22. Eliana
ELIANA
W e gather around the kitchen table as we have so many times before during the time that I’ve been here, but tonight there's an electric undercurrent of permanence that makes every shared glance, every casual touch, feel weighted with significance. This isn't just another meal during our temporary arrangement—this is the first dinner of our life together, the beginning of whatever comes next.
Rhys has outdone himself, creating something that smells like heaven and tastes even better. Herb-crusted chicken with roasted vegetables and a side of wild rice that somehow manages to be both hearty and elegant. The kind of meal that speaks to care and attention, to the desire to nourish rather than simply feed.
"This is incredible," I tell him, meaning it. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
He shrugs, but I can see the pleased flush on his cheeks. "Trial and error, mostly. When you're feeding two alphas with appetites like black holes, you either learn to cook well or go broke ordering takeout."
"Hey," Kael protests around a mouthful of chicken. "We're not that bad."
"You ate an entire pizza by yourself last week," Fen points out mildly.
"That was after a twelve-hour work day," Kael defends, but he's grinning as he says it.
I love this—the easy teasing, the comfortable familiarity, the way they can rib each other without malice. It speaks to years of friendship, of chosen family, of the kind of bond that can weather disagreements and stress and still come out stronger on the other side.
"Speaking of work," Rhys says, his tone shifting slightly toward seriousness, "we should probably talk about the business. About what happens now that we're opening earlier than planned."
The statement hangs in the air, loaded with implications I'm not sure I fully understand yet. I know they've been planning to start some kind of consulting firm, but the details have been vague, mentioned in passing rather than discussed in depth.
"What kind of business?" I ask, setting down my fork to give them my full attention.
The three of them exchange glances, and I see something pass between them—a silent communication that speaks to their deep familiarity with each other.
"Security consulting," Kael says finally. "Corporate risk assessment, personal protection services, that kind of thing. We all have backgrounds that translate well—military, law enforcement, private security."
"That sounds dangerous," I say before I can stop myself.
"Not really," Fen assures me quickly. "Mostly it's paperwork and planning. Risk assessment, security protocol development, training programs for corporate clients. The actual dangerous stuff is rare."
"But it exists," I press, because I need to understand what I'm signing up for, what kinds of risks come with loving these men.
"It exists," Rhys admits. "But we're not cowboys, Eliana. We don't take unnecessary risks, and we don't take jobs that put us or our family in danger."
Family. The word hits me like a warm wave, settling into my chest with the weight of promise and belonging.
"Besides," Kael adds, his voice carrying that protective edge I've come to recognize, "now we have even more reason to come home safe every night."
The comment makes my cheeks flush, but also fills me with a fierce sort of pride. I matter to them enough that they'll factor my feelings into their professional decisions. After Marcus, who made every choice in isolation and expected me to adapt to whatever he decided, the consideration feels revolutionary.
"What does this mean for the timeline?" I ask. "You said you were opening earlier than planned?"
"We were going to spend another six months getting everything perfect," Rhys explains. "Dotting every i, crossing every t, building up our client base slowly and carefully. But with the roads clear and spring coming early, we could open next month if we wanted to."
"Why the rush?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
It's Fen who answers, his hazel eyes warm with understanding. "Because you're part of our pack now, and we want to make sure you feel like you belong in every aspect of our lives. Including our work."
The simple statement makes my throat tight with emotion. They're not just including me in their personal lives; they're restructuring their professional plans to accommodate my presence, my needs, my role in their family.
"What would my role be?" I ask, curiosity overriding my emotional response.
"Whatever you want it to be," Kael says immediately. "If you want to be involved in the business, we'll figure out how to make that work. If you prefer to focus on your writing and let us handle the security stuff, that's fine too."
"Or something in between," Rhys suggests. "Maybe you handle our marketing, our client communications. You're a writer—you know how to make words work, how to present information in a way that's compelling and professional."
The suggestion sparks something in my mind, a flutter of possibility I hadn't considered before. I've spent years writing fiction, crafting narratives and building worlds with words. The idea of applying those skills to something more practical, more immediately useful, holds unexpected appeal.
"I could do that," I say slowly, the idea taking shape as I speak. "Handle the website, write proposals, manage client correspondence. Maybe even help with training materials—make the technical stuff more accessible."
"You want to?" Fen asks, and I can hear the hope he's trying to hide.
"I think I do," I realize with growing excitement. "It would be nice to do something that feels immediately useful, you know? Fiction is important, but it's also abstract. Helping people stay safe, helping businesses protect themselves and their employees—that's concrete. That matters."
"Your writing matters too," Kael says firmly. "Don't ever think it doesn't."
"I know," I assure him. "And I'm not giving it up. But maybe I can do both. Write my books and help with the business. Be part of something bigger than just my own creative process."
The conversation flows naturally from there, all of us contributing ideas and suggestions for how to integrate our different skills and interests into a cohesive whole. Rhys talks about the client base they've already been cultivating, mostly through word-of-mouth and professional connections. Kael explains the technical aspects of risk assessment, the kind of detailed analysis that goes into protecting people and property. Fen outlines the administrative side, the licensing and insurance and regulatory compliance that makes everything legal and legitimate.
And slowly, I begin to see how I could fit into all of it. My writing skills for proposals and marketing materials. My organizational abilities for client management and scheduling. My attention to detail for research and documentation. It's not charity or busy work—it's genuine contribution to something that could be significant and successful.
"There's one more thing," Rhys says as we're clearing the dinner dishes. "About the living arrangements."
My hands still on the plate I'm carrying, anxiety spiking before I can control it. "What about them?"
"Nothing bad," he says quickly, reading my expression. "Just practical stuff. This house technically belongs to all three of us, but the deed is in Kael's name because he handled the purchase. If you're staying permanently, we should probably make that official somehow."
"I don't need to be on the deed," I say immediately. "I mean, I haven't contributed to the mortgage or—"
"That's not the point," Kael interrupts, his voice gentle but firm. "The point is that this is your home now, and you should have the security that comes with that. Legal protection, financial rights, all of it."
The offer is generous beyond anything I expected, but it also makes me realize how much I still think like someone who's separate from them rather than part of them. I'm still approaching this like I'm a guest who might overstay her welcome rather than a permanent member of the family.
"Besides," Fen adds with a grin, "someone needs to make sure these two don't decide to paint the living room some horrible color while I'm not looking."
"Hey," Rhys protests. "Forest green is a perfectly reasonable color."
"For a cabin in 1987, maybe," Fen shoots back.
I find myself laughing, the easy banter dissolving my anxiety about legal arrangements and property rights. These men want me here, want me protected and secure and legally recognized as part of their family. The fact that they're thinking about such practical details speaks to the seriousness of their commitment in a way that grand romantic gestures never could.
"Okay," I say, surprising myself with how easily the word comes. "If you think it's important, then yes. Let's make it official."
The smiles that greet this declaration make me feel like I've given them a gift rather than accepted one.
"Good," Kael says with satisfaction. "I'll call our lawyer next week, get the paperwork started."
"Our lawyer," I repeat, testing the words. "I like the sound of that."
We finish cleaning up together, the four of us moving around the kitchen with increasing synchronization. I'm learning the rhythm of their domestic dance, finding my place in the careful choreography of shared space and shared responsibility. It's different from any living situation I've ever experienced—more collaborative, more considerate, more fundamentally equal despite our different roles and personalities.
When everything is clean and put away, we migrate to the living room, settling onto the large sectional sofa that somehow manages to accommodate all four of us comfortably. I'm curled between Kael and Fen, with Rhys stretched out at the other end, his long legs tangled with mine in casual intimacy.
"So," Rhys says, his voice carrying a particular tone that makes me look up at him. "About the other practical stuff we need to discuss."
"What other practical stuff?" I ask, though something in his expression makes me suspect I'm not going to like this conversation.
"Heat cycles," he says bluntly. "Specifically, yours. What they're like normally, how often they occur, what kind of support you need."
Heat floods my cheeks, embarrassment and something else warring in my chest. We've been through one cycle together already, but that was spontaneous, unplanned, more instinct than preparation. The idea of discussing it clinically, of planning for future cycles like items on a calendar, feels strangely vulnerable.
"Every three months, usually," I say, my voice smaller than I'd like. "Though stress and major life changes can affect the timing. They last about three days, sometimes four if they're particularly intense."
"And what do you normally do?" Fen asks gently. "During them, I mean. How do you manage?"
The question is fair, necessary even, but it brings up memories I'd rather not revisit. "Before, I dealt with it alone. Took time off work, stocked up on supplies, waited for it to pass."
"Alone?" Kael's voice carries a note of something that might be anger, though I don't think it's directed at me.
"Marcus wasn't..." I struggle to find words that don't make me sound pathetic. "He wasn't comfortable with that aspect of omega biology. He thought it was messy, inconvenient. So I learned to handle it by myself."
The silence that follows is heavy with things none of them are saying. I can feel the tension radiating from all three of them, the barely controlled anger at my ex-husband's callousness.
"That's not how it's going to be with us," Rhys says finally, his voice carefully controlled. "Ever."
"I know," I assure him. "What we shared yesterday, what we did together—I've never experienced anything like that. I didn't know it could be like that."
"Good," Kael says, and there's something possessive and protective in his voice that makes my stomach flutter. "Because we're going to take care of you. All of you, every aspect of you, for as long as you'll let us."
The promise settles into my bones like warmth, like coming home after a long journey through cold and lonely places. I've never been cherished like this, never been with people who see every part of me—even the inconvenient, biological parts—as something to be treasured rather than tolerated.
"There's something else," I say before I can lose my nerve. "About omega biology, I mean. Something we should probably discuss before we go any further."
All three of them go still, attention focusing on me with laser intensity.
"Fertility," I say simply, the word heavy with implication. "Omega cycles aren't just about heat. They're about reproduction. And when we bond like we have, when we share cycles and knots and all of that—pregnancy becomes a real possibility."
The silence that follows is profound, loaded with thoughts and feelings I can't begin to untangle. We've been so focused on the emotional and relationship aspects of our bond that the biological realities have remained largely unspoken.
"How do you feel about that?" Fen asks quietly. "About the possibility?"
It's such a simple question, but it hits at the heart of everything I've been trying not to think about too directly. How do I feel about the possibility of carrying a child—or children—fathered by one or more of these men? About expanding our family in the most fundamental way possible?
"Scared," I admit honestly. "But not in a bad way. More like overwhelmed by the magnitude of it. I've always wanted children, but I'd given up on the idea after Marcus made it clear he wasn't interested in being a father."
"And now?" Rhys prompts gently.
"Now I can imagine it," I say, my voice growing stronger as I speak. "I can imagine a baby with Kael's dark hair and stubborn streak, or one with your green eyes and easy charm, or one with Fen's quiet wisdom and gentle heart. I can imagine all of us raising them together, teaching them, loving them."
The words surprise me with their certainty, with how right they feel even as they terrify me with their implications.
"But not right away," I continue quickly. "I want some time for us to settle into this, to make sure we can make the relationship work before we add that kind of complexity."
"That's smart," Kael agrees. "And completely reasonable. There's no rush for any of that."
"But if it happens accidentally?" I ask, because I need to know where we all stand. "If despite precautions, if the bond makes prevention less effective than usual—what then?"
The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with possibility and fear and hope all tangled together.
"Then we figure it out together," Fen says simply. "Same as everything else."
"You wouldn't be doing it alone," Rhys adds. "Any of it. The pregnancy, the birth, the raising—all of it would be shared."
"We'd be good at it," Kael says with quiet confidence. "Not perfect, probably not even close. But we'd love them, and we'd love you, and we'd figure out the rest as we went."
The certainty in his voice, echoed in the faces of the other two, makes my chest tight with emotion. These men, who barely two months ago were strangers, are talking about hypothetical children with the same steady commitment they've shown to everything else about our relationship.
"Okay," I say, my voice thick with unshed tears. "Okay, I can live with that plan."
"Good," Rhys says, reaching over to squeeze my ankle gently. "Because we're really hoping you can live with all of our plans."
The comment makes me laugh despite the emotional intensity of the conversation. "So far so good."
"Speaking of plans," Fen says, shifting slightly so he can see all of our faces, "we should probably talk about the day-to-day stuff too. Chores, responsibilities, how we divide up the domestic labor."
"That's easy," Kael says immediately. "We all contribute equally. Cooking, cleaning, maintenance, errands—everything gets shared."
"What about your writing time?" Rhys asks me. "You'll need space and quiet for that, especially if you're also helping with the business."
The consideration, the automatic assumption that my creative work is important enough to protect and prioritize, makes my heart squeeze with gratitude.
"The spare room upstairs could be converted into an office," I suggest. "It gets good light, and it's far enough from the main living areas that I wouldn't be disturbed by normal household noise."
"Perfect," Fen agrees. "We can set that up next week. Get you a proper desk, good lighting, whatever you need."
"And bookshelves," I add, already envisioning the space. "Lots and lots of bookshelves."
"Obviously," Kael says with mock seriousness. "What kind of monsters do you think we are?"
The easy acceptance, the immediate embrace of my needs and interests as part of their planning, feels like another small miracle. I'm not being asked to fit into their existing life—we're all creating something new together, something that makes space for all of our individual needs and desires.
"There's one more thing," I say, struck by a sudden thought. "What do we tell people? About us, I mean. About how this works."
It's a practical question, but also a deeply personal one. How do we navigate a world that doesn't have easy categories for relationships like ours? How do we handle everything from casual introductions to legal paperwork to family gatherings?
"The truth," Rhys says simply. "As much or as little as any given situation requires, but always the truth."
"Some people won't understand," I point out.
"Some people don't understand lots of things," Kael counters. "That doesn't make those things wrong."
"What about your families?" I ask, suddenly realizing I know almost nothing about their backgrounds, their people, their histories before this house.
The question creates a moment of awkward silence, and I see glances exchanged that suggest complicated histories.
"My parents died when I was young," Fen says quietly. "Car accident. I was raised by my grandmother, and she passed away a few years ago. No siblings, no other close family."
"Mine are not in the picture," Kael says, his voice carrying an edge that suggests painful history. "Haven't been for a long time. By choice—mine and theirs."
Rhys nods understanding. "Similar situation. My family and I have fundamental disagreements about how life should be lived. We're better off keeping our distance."
The admissions make my heart ache for them, for the losses and rejections that shaped them before we found each other. But they also explain something about the fierce loyalty they show each other, the way they've created their own family unit separate from blood relations.
"What about you?" Fen asks gently. "Your family?"
"Complicated," I say with a rueful laugh. "My parents are traditional. Conservative in ways that make conversations about my life choices challenging. I love them, and they love me, but we don't always understand each other."
"Will they accept us?" Rhys asks.
It's a fair question, and one I don't have a clear answer to. My parents struggled with my divorce, saw it as a failure on my part rather than an escape from an unhappy situation. The idea of explaining that I'm now in a relationship with three people simultaneously is enough to make my stomach churn with anxiety.
"I don't know," I admit. "They might surprise me. Or it might be difficult."
We'll figure it out when we get there," Kael says, echoing the theme of our entire conversation. "All of it. Whatever comes up, we'll handle it together."
The simple statement encapsulates everything I love about these men, everything that makes this relationship feel different from anything I've experienced before. They don't have all the answers, don't pretend that love conquers all or that our path forward will be easy. But they're committed to facing whatever challenges arise as a team, as a family, as partners in the truest sense of the word.
"I love you," I say suddenly, the words bursting out before I can second-guess them. "All of you. I love how you think, how you plan, how you make me feel like I belong here."
The smiles that greet this declaration are radiant, transforming all three faces with joy and satisfaction and something deeper that might be relief.
"We love you too," Fen says, speaking for all of them. "More than we probably know how to express."
"Good thing we have time to figure that out too," I say, settling deeper into the couch, into their warmth and presence and the steady certainty of belonging.
Outside, the evening is settling into full darkness, but the house is warm and bright and filled with the kind of contentment I never thought I'd find. We're building something here, something precious and complicated and absolutely worth fighting for.
And as we settle into comfortable silence, bodies intertwined and hearts open, I can feel the future stretching out ahead of us like a promise. Not perfect, not easy, but ours. Built on choice and commitment and the kind of love that creates family from nothing but hope and determination.
The conversation gradually shifts to lighter topics—plans for the weekend, ideas for improving the house, stories from their past that help me understand the men they were before they became the men I love. But underneath it all runs the steady current of certainty, the knowledge that we've made our choice and committed to making it work.
When we finally head upstairs, it's not with the desperate urgency of heat and biological imperative, but with the quiet satisfaction of people who have found their place in the world. We're building something lasting here, something that will weather whatever storms come our way.
And as I settle into sleep surrounded by the warmth and scent and steady breathing of my pack, I know with absolute certainty that I'm exactly where I belong.