned from his perimeter check and is now helping Troy in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and making smalltalk with him. Savva perches at a desk in the corner, surrounded by multiple screens and equipment I can't even begin to identify, his fingers flying over keyboards as he sets up what must be their communication systems.
Roman stands at the center island, papers spread before him, writing something in a notebook. He looks up when we enter, his golden eyes meeting mine with a warmth that makes my stomach flutter.
"Getting settled?" he asks.
I nod. "The place is amazing. How long have you had it?"
"Three years," Roman answers, his attention returning to his notes. "Bought it after a rough job in Caracas. Needed somewhere... removed."
"We all pitched in," Troy adds from where he's stirring something on the stove that smells absolutely heavenly. "Pooled our funds from that security gig with the tech billionaire. Remember that guy? The one with the collection of taxidermied animals with human teeth?"
"Hard to forget," Liam mutters, dicing an onion with frightening efficiency.
I smile at their easy banter, at the way they move around each other with the synchronicity of people who have worked and lived together for years. There's a comfort in watching them, in being allowed to witness this side of them that I suspect few—if any—outsiders ever see.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" I ask, feeling suddenly useless amidst all their purposeful activity.
"You're our guest," Roman says immediately.
"Honored guest," Savva adds from across the room without looking up.
"Actually," Troy interjects, "there's a bottle of white wine in the fridge that would go great with dinner. Why don't you pour everyone a glass?"
Roman doesn't contradict him, so I move to the refrigerator, finding the bottle of wine exactly where Troy said it would be. I retrieve it while Cole gets glasses from a cabinet, lining them up on the counter.
I pour the wine carefully, filling each glass about halfway. The bottle is high quality—way beyond my budget, but probably pocket change for men who could afford a private mountain retreat with security that would "make the Pentagon jealous." The crisp, fruity scent wafts up as I pour, reminding me of all the fancy dinner parties my parents dragged me to when trying to impress potential business connections.
"Thanks," Roman says as I hand him a glass, our fingers brushing for the briefest moment. Even that small contact sends a little jolt of awareness through me. Every interaction with these alphas feels charged with meaning, weighted with the knowledge of what we are to each other.
I distribute the remaining glasses, leaving Cole for last. He accepts his with a small nod, those mismatched eyes never leaving my face. The intensity of his gaze should make me uncomfortable—would have, once—but now I find myself leaning into it, craving the connection.
"To new beginnings," Savva proposes, raising his glass in a toast. The dying sunlight catches in the wine, turning it to liquid amber. He stands beside his computer setup, elegant as always, his long auburn hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.
"New beginnings," I echo, clinking my glass against his. The others join in, and the resonant sound of glass touching glass fills the warm kitchen.
I take a small sip, savoring the crisp flavor. It's been so long since I've had anything just for the pleasure of it. Braxley's world was all about appearances—food and drink categorized as either "on brand" or not, every consumption opportunity a chance for content creation.
Here, with this pack, I can just... enjoy.
Troy has returned to his bubbling pot, stirring with practiced ease. "Liam, can you grab the breadbasket and butter from the fridge?" he calls over his shoulder.
"Need anything from me?" I ask, eager to feel useful.
Troy glances up, his boyish grin flashing. "You could chop those herbs if you want. Nothing fancy, just rough is fine."
I approach the cutting board where a small heap of fresh parsley and dill waits. The knife is heavier than I expected, perfectly balanced and wickedly sharp. It slices through the herbs like air. These men don't do anything halfway, I'm realizing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, reminding me that I still exist in the outside world. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and check the screen. Another text from Skye.
[I swear to god if you don't give me SOME kind of proof of life soon, I'm calling every emergency service in Washington state.]
I laugh, shaking my head at her dramatics. "I should probably check in with Skye before she sends a SWAT team after us."
"Send her a photo," Troy suggests, stirring his mac and cheese mixture. "Show her the place."
That's not a bad idea. I snap a quick picture of the living room with its massive fireplace and cozy furniture, then swivel to capture the stunning view out the windows. For good measure, I take one of Troy cooking, his muscular arms and broad shoulders on perfect display as he leans over the stove.
[PROOF OF LIFE. And yes, that's Troy cooking dinner. Yes, the place is this gorgeous. No, you cannot invite yourself over.]
I add the last part knowing full well she'd be planning her visit already. The safehouse is meant to be secret, after all.
Her response comes instantly.
[OH MY GOD. 1) I hate you, 2) I'm so happy for you, 3) I still hate you, 4) THAT VIEW THO, 5) is that TROY'S ASS in chef mode?? I can only see his back but 10/10 would bite]
I laugh out loud, shaking my head. "Skye approves of the accommodations," I report, deliberately not sharing her more colorful observations about Troy's posterior.
"She's welcome to visit," Roman says unexpectedly. "Once we've established security protocols for visitors."
The casual acceptance floors me. Braxley rarely allowed my friends into his space, always complaining about his privacy and the messiness of having "random people" around. Yet here's Roman, offering to let Skye into their private sanctuary simply because she matters to me.
"Really?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
Roman looks slightly puzzled by my reaction. "Of course. She's important to you, which makes her important to us."
The simple statement hits me harder than I would have expected. To be considered, to have my connections valued—it's such a small thing, really, but it feels monumental after months of having my preferences dismissed or ignored.
"Thank you." My voice comes out a bit hoarse, and I clear my throat. "That means a lot."
"Don't thank him yet," Troy warns, grin widening. "We'll make her go through the same security screening as foreign dignitaries. Fingerprints, retinal scans, the works."
"Polygraph too," Liam adds with mock seriousness. "Standard procedure."
"And the blood oath," Savva contributes, not looking up from his tablet. "Can't forget that."
I laugh, returning to my herb chopping with a lighter heart.
"Almost ready," Troy announces, peering into the oven. "Mac and cheese needs about five more minutes. Who's setting the table?"
"I will," I volunteer, finishing with the herbs.
"I'll help," Cole says, the first words he's spoken in a while.
We move together to the large dining table situated near the windows, grabbing plates, cutlery, and napkins along the way. Cole seems to know where everything is, retrieving everything we need from cabinets and drawers.
"You come here often?" I ask as he hands me a stack of plates.
His mouth twitches at the unintentional pickup line. "When we can. More in winter."
I set the plates around the table, imagining these five powerful alphas holed up here in this warm haven during snowstorms. Can't say I'd mind that at all. "What do you do up here in winter?"
Cole shrugs, laying out silverware with precise movements. "Fish through the ice. Read. Savva always tries to teach Troy chess, but that's a lost cause. Roman works. Always working." There's no criticism in his tone, just matter-of-fact observation.
"And you?" I press gently. "Besides ice fishing."
He hesitates, his hands stilling on the napkins. "Carve. There's a workshop in the back. Has good light."
The image forms easily in my mind. Cole hunched over a workbench, those large, scarred hands carefully shaping wood into beautiful forms, flakes curling away beneath his knife.
"Will you show me sometime?"
He glances up, surprise evident in his good eye. "If you want."
"I do," I say simply.
Something shifts in his expression—a softening, a small surrender. He nods once, then returns to setting the table.
I will keep this feral cat of an alpha from closing himself off again, whether he likes it or not.
By the time we finish, Troy is sliding the mac and cheese out of the oven, the crispy top layer sizzling perfectly. Liam appears with a large bowl of salad, and Savva brings over a basket filled with warm steaming bread sliced into hearty chunks.
"Dinner is served," Troy announces, setting the bubbling casserole on the table.
"It looks amazing," I say honestly. Bits of smoked salmon peek through the cheesy surface, and the fresh herbs I chopped are sprinkled liberally on top. We really outdid ourselves on this.
We settle around the table, the alphas naturally arranging themselves so I'm at the center of their formation. Roman sits to my left at the head of the table, Cole to my right—another careful seating arrangement, I notice—with Savva, Liam, and Troy taking the other seats around the table.
"Dig in," Troy encourages, passing the serving spoon to Roman. "Chief gets first serve."
Roman accepts the utensil, but instead of serving himself, he offers it to me. "Omegas first."
"Oh. Thank you." I take the spoon, oddly touched by the gesture. It strikes me that these hardened, battle-scarred alphas have impeccable manners when they choose to use them.
I help myself to a generous portion of the mac and cheese, then pass the spoon to Roman. The ritual continues around the table—the serving of food, the passing of bread, the refilling of wine glasses. It's choreographed yet relaxed, everyone knowing their part without needing direction.
My first bite is a revelation that feels like it rewires my freaking brain chemistry. Rich, creamy cheese sauce coats perfectly cooked pasta, the smoky salmon adding sparks of flavor along with the herbs I chopped.
"Oh my god," I moan, swallowing. "This is incredible."
His face lights up at the compliment. "Thanks! It's all about the cheese blend. Three different kinds, plus a little mustard powder for kick."
"Your grandmother would be proud," Liam says to him, tearing into a piece of bread.
"Eleanor wasn't my grandmother," Troy corrects, though there's fondness in his voice. "She was our cook. But she was more of a parent to me than my actual parents most days."
"Rich kid," Cole explains to me in his typically succinct way.
Troy doesn't deny it. "Trust fund baby," he confirms with a self-deprecating grin. "Born with a silver spoon in my mouth, rebelled by enlisting. The classic tale of privilege and disappointment."
"You're selling yourself short," Roman interjects. His tone is casual, but his eyes are serious. "Troy may have started with certain… advantages, but he's earned his place among us. No one works harder."
Troy's expression shifts briefly, a flash of vulnerability quickly covered by his trademark smile. "Aw, boss, careful. People might think you like me or something."
"A temporary lapse in judgment," Roman deadpans, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
I watch their interaction with fascination. The dynamic between these men is complex—there's clear hierarchy, with Roman at the top, but also deep mutual respect and genuine affection. They know each other's strengths and weaknesses, histories and habits. True bonds, forged through shared experiences I can only begin to imagine.
Liam raises his glass, taking a healthy swallow of wine before turning to me. "So, lass. How are you finding our humble abode compared to the penthouse?"
"There's no comparison," I say honestly. "This place feels... real. Lived in. The penthouse was like a hotel suite. Nothing personal allowed unless it matched the aesthetic."
"Sounds suffocating," Savva comments.
I hadn't thought of it in those terms before, but he's right. "It was. Everything had to be perfect for the camera. The wrong book on a coffee table could ruin a shot. God forbid there be actual signs of life anywhere."
"No wonder you were so tense when we first met," Troy says, helping himself to more mac and cheese. "Living in a museum would make anyone uptight."
"I wasn't tense!" I protest automatically, then reconsider. "Okay, maybe I was a little tense."
"A little," Cole says, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"You're one to talk about tense." I bump him lightly under the table with my foot, surprising myself with the playful gesture. His eyebrows shoot up, but that almost-smile grows more defined.
"To be fair," Roman says, "we weren't exactly making things easy for you. Five strange alphas invading your space, watching your every move..."
"I didn't mind the watching," I admit, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "Not really. It was more that I felt like I was constantly disappointing everyone. Braxley wanted the perfect omega fiancée for his brand. My family wanted the perfect daughter making an advantageous match. And then you all arrived, and I felt like I was failing at being a proper protectee too."
"How so?" Savva asks, his elegant fingers wrapped around the stem of his wineglass.
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't know. You're all so… efficient. I felt like I was just in the way. Not helping, not making things easier."
"Your job was never to make our job easier," Roman says firmly. "We were there to protect you. That's all."
"And now?" I can't help asking.
The table goes quiet, the only sound the clink of silverware against plates. My question hangs in the air, and none of us seems quite ready to break the silence.
It's Cole who speaks first. "We're still protecting you." His voice is rough, but sure. "Just with... additional considerations."
"Additional considerations," I repeat, a smile tugging at my lips. It's such a careful, precise way of referring to our evolving relationship.
"That's one way to put it," Troy snickers.
Cole shoots him a warning glance, but there's no real heat behind it. The awkwardness breaks, conversation flowing again as we continue eating. Topics shift naturally, from the extensive security features of the cabin to the abundant local wildlife this year and the heavy rain forecast in the coming week.
Throughout the meal, I find myself glancing at Cole from the corner of my eye. He eats methodically, everything cut into precise, manageable bites. When he drinks his wine, he does so with a particular motion—head tilted back, the glass positioned to pour the liquid directly into the back of his throat, bypassing the damaged side of his mouth.
The realization that he's had to relearn even the most basic activities—eating, drinking—makes my heart ache. This is his reality every day, these careful accommodations for what was taken from him. Yet he never complains, never draws attention to his limitations. He simply adapts and carries on.
When he catches me watching, I don't look away. Instead, I offer a small smile. He holds my gaze for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his expression, before returning to his food.
I bump him under the table again.
His hand squeezes my thigh.
I squirm before I can stop myself, instantly catching the attention of every alpha at the table like I'm a lamb and they're all wolves. But nobody says a word, even as the scent of my heat spikes enough that even I can taste it on the air.
The conversation around the table resumes. It's awkward at first, but soon, it's flowing as naturally as it did a few moments ago. The members of the Vanguard Pack all seamlessly include me in their banter and inside jokes. They tell stories, sanitized versions of missions and assignments and humorous anecdotes about their time together.
I learn that Liam once got lost in the countryside somewhere by the Caspian Sea and was adopted by an elderly goat herder for three days before the team found him. That Troy holds the pack record for most bones broken in a single incident—seven, falling off a cliff in Croatia. That Savva was a trained classical musician who altered the course of his entire life when he killed someone with a cello endpin. Someone he swears more than deserved it, although when I ask why, his lips just curl into that wolfish grin and he sips more wine.
I find myself laughing more than I have in months, maybe even years. The wine and good food and better company have wrapped me up in a bubble of warmth and safety I never want to leave.
"We need to discuss tomorrow," Roman says to me, pulling me from my thoughts, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear him over the others' conversation. "Specifically, your options regarding your heat."
My stomach flutters. We'd touched on this before leaving the penthouse, but the reality of my situation is becoming more immediate. The suppressants I took are temporary, designed to give me a reprieve rather than a solution. Soon, likely tomorrow, my heat will return in full force.
And Cole's knot alone likely won't be enough to stop it.
"I know," I say, taking a fortifying sip of wine. "I've been thinking about it."
"As I mentioned before, we can provide stronger suppressants," Roman continues. "They would block the cycle completely, though they have side effects—headaches, nausea, mood fluctuations, flu symptoms that might be bad enough for you to need fluids. It would be temporary, and we can give you those fluids here. Savva is trained. It would just be until you return to Los Angeles for the charity gala and can consult with your regular physician."
I nod, considering my options. Stronger suppressants might be the sensible choice, the cautious one. But something in me rebels at the thought of chemically suppressing what my body is trying to tell me. That after years of artificial control, it's recognized the Vanguard Pack as compatible matches and wants to forge those bonds.
"Or," I say quietly, meeting his intense golden eyes, "there's the other option."
Roman's expression remains carefully neutral, though I notice the slight flare of his pupils. "Yes. The other option."
By now, the rest of the table has quieted, everyone tuned into our conversation despite the pretense of continuing their own discussions. This isn't just about Roman and me. It affects all of us.
"I've never experienced a full heat," I admit. "Not without suppressants dulling everything. Part of me is scared. But part of me..."
I trail off, searching for the words.
"Wants to know what it's like," Savva finishes for me, his voice gentle.
I nod. "Yes. And not just with anyone, but with you. All of you."
There's a collective intake of breath around the table. The air suddenly feels charged, vibrating with energy as my words sink in. I'm sure it's what they were already hoping for. It can't come as a surprise. But the fact they were clearly not planning on pressuring me isn't lost.
"You understand what that would mean?" Roman asks carefully. "The implications? The intensity?"
"I think so," I say. "I've read about it, of course. But reading and experiencing are different things."
"Very different," Liam confirms, his accent thickening slightly as he sits forward in his chair. "Heat with compatible alphas is... intense. Especially your first full one."
"Which is why we would take precautions," Roman states. "Establish boundaries, safe words, regular check-ins. We would ensure you have periods of rest, hydration, nutrition. And any one of us would step back immediately at your word."
The clinical way he describes it should diminish the romantic aspect, but somehow, it only makes me want this more. These men—these powerful, dangerous alphas—would dedicate themselves to my care, my pleasure, my safety. Would set aside their own needs to attend to mine.
"I want that," I say, my voice stronger than I expected as I look around the table, meeting each alpha's gaze in turn. "If you want me, too."
Troy's grin is answer enough, but it's Savva who speaks first. "We have wanted you since the moment we met you," he says simply. "But this must be your choice, freely made, with full understanding."
"It is," I assure him. "I may not have much experience with heats, but I know my own mind. This feels right in a way nothing has before. Tomorrow, I want to build a nest. And tomorrow night…"
They all wait, so silent I hear a leaf rustling against the window, hinging on my every word.
"Tomorrow night, I want you all to get me through my heat."