Chapter 6
six
DIMITRI
Three weeks. It had been three weeks since we’d brought Tommy home from the hospital, and still, Kit moved around our penthouse like a ghost caught between worlds—present but not fully here. I watched her from the doorway as she tucked the blanket around my youngest brother for the third time in an hour, her delicate fingers smoothing nonexistent wrinkles with practiced precision. Every movement calculated, controlled—nothing like the wild fear I still caught in her ice-blue eyes when she thought none of us were looking.
“Kit, I’m fine,” Tommy insisted when she reached for his pillows next, though his voice lacked its usual playful edge.
He was sprawled across the couch, resting, healing. I knew being laid up was starting to eat at him. While he was getting better every day, his recovery was slower than any of us would have liked.
“You’ve adjusted these pillows so many times they’re about to file a restraining order.”
She didn’t laugh at his joke. Instead, her hands stilled for just a fraction of a second before resuming their task. “The doctor said proper elevation is important for circulation.”
Across the room, Gio sat in an armchair, his own bandages visible beneath his thin t-shirt. His hazel eyes met mine over Kit’s head. He was worried too.
“Did he also say you need to work yourself to exhaustion?” Gio’s gravelly voice held no accusation, just concern wrapped in his usual blunt delivery.
Kit didn’t answer. She just moved to the side table where a neat row of pill bottles stood like soldiers awaiting orders. She checked each label methodically, setting two aside for Tommy and one for Gio.
“Water?” she asked, already turning toward the kitchen.
“I’ve got a full glass right here, Butterfly,” Tommy said, reaching for her wrist. “Sit with me for a while?”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. I’d cataloged all of Kit’s smiles by now—the shy ones, the genuine ones that transformed her whole face, the ones that bled into surprised laughs that sounded as pretty as songs. This wasn’t any of those. This was armor.
“I need to make more tea. And Beretta needs his walk soon.” On cue, the Doberman lifted his head from where he’d been lying at Tommy’s feet, ears perking up at the mention of his name.
Marco, who’d been unusually quiet from his spot by the window, finally spoke. “I can take him out, Kit.”
She shook her head. “You need to rest, too. Bruised ribs are no joke. I know they’ve been bothering you.” Before any more protests could be raised, she slipped past me and into the kitchen.
I caught Marco’s eye, noting the frustration there.
“There’s no way in hell I’m letting her take him out alone.” Marco was already up, signalling to Beretta, who gingerly got to his feet, favoring his back right leg.
The bandage was still wrapped tight, his muscles knitting themselves back together from where he too had had surgery. We’d gotten lucky that the vet had been able to save the limb and patch him up. Another few weeks and he’d assured us Beretta would be back to chasing tennis balls.
“Come on, boy. Let’s get out of here before she realizes we’re gone.” Marco attached the leash and headed for the door, slipping out unnoticed. I heard him issue orders to Niles, one of our newly promoted guards, to follow him out as backup, leaving Enzo behind as our personal security.
Lonnie, God rest his soul, had been one of the good ones we’d lost that night, and finding replacements proved difficult when I wasn’t sure who the fuck I could trust.
Not when we had a mole in our midst. A snitch. Or, as I liked to refer to the asshole, a dead man walking.
But that was a problem for another day. Today was about our Omega. While I admired her strength, I recognized the signs of someone holding themselves together by sheer force of will.
I knew those signs intimately. I’d lived them for years.
“She’s not sleeping,” Tommy murmured while she was out of earshot. “Not unless we’re all with her.”
“And she jumps at every goddamn noise,” Gio added, wincing as he shifted in his chair. “Car backfired yesterday on a T.V. show and I thought she was going to crawl out of her skin.”
Tommy looked down at his hands. “She’s scared of losing us.”
A simple truth, spoken with the quiet insight my youngest brother often surprised us with. Kit had already lost so much in her life. The idea of losing us—her mates, her pack, her family—was unbearable. I understood that fear better than most.
“I’ll talk to her.”
I found Kit in the kitchen, standing rigidly before the counter. The electric kettle hummed beside her, but she wasn’t moving to prepare the tea. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the marble, her breathing deliberate and measured—the kind of breathing someone does when they’re trying not to fall apart.
For a moment, I just watched her. My mate, the center of our world, trying to hold everything together alone. Protectiveness surged through me, my Alpha instincts needing to fix this… To help somehow.
I approached slowly, making sure she could hear me coming so I wouldn’t startle her. When I placed my hands gently on her shoulders, I felt the tremors running through her body.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time, Kitten,” I murmured, my thumbs working small circles against the knots I found in her tense muscles.
For a heartbeat, I thought she might finally break—might turn and let me see whatever storm was raging inside her. She did turn, but the storm was carefully contained behind a smile I didn’t believe for a second.
“I’m fine. Really.”
I didn’t push. Forcing Kit to open up would only make her retreat further. Instead, I reached past her to shut off the kettle, then gathered the mugs she’d set out.
“Let me help with this, at least.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I said firmly, meeting her gaze. “Let me do this for you.”
Something complicated flickered across her face—relief, maybe, or guilt—before she nodded. We worked in silence for a few moments, her preparing the tea while I arranged everything on a tray. The domestic simplicity of the task felt important somehow; a small moment where she finally let me share the burden.
“They’re getting better. Tommy, Gio, Marco, even Beretta.”
A genuine smile touched her lips at the mention of our dog. While their relationship had started off rocky, he’d quickly grown on her. “He was so loyal. He stayed with Tommy the whole time...”
“And I’m grateful,” I conceded. “But my point is, they’re healing. You don’t have to monitor every breath they take.”
Her movements stilled. “I know that. I just... I need to be sure they’re okay.”
I nodded, understanding more than she knew. “I get it.”
The moment stretched between us, heavy with all the things she wasn’t saying—all the things I wanted to hear. But pushing Kit never worked. She’d been pushed around enough in her life.
As she lifted the tray, I caught another glimpse of the shadows beneath her eyes—evidence of the nights of broken sleep and the strain of her constant vigilance.
I glanced between Tommy and Gio as we reentered the living room. Without a word, we reached an unspoken understanding—our Omega needed to heal just as much as we did. And if she wouldn’t ask for help, we’d have to find another way to give it to her.
I woke to cold sheets where Kit should have been. My hand instinctively reached for her in the darkness, finding only the lingering warmth of where she’d lain. Beside me, Gio shifted in his sleep, his arm thrown over his eyes while Marco and Tommy snored softly from the far side of our massive bed. But no Kit.
She’d gone to bed early—alone. By the time I’d slid under the covers hours later, she’d already fallen asleep, or at least pretended to be. Either way, she was gone now.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 AM. Too early for her to be starting her day, even with her newly developed ‘nursing’ schedule. Concern tightened in my chest as I carefully extracted myself from the bed, pulling on a pair of grey sweatpants before padding silently into the hallway.
The penthouse was quiet. Tommy’s room, which he rarely used anymore, was undisturbed, as was Gio’s, Marco’s, and mine. Heading downstairs, I moved through the kitchen first—no Kit. The living room was empty except for Tommy’s discarded book on the coffee table. The bathroom door stood open, no light spilling from within, and the office and library were empty as well.
My steps quickened as I approached the east wing of the penthouse, where we’d set up a casual nest that looked out over the city. It was a space my brothers and I privately called ‘Kit’s sanctuary.’ Now that we had an Omega, the nook was filled with soft blankets and plush pillows. It was one of the safe spaces she retreated to when the world became too much, though she typically didn’t go there in the middle of the night without telling one of us.
The soft glow of a lamp was my first clue that I’d found her. I approached slowly, not wanting to startle her if she’d finally found a moment of peace. The sight that greeted me stopped me in my tracks.
Kit sat cross-legged in the center, surrounded by a sea of blankets in various shades of blue and green. Her dark hair spilled loose down her back, catching the light like ocean waves at night. Beretta lay beside her, his head resting in her lap, his sleek body curled protectively around her. The bandage around his back leg stood out starkly against his black coat.
What held me frozen, however, was the soft murmur of my mate’s voice as she stroked the dog’s head.
“You were so brave, weren’t you?” she cooed. “Taking a bullet like that for Tommy. Protecting us. My brave, brave boy.”
Beretta’s nub of a tail waggled against the blankets, his brown eyes fixed adoringly on Kit’s face.
“I’m sorry you got hurt protecting us. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” Her fingers traced carefully around his bandaged leg, never touching the injury but acknowledging its presence. “Thank you for looking after him, for being there when I couldn’t be. For staying with him, even when you were hurt, too.”
The dog huffed softly, as if responding. It struck me then how different she was in this moment—unguarded, genuine, her walls completely down as she spoke to Beretta. There was no performance of strength here, no careful composure maintained for our benefit.
This was raw Kit, allowing herself a vulnerability she seemed unable or unwilling to show around us lately.
“Good boy,” she praised, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Such a good, brave boy.”
She was quiet for a long moment, and her next words were so soft I almost missed them.
“It’s hard, you know? Being strong all the time.”
Fuck . My chest tightened painfully. How many times had I said those exact words to myself in the dead of night? How many years had I carried the weight of my family, my business, my world on my shoulders—alone—because I believed that’s what a leader did?
Kit sighed, still stroking Beretta’s fur. “It’s even harder pretending I’m not scared out of my mind that it could happen again—that next time might be worse.”
The vise around my heart grew tighter. So much fucking tighter.
“They need me to be strong right now. Tommy’s still healing, Gio’s pushing himself too hard, Marco’s pretending his ribs don’t hurt, and Dimitri...” She paused, her voice softening further. “Dimitri has enough to worry about without me falling apart on him.”
Anger flashed through me—not at her, never at her—but at myself, at this situation we’d found ourselves in. My Omega, my mate, was carrying a burden she didn’t need to bear alone. She thought she had to be the strong one, when all I wanted—all any of us wanted—was to be her shelter, her safe harbor.
Didn’t she understand? She was our center, our heart. We were supposed to protect her, not the other way around. The urge to step into the room, to gather her in my arms and tell her exactly that, was nearly overwhelming. But I held back, sensing that this private moment with Beretta was something she needed.
She continued to whisper to the dog, promising that she’d take care of his bandages, that she’d sneak him extra treats when no one was looking, that she was grateful beyond words for his loyalty. All the while, her fingers never stopped their gentle path through his fur, finding comfort in the simple act of caring for another being who asked nothing of her in return.
I recognized the coping mechanism for what it was. Kit could pour out her fears to Beretta because he wouldn’t judge her, couldn’t be disappointed in her, couldn’t think less of her strength.
The realization cut deep.
Had we somehow given her the impression that we expected perfection? That we would think less of her for having human reactions to trauma?
The thought made me sick. We’d failed her if she believed that. I’d failed her. And I needed to fix it—to prove to her that she could be just as vulnerable with us as she was with the dog curled trustingly in her lap.
Kit’s body stiffened suddenly, her hand pausing mid-stroke on Beretta’s fur. Her gaze found mine in the reflection of the window—and I was caught.