19. A Space To Dare Call Home
19
A SPACE TO DARE CALL HOME
~KAMARI~
T he stairs creak softly under my feet as I make my way down, feeling refreshed after a much-needed shower.
The medication has worked wonders on my headache, though I suspect the three intense rounds of rough sex with Rhett followed by a deep nap probably helped just as much.
Heat floods my cheeks at the memory, and I have to pause on the stairs to collect myself. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours since I walked into Cardinal's, and I've already had my mouth around three different Alphas' cocks.
There's only one left.
The thought makes me groan internally as I try to push away the guilt that threatens to surface.
I'm not what my father loved to call me – not some whore destined to spread my legs for anyone with enough money or power. These choices were mine, made with full awareness and consent.
Still, the speed of it all makes my head spin. Going from carefully controlled celibacy at the Safe Haven to being thoroughly claimed by multiple Alphas in less than a day...it should feel wrong.
Should make me question my own worth, my own morality.
But it doesn't.
Despite the unexpected and admittedly impulsive decisions to let these men pleasure me – to pleasure them in return – I don't feel degraded. There's nothing shameful about choosing to explore connections that feel genuine, that spark something real inside me.
I'm being safe about it...
The thought trails off as I remember one crucial detail: my heat suppressants are still at the Safe Haven. A frown creases my brow as I consider the implications.
Great.
Pushing the worry aside for now, I continue my descent.
The oversized t-shirt I borrowed from Rhett falls halfway down my thighs, the words "RACING PLAYER 1" shifting from neon blue to red across the black fabric with each movement. It's about as far from my usual carefully coordinated outfits as possible, especially with my hair falling loose in soft waves instead of being neatly styled.
The only concession to my normal appearance is the lightly tinted red lipstick I applied – just enough to bring some life back to my face since I don't have access to my usual products. They might be light coverage, but they're effective at making me look put together even on my worst days.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, voices drift from what must be the living room. The tone immediately alerts me to some kind of tension, drawing me forward despite my uncertainty about interrupting.
"They put her on a list. Meaning it's my duty as a detective to watch her." Ezekiel's voice carries that authoritative edge I remember from the forest, though it's tempered with something that sounds almost like concern.
"She's not a puppy that needs 24/7 monitoring," Damon argues, clear annoyance coloring his tone. I peek around the corner just in time to see him giving Ezekiel a pointed side-eye before taking a long drag from his cigar.
The smoke curls around him like a living thing, adding to his already imposing presence.
Even in what appears to be casual clothing – though I suspect his idea of "casual" still costs more than my entire wardrobe – he radiates authority and danger in equal measure.
"Her safety is the priority," Ezekiel insists, his voice carrying that edge of authority that probably serves him well in interrogation rooms.
He paces the length of what appears to be an extremely expensive Persian rug, each step precise despite his obvious agitation.
"Especially when her ex-soon-to-be husband or whatever the fuck we're calling Maharaja had every intention of selling her out to any horny Alpha desperate to have her because of this movement."
Damon exhales a perfect smoke ring, watching it dissipate before responding. His casual posture in the leather armchair belies the tension I can sense beneath his controlled exterior.
"It's not like I'm suggesting we abandon her to the wolves. We have every intention of making her ours." His dark eyes narrow slightly as he taps ash into what looks like a crystal ashtray. "But guarding her like she's some prized golden retriever puppy who can't even use the washroom alone? That's fucking foolish."
"She literally got kidnapped while she was in the washroom!" Ezekiel spins to face him, gesturing sharply with one hand. "While you and Kieran were enjoying your evening with her, I might add."
From his position by a floor-to-ceiling window, Kieran's mismatched eyes glint with amusement.
"I'm hearing a lot of jealousy in that tone, detective." His smile carries a knowing edge that makes Ezekiel's jaw clench.
"Perhaps if you'd been faster accepting your attraction to her, you could have joined us."
“I was working!” Ezekiel exclaims as if it was obvious. “I didn’t know this one,” he pauses to purposely point to Damon. “Was a jealous prick. Actually. I take that back. I know he’s a jealous mother fucker, which is why he sent Mr. Nascar Stalker to go search for the Omega in the saree running the streets and somehow he fucking found her!”
Ah. So did they bump into Ezekiel after we’d crashed into each other and he’d mentioned me? Maybe that could have been why they found me right when I was in need of a helping hand.
A deep chuckle draws my attention to where Rhett leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes his muscles ripple beneath his shirt. He blends so effortlessly with the dark space in the corner like he has no intention of joining this conversation unless necessary.
He adds no commentary to the convo, which only seems to agitate Ezekiel further.
"Stop fucking laughing!" He points accusingly at Rhett. "Mr. Go-Against-Doctor's-Orders after I EMPHASIZED we shouldn't engage in strenuous activity with her! The medical implications alone?—"
"I regret nothing." Rhett's shrug carries zero remorse, his emerald eyes practically glowing with satisfaction. "If you have a problem with it, you can fuck right off."
Kieran's smirk grows wider as he watches the exchange, clearly enjoying the way Ezekiel's professional demeanor cracks slightly. The usually composed detective runs a hand through his hair, messing up the carefully styled strands.
"This conversation isn't going anywhere!" Ezekiel's frustration bleeds through every word. "We need a concrete plan, not this circular argument about?—"
"The priority," Damon interrupts smoothly, taking another long drag from his cigar, "is protecting Kamari from Maharaja's obvious intention of feeding her to the city's desperate Alphas." The smoke curls around him like a living thing as he continues. "This movement has created a powder keg of unmated Alphas willing to do anything for an Omega. It's not rocket science."
His words hang in the air, heavy with implication.
The Knot Their Omega Movement might be revolutionizing rights for Omegas, but it's also highlighted just how few of us there are. How many Alphas are left without mates, growing more desperate and dangerous with each passing day.
"The Safe Haven was supposed to be exactly that," Ezekiel argues, his voice dropping lower. "Safe. But he found her anyway. Had people watching her movements, tracking her routine." His hand clenches into a fist at his side. "We can't underestimate the resources he's willing to pour into reclaiming what he sees as his property."
The word 'property' makes Damon's eyes flash dangerously.
"She was never his property to begin with." Just the emphasis of his words sends a shiver through me."And if he survived that car fire, he'll learn exactly what happens to those who try to claim what belongs to us."
If he survived…so they’re not sure either.
Kieran pushes away from the window, moving with that predatory grace that seems natural to him.
"Speaking of the fire," he glances at Rhett, "that was quite a show. Though perhaps not as subtle as we usually prefer."
"Subtle went out the window the moment he put his hands on her." Rhett's voice carries that dangerous edge I remember from the forest. "He's lucky I made it quick."
"Quick isn't the word I'd use for burning someone alive," Kieran muses, though his tone suggests approval rather than criticism. "Creative, certainly. Memorable, definitely. But quick?"
"Can we focus?" Ezekiel pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly trying to maintain his professional composure. "Whether Maharaja survived or not is actually relevant to this discussion. If he's alive, his resources and connections become an immediate threat. If he's dead, we need to prepare for whatever power vacuum that creates in his organization."
"His organization," Damon cuts in, "won't be a problem." The certainty in his voice draws everyone's attention. "I've already made arrangements to ensure his business interests are...redirected appropriately."
The implications in those words make my skin prickle.
I'm beginning to understand just how much power Damon truly wields in this city – not just in the criminal underworld, but in the legitimate business sphere as well.
"That still leaves us with the immediate security concerns," Ezekiel presses, refusing to be deterred. "The Black Serpent Pack may have retreated for now, but they're not the only hunters in these woods. Every desperate Alpha in the city will see her as prime territory now that Maharaja's claim has been challenged."
"Let them try." Rhett's words carry deadly promise. "I've been looking for an excuse to test some new modifications to my car anyway."
"Not everything can be solved with street racing and arson," Ezekiel snaps, though there's a hint of fondness beneath his exasperation. "We need proper protocols in place. Security measures that account for every possibility."
"And we'll have them," Damon assures him, stubbing out his cigar with deliberate precision. "But not at the cost of her freedom. She's had enough cages in her life.” It sounds odd to hear someone not only acknowledge the ultimate truth of my life from the outside lens looking in but to be stern about the objective of not contributing to such agony. “We won't become another one."
The sentiment makes something warm bloom in my chest.
Even in their argument about how to protect me, they're considering my autonomy and my need for independence.
It's so different from how my father or Maharaja approached security – their idea of protection was simply another form of imprisonment.
"Balance," Kieran suggests, ever the voice of reason. "We establish necessary security measures while ensuring she maintains her independence. It's not impossible. We've managed similar arrangements for high-profile clients before."
"She's not a client," Rhett growls, pushing off the wall to stand at his full height. "She's our Omega. Or she will be, once we make it official."
The possessiveness in his voice makes my core clench with need, memories of how thoroughly he claimed me earlier flooding back. But it's more than just physical attraction –—there's genuine care in how they discuss my situation, real concern for both my safety and my happiness.
"Hungry?" Rhett's voice carries across the space, making the others suddenly aware of my presence at the stairs.
I slowly peek out from my hiding spot, feeling heat rush to my cheeks at being discovered.
"I wasn't trying to eavesdrop," I explain quickly, fidgeting with the hem of his borrowed shirt. "I just... didn't want to interrupt the conversation."
"If you want to listen in, that's perfectly fine." Rhett pushes away from his position, moving toward me with long, effortless strides that somehow manage to appear both casual and purposeful. "This is about you, after all."
He reaches me in moments, those large palms coming up to cup my cheeks with surprising gentleness.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment everything else fades away – the others' presence, the weight of the previous discussion, even my own lingering uncertainties. All that exists is the warmth of his hands and the intensity of his emerald gaze.
"How are you feeling?" The question carries genuine concern beneath its casual delivery.
I blush deeper but maintain eye contact, finding strength in the connection between us.
“A lot better than before. No headache or anything." My lips curl into a small smile. "The medicine helped a lot. Thank you."
His responding smirk carries wicked promise.
"I know my treatments work like a charm."
"I wasn't talking about that!" I gasp, heat flooding my face as I catch his meaning.
His deep chuckle vibrates through me, but before I can protest further, he leans down to capture my lips in a surprisingly tender kiss.
The gentleness of it catches me off guard — there's none of the fierce passion from earlier, just pure affection that makes my heart flutter.
I respond instinctively, melting into the contact as my hands come up to rest against his chest.
His scent wraps around me like a protective blanket, that combination of dark chocolate and black cherry making my head spin in the best possible way. The mint undertone seems sharper now, more pronounced, while the raw sugar note makes me want to chase the taste of him.
"Since when did Rhett become a romantic?" Ezekiel's incredulous voice breaks through our bubble. "The fucker can barely get a girl's number."
Kieran's response carries that knowing tone I'm beginning to associate with him.
"It's not that he couldn't get numbers. He simply wasn't interested to begin with."
"She's the girl Rhett was infatuated with at nineteen," Damon adds casually, though his golden eyes miss nothing as they track our interaction.
"Wait, seriously?" Ezekiel's gasp holds genuine surprise.
Rather than respond directly, Rhett releases my face only to capture my hand in his. His grip is firm but gentle as he guides me toward the kitchen island, which sits adjacent to where Damon lounges in his armchair and Ezekiel stands with his arms crossed.
Kieran moves to join us, selecting a stool at the end of the island while Rhett effortlessly pulls out another seat with his free hand.
Before I can make any move to sit myself, his hands are on my waist, lifting me onto the stool as if I weigh nothing at all.
The casual display of strength should probably bother me — I'm perfectly capable of sitting down on my own, after all. But there's something about his careful manhandling that sends pleasant shivers down my spine.
It's possessive without being controlling, protective without being suffocating.
The intimacy of it all feels natural, right in a way I can't quite explain.
Others might question it, and might see his actions as overly dominant or controlling. But I understand the truth of it — this isn't about control or submission.
It's about trust, about letting someone care for you because they want to, not because they're trying to prove their dominance.
"Yes," Rhett confirms, his expression softening slightly as he recalls the memory. "We met unexpectedly when I was following my brother around while he was doing his business deals and such."
His emerald eyes find mine, carrying a mix of fondness and something darker.
"Your father still a douche?"
A groan escapes me as I roll my eyes.
"Yeah. He still sucks."
Rhett nods as if this confirms something for him, moving toward the professional-grade stove with purposeful strides.
The motion draws my attention to the fluidity of his movements – there's an easy grace to him now that I don't remember from our youth. Years of racing have clearly honed his natural athleticism into something more refined.
Ezekiel glances between us, seeming to read volumes in our casual exchange. With a resigned sigh, he heads to the massive stainless steel refrigerator, apparently willing to assist with whatever culinary plans Rhett has in mind.
The domestic scene feels surreal given their earlier heated discussion about my safety.
"How's your brother?" The question slips out before I can stop it, memories of the older sibling Rhett used to mention surfacing.
"Six feet under," Rhett replies with casual detachment, not even looking up from the frying pan he's retrieving.
My jaw drops at the revelation, horror, and sympathy warring in my chest. But before I can offer condolences, Kieran's smooth voice cuts through the tension.
"Don't concern yourself with pitying him," he advises, those mismatched eyes carrying complete conviction. "He deserved it."
The stark declaration makes me pout slightly, uncertainty creeping in.
My gaze drifts to Damon, who's been quietly observing our interaction while enjoying his cigar. I look at him as if he has all the answers, which maybe he does, but it shouldn’t be expected.
I’m just following my instincts I guess.
He meets my questioning look with consideration, taking a long drag before deciding to satisfy my obvious curiosity.
"He tried to sell Rhett to some Alphas abroad," Damon explains, his golden eyes darkening with remembered rage.
"W-W-What?" Horror crashes through me as I look around at all four of them, trying to process this revelation. Ezekiel has paused in his task of pouring some water over ice in a tall glass, his expression grim.
"The fucker was a gold-digging Alpha who would do or sell anyone to gain profit," Ezekiel elaborates, his professional detachment slipping slightly as anger colors his tone. Setting the glass down, he leans against the counter and begins breaking down the criminal enterprise that had nearly claimed Rhett.
"There's an entire underground network dedicated to trafficking both Omegas and Alphas," he explains, his detective training evident in how he structures the information. "Each level feeds into the next, creating a self-sustaining cycle of exploitation that benefits packs lacking what they consider proper balance."
His eyes meet mine as he continues, making sure I understand the gravity of what he's describing.
"At the top, you have the wealthy established packs – old money, traditional values, extensive political connections. They're usually looking for very specific traits in their acquisitions. Particular ethnicities, certain physical characteristics, specific backgrounds or education levels."
The clinical way he describes it makes my stomach turn, but I force myself to listen. This is my world too, after all – the dark underbelly of our supposedly civilized society.
"Below them are the middleman packs," Ezekiel continues, his voice taking on a harder edge. "They handle the actual acquisition and transportation. These are usually packs with military or law enforcement backgrounds, who know how to move 'merchandise' without attracting attention. They're also responsible for 'training' their acquisitions to meet buyer specifications."
The way he says 'training' makes my skin crawl, understanding exactly what kind of conditioning he's referring to.
How many Omegas have disappeared into that system, broken down and rebuilt to match some pack's idea of perfection?
"Then you have the scouts. Smaller packs or individuals who identify potential targets. They monitor safe havens, universities, and anywhere they might find unmated Omegas or Alphas that match current market demands. The more unique the target, the higher the potential payout."
His gaze flickers to Rhett briefly before returning to me.
"Mixed heritage Alphas like Rhett command especially high prices. Some packs believe combining different bloodlines creates stronger offspring. Others just want the exotic appeal of having something rare in their collection."
The casualness with which he discusses treating people like commodities makes bile rise in my throat, but I force it down.
This is information I need to understand – knowledge that could mean the difference between freedom and captivity.
"Every pack involved gets a cut of the final sale," Ezekiel's voice carries years of frustrated investigation in its tone. "The scouts get finder's fees. The transporters get handling charges. The trainers get conditioning bonuses. By the time someone reaches their final destination, they've passed through so many hands that tracing the original source becomes nearly impossible."
His explanation paints a picture of organized crime that transcends typical pack politics. This isn't just about power or territory – it's about treating people as products, about reducing lives to monetary value.
"The system works because it meets multiple needs," he continues, his detective's analytical mind laying out the brutal economics. "Packs seeking Omegas get carefully conditioned mates who match their specifications. Packs wanting additional Alphas get fighters or breeders with desired traits. Even Beta packs can profit by acting as middlemen or providing support services."
The comprehensiveness of the network he describes is terrifying.
How many people disappear into this system every year? How many lives are erased and rewritten to satisfy the demands of wealthy packs seeking to expand their influence?
"But what makes it truly difficult to combat," Ezekiel concludes, frustration evident in his tone, "is how it's often disguised as legitimate pack expansion. Official paperwork lists consensual pack mergers or traditional arranged marriages. Financial transactions are hidden behind shell companies and fake business deals. Unless someone speaks out – and survives doing so – it's nearly impossible to prove criminal intent."
His words hang heavy in the kitchen's air, making the expensive appliances and designer fixtures seem suddenly hollow.
All this wealth, all this supposed civilization, and underneath it runs rivers of suffering masked as tradition and proper pack politics.
"That's horrible," I say softly, though I can't quite muster genuine surprise. "But sadly expected." My fingers trace patterns in the condensation forming on the counter's marble surface as I gather my thoughts. "I was actually talking to my best friend about the Movement and its implications recently."
The memory of my last conversation with Astraea brings both comfort and concern.
We'd spent hours discussing the potential impacts of the new legislation, weighing hope against reality.
"Of course the Movement benefits many Omegas who are dealing with abuse," I continue, choosing my words carefully. "Those of us who've never had the ability to stand up for our own rights. But with how violently some Alphas have reacted to it..."
My voice trails off as I remember the hunters in the forest, their casual brutality.
"I'm afraid to wonder whether it's truly helpful or not."
Damon taps ash from his cigar with deliberate precision, his golden eyes carrying centuries of understanding.
"It will be helpful in the long run," he states with absolute certainty. "Initial change is always met with rebellion. The key is for the government to remain bold and stand their ground." His lips curve slightly. "Which they will."
The conviction in his voice catches my attention.
"How can you be so sure?"
Instead of answering directly, Damon's gaze shifts to Kieran, who responds with a knowing smirk.
"Money makes the world go round," Kieran explains, his mismatched eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Multiple wealthy figures in our hierarchy are contributing to this movement. The media hyper-focused on the Omega contributors, but they're suspiciously quiet about the Alphas who've also invested."
My brow furrows as I consider this.
The news has been full of stories about wealthy Omegas supporting the Movement – their contributions cited as either brave stands for justice or betrayals of traditional values, depending on the source. But Kieran's right – there's been little mention of Alpha supporters.
"Who could have contributed that much?" I wonder aloud, genuinely curious about what kind of Alpha would publicly support Omega rights.
Ezekiel approaches with a tall glass of water, nudging his head toward Kieran as he hands it to me.
"Thanks," I murmur automatically, suddenly realizing how thirsty I am. The glass feels perfectly cool against my palm as I lift it to my lips.
"Kieran was one of the contributors," Ezekiel reveals casually. "Ten billion."
Water sprays from my mouth in a most unladylike display as I process his words. My eyes dart to Kieran, who looks entirely too amused by my reaction.
"WHAT?!" The word comes out as a squeak. "T-T-T-T-TEN BILLION?! Not million? BILLION?!"
The amount seems incomprehensible.
I've grown up around wealth, and seen the kind of luxury that old money can buy. But ten billion dollars is another level entirely – the kind of wealth that doesn't just open doors but builds and demolishes entire buildings at whim.
My mind races as I try to process the implications. Ten billion dollars invested in Omega rights – not just supporting the movement but essentially guaranteeing its success through sheer financial force.
The kind of backing that could weather any opposition, that could ensure the new laws have real teeth instead of being mere symbolic gestures.
The casual way Kieran sits there, looking perfectly relaxed while I'm having an existential crisis over his casual donation, only emphasizes the surreal nature of this revelation.
He's wearing what looks like a simple black sweater, though I'm sure it probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Nothing about his appearance screams 'I could buy a small country if I wanted.'
Yet he just dropped ten billion dollars into a cause that most Alphas are fighting against.
An Alpha publicly supporting Omega rights is controversial enough – but an Alpha with that kind of financial power doing so? That would shake the very foundations of our carefully stratified society.
It wouldn’t be safe to reveal his identity when it comes to such a contribution. For multiple reasons.
My gaze darts between the four men, seeing them in an entirely new light. I knew they were wealthy – everything about this house screams old money and expensive tastes even without me getting to take in the details with the low-lighting ambience.
What must it be like to have that kind of power?
To be able to casually write a check that could fund entire government departments? To look at systematic oppression and decide to dismantle it not through violence or revolution, but through carefully applied financial pressure?
The water I'd sprayed across the counter seems to mock me – such an undignified reaction to what is apparently a casual revelation for them. But how else should one respond when discovering they're sitting in a kitchen with someone who could probably buy the entire city if he wanted to?
And if Kieran has this kind of wealth, what about the others?
Damon's criminal empire clearly generates significant income, but how deep do those resources really go? Ezekiel's position as a detective suggests more modest means, but there's nothing modest about his clothing or bearing. Even Rhett, with his professional racing career and obvious success from all the medals, trophies, and hung achievements, carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who never has to worry about financial constraints.
Combined…they’re probably more powerful than my father. Would they want to even take him down? What would they even get out of it?
The question echoes in my mind as I stare at Kieran, trying to reconcile the quiet, sophisticated Alpha who held me so gently at Cardinals with someone capable of casually investing ten billion dollars in societal change.
A gentle touch to my forehead breaks through my spiraling thoughts. I look up with a slight pout to find Ezekiel standing over me, carefully dabbing at my lips with a napkin.
The tenderness of the gesture catches me off guard, making me blink as I emerge from my daze.
"Why are you so surprised?" he asks softly, his dark eyes studying my expression with careful attention.
The question makes me pause, considering how to explain a lifetime of conditioning in a way they might understand.
"I've always been around those who despise Omegas," I begin slowly, each word carrying the weight of years of observation. "My entire culture revolves around the benefits Omegas can provide – how a man can lead, benefit, grow, and become someone better through owning us."
The napkin in Ezekiel's hand stills as I continue, his attention fully focused on my words.
"It's ingrained in how I've grown up, present in every aspect of life I've witnessed. So to meet a pack who has power, and wealth, but actually wants Omegas, and others, to thrive in our unfair society?" I shake my head slightly. "It's shocking."
My fingers trace the edge of the water glass, watching condensation gather beneath my touch.
"As a woman, we're already at a disadvantage. We have to be humbling to our husbands, submit in all aspects." The bitterness creeps into my voice despite my attempts to maintain composure. "Learn to cook, clean, and please a man. These expectations are drilled into your head at such an early age."
The sound of bacon sizzling provides a strange counterpoint to my words as I force myself to continue.
"If you become rebellious in the home, it's your own family members that will 'teach' you a lesson before you can disgrace them outside the family walls."
My gaze drifts across the luxurious kitchen, taking in the evidence of wealth and sophistication that surrounds us.
How different from the gilded cages I grew up in, where every luxury came with strings attached, every comfort designed to remind us of our place.
"I never necessarily got punished," I admit, a hint of old guilt coloring the words. "My rebellion wasn't done against family. My rebellion was leaving the home and exploring the world to get away." My eyes find Rhett's back where he stands at the stove, his movements precise as he tends to what smells like eggs and bacon. "And obviously those came with consequences."
The memory of what happened to him because of my choices makes my chest tight.
I know he's listening, even as he maintains his focus on cooking. The muscles in his back seem to tense slightly at my words, though his movements remain smooth and controlled.
"But other Omegas didn't get it as lucky as I did." The words come faster now, years of witnessed trauma pushing to be acknowledged. "My family members…the males anyway…feared my father enough not to touch me in any way, especially sexually." The word tastes like ash in my mouth. "But most Omegas don't have that luxury at all."
My hands clench around the water glass as I force myself to speak truths usually left in shadows."
Their first touch is by their uncles, cousins, or..." my voice catches before steadying, "...or dare I say their own fathers."
The sizzle of bacon provides the only sound as I continue, each word carrying the weight of countless whispered confessions heard in dark corners.
"It's disgusting and should be looked down upon if not punished, but who's going to lay justice on you when the world thrives on male domination?"
Silence falls over the kitchen, heavy with the implications of my words.
The only sounds are the quiet pop of cooking bacon and the subtle whoosh of the expensive ventilation system. Even Damon's cigar seems to have paused mid-burn as if the smoke itself is holding its breath.
My words hang in the air like a challenge – not to these men specifically, but to the system that allows such abuse to continue.
To the traditions that mask violation as education, that transform family into something to be feared rather than cherished.
"Nothing is really going to change a tradition of men being raised that way," I shrug, the gesture carrying years of resigned observation. "Sure, these laws will be a start. A forced start that they'll have to follow in order to continue benefiting in this world that has always made it easy for them to thrive and prosper."
My fingers trace abstract patterns in the condensation on my water glass as I continue.
"But there will be plenty who do things behind closed doors. It'll take a long time to reinforce consequences." A small, bitter smile tugs at my lips. "Though this is a good start. It'll force people to learn and realize there doesn't need to be some sort of goal or fetish in making Omegas suffer simply because they were born to be one and not a normal female that doesn't react to an Alpha's closeness."
"You're right," Damon interjects, his golden eyes carrying centuries of understanding. "But we can start small and lead by example."
A frown creases my brow as I process his words.
"You wouldn't possibly announce you have an Omega." The idea seems so absurd that a quiet laugh escapes me as I shake my head. Men like them – powerful, wealthy, established – they don't publicly claim Omegas. They keep them hidden away, protected or imprisoned depending on your perspective.
But Damon's head tilts slightly, genuine intrigue crossing his features. "Why not?" The question hangs in the air for a moment before he continues, his voice carrying that smooth authority that seems as natural as breathing to him. "Allow me to properly introduce myself. I'm Damon Castellano, CEO of Castellano Industries and majority shareholder in over thirty international corporations."
His casual recitation of credentials makes my eyes widen, but he's not finished.
"My business interests span technology, pharmaceuticals, real estate, and several other sectors that prefer discretion. The media likes to paint me as a criminal mastermind." A slight smirk plays on his lips. "They're not entirely wrong."
My mouth goes dry as I process the implications. I knew he was powerful, but this level of influence – both legitimate and underground – is staggering.
Damon's gaze shifts to Kieran, who takes his cue with elegant precision.
"Kieran Blackthorn," he introduces himself formally, those mismatched eyes gleaming. "Founder of Blackthorn Financial Group, which manages approximately $850 billion in assets globally. I also run several private investment funds and hold controlling interest in various media outlets." His smile carries a knowing edge. "That ten billion contribution? Barely touched my quarterly earnings."
The casual way he mentions amounts of money that could fund small nations makes my head spin. But before I can fully process it, Ezekiel steps forward.
"Detective Ezekiel Cross," he states, his bearing somehow both professional and predatory. "Youngest detective to reach Special Crimes Division. Currently head of Alpha-Omega Relations Task Force and liaison to federal agencies for pack-related investigations." His dark eyes hold mine as he adds, "With the highest solve rate in department history."
The implications of his position sink in slowly.
He's not just any detective – he's THE detective, the one whose name carries weight in both legal and criminal circles. The fact that he handles pack relations specifically adds another layer of significance to his interest in me.
Movement draws my attention as Rhett approaches, setting down a perfectly arranged plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes before me.
The domestic gesture seems at odds with the power plays happening around us, but his next words prove he's every bit as established as the others.
"Rhett 'Blaze' Holloway," he introduces himself, though his emerald eyes carry warmth when they meet mine. "Five-time International Racing Champion, current record holder in both Formula One and street circuit championships." His hand rests possessively on the back of my chair as he continues. "And I have absolutely no problem telling the world you're our Omega if it keeps you alive and safe."
The casual way he references both professional racing and street competitions speaks volumes about how he moves between legitimate and underground worlds. Like the others, he seems to exist in multiple spheres of influence simultaneously, commanding respect in both legal and shadowy circles.
Looking at them now, their various powers and influences laid bare, I begin to understand the true scope of what they're offering.
This isn't just about protection or passion – though both are clearly present. This is about creating a statement, about using their combined influence to reshape how Omegas are viewed in our society.
Damon's criminal empire provides muscle and underground connections.
Kieran's financial power offers legitimate backing and media control.
Ezekiel's position ensures legal protection and official oversight.
Rhett's racing career adds public appeal and street credibility.
Together, they represent a perfect storm of influence – capable of affecting change through multiple channels simultaneously.
By publicly claiming an Omega and treating her as an equal partner, they wouldn't just be making a personal statement. They'd be setting a precedent that others would be forced to acknowledge.
The food before me steams gently, perfectly prepared, and plated with obvious care. But my appetite has been replaced by a different kind of hunger – a growing understanding of just how much power sits in this kitchen, and what it might mean to have it directed toward revolutionizing Omega rights.
A threat that could influence a revolution against the sole individual who’s always made it his mission to make my life hell.
"But...my father..." The words escape me quietly, carrying all my lingering fears and doubts.
"We will handle him," Damon states with simple finality.
He uncrosses his legs and rises from his chair with fluid grace, allowing me to fully appreciate how his expensive suit emphasizes his commanding presence. He moves to the opposite side of where Ezekiel stands, cigar still held elegantly in one hand as he picks up my fork with the other.
I watch, fascinated, as he cuts into the stack of pancakes, selecting a perfect bite dripping with syrup and crowned with plump blueberries.
Our eyes meet as I look up at him, and something electric passes between us. I'm not sure if I'm being intentionally seductive, but I can see my effect on him in the way his pupils dilate with obvious hunger.
There's something deeper in his golden gaze – a challenge, a test, a moment that carries more significance than simple breakfast.
Understanding flows between us without words as I part my lips, accepting the offered bite with deliberate grace.
The pancake melts on my tongue, a perfect balance of sweetness and texture that, combined with my genuine hunger, draws an appreciative moan from my throat.
"Fuck. This is good," I groan, looking at my plate with newfound reverence.
Glancing up, I catch all four men watching me with expressions that have nothing to do with food. Heat floods my cheeks as I realize the effect my innocent sound had on them.
Ezekiel groans, running a hand through his hair.
"If you make that noise again, I'm going to die of a boner."
"Yeah," Kieran snickers, though his mismatched eyes carry genuine heat. "That sound made me hard."
"I didn't mean to!" I stutter, mortified yet somehow pleased by their reactions. "T-T-The food is just good, that's all!"
Rhett moves smoothly into Ezekiel's vacated spot, taking the fork from Damon's grasp. He cuts another perfect bite, offering it to me with a defiant smirk.
"Eat up, Trouble," he encourages with a wink that makes my core clench. "If we're going to have a marathon of who can last longer with you in the house, it'll be best you ate before the shenanigans."
"Shenanigans?!" The word comes out as a shriek.
Kieran's quiet chuckle draws my attention. "You clearly lost that race, Rhett. You caved first and she couldn't even leave the room."
"Can you blame me?" Rhett counters, unashamed of his lack of restraint.
Kieran shrugs, a slight smile playing at his lips.
"No."
"I need air," Ezekiel declares, clearly reaching his limit. "For my own sanity."
Damon's rich chuckle fills the space as he moves to follow. "I'll join you to finish my cigar. Wouldn't want to taint the prestigious porcelain wallpaper with smoke." He pauses, giving me a look that makes my insides melt. "I'll be back. Make sure you finish all your food."
"Okay," I agree softly, earning an approving smile.
"She will," Rhett assures them, his presence warm and solid beside me. "I'll make sure of it."
I turn to give him a defiant look, but he counters it with pure Alpha authority.
"Our Omega wouldn't go against what their Alpha wants, hm?"
The words bypass all my usual resistance, making me cave almost instantly. Something primal in me responds to his tone, to the possessive way he says 'our Omega.'
Kieran rises gracefully, crossing to press a kiss to my cheek with effortless affection.
"Eat," he encourages softly. "If you want more, we can make you more or anything else you desire."
A smile spreads across my face as warmth floods my chest.
This – this is what I've always wanted. Not the wealth or power they represent, but this simple moment of normalcy. The casual affection, the playful banter, the genuine care for my wellbeing.
This is what pack life should be. Not the rigid hierarchy and forced submission I grew up witnessing, but this natural flow of authority and affection.
These men don't demand my obedience – they earn it through genuine care and protection. They don't seek to diminish me but to elevate me, to make me truly part of their unit.
Looking around at them – Rhett's protective presence beside me, Kieran's gentle affection, Damon and Ezekiel's careful attention even as they step outside – I feel something settle in my soul.
This is the balance I've read about in romance novels but never truly believed could exist.
Four powerful Alphas who don't compete for dominance over me but work together to ensure my happiness and safety.
Is this how it’s supposed to flow when it’s right? So effortlessly without a worry of second-guessing your choices?
For the first time since fleeing my wedding, since seeking refuge in the Safe Haven, I feel truly at home in a place I haven’t even gotten to explore yet.
Not because of the luxurious surroundings or their obvious wealth, but because of how natural it feels to be here with them.
How right it feels to be their Omega, to be claimed not as property but as an essential part of their pack.