21. Shattered Peace
21
SHATTERED PEACE
~KAMARI~
T he words on the page have completely captivated me, drawing me into a world where Omegas find strength through adversity and love conquers cultural barriers.
Kieran's writing style is addictive – the perfect blend of emotional depth and plot complexity that makes it impossible to stop reading.
Knowing that he's the actual author of these books I've treasured adds another layer of meaning to every carefully crafted sentence.
"Why do I have a strong feeling something's brewing and you're not sharing yet?"
Rhett's words barely register at first, my mind still lost in the story's latest plot twist. But something in his tone – a mixture of concern and knowing – finally pulls my attention from the page. I look up just in time to catch Damon pausing mid-pour of what appears to be an expensive whiskey into a crystal tumbler.
The sight shouldn't seem unusual for someone of his status and position.
I imagine many powerful men start their days with aged spirits in crystal glasses worth more than most people's monthly rent. But something about the action feels off – like he's going through familiar motions while his mind wrestles with weightier matters.
His expression maintains its usual calm, that carefully cultivated mask of control that probably serves him well in both boardrooms and criminal enterprises.
There's a subtle tension around his eyes, a barely perceptible tick in his jaw that makes me frown.
"What's wrong?" The question slips out before I can stop it, drawing his golden gaze to mine.
His momentary silence speaks volumes.
The way he seems to consider his response, weighing words with the precision of someone used to having them analyzed for weakness – it tells me everything I need to know about what's coming.
Like it always happens.
The thought carries bitter familiarity. How many perfect moments in my life have been shattered by my father's interference? How many times has peace been stolen by his determination to control every aspect of my existence?
"Let me guess," I say softly, closing the book despite being at such a crucial scene. The weight of it in my hands feels suddenly significant – this piece of art created by an Alpha who sees Omegas as equals rather than possessions, who writes about our struggles with genuine understanding rather than fetishized fantasy.
Just moments ago, I'd been mentally cataloging which of Kieran's books I wanted to read next, planning out a literary journey through his carefully crafted worlds.
The butterflies that had danced in my stomach at the revelation that he was Xavier Knight – the author whose works had given me hope during my darkest moments – now turn to lead weights of dread.
"My Father has already gotten involved and probably wants me home?"
The words taste like ash in my mouth, but they need to be said. Because this is how my story always seems to go – moments of joy interrupted by the long reach of paternal authority, freedom snatched away just as I start to believe I might actually deserve it.
Rhett and Kieran's heads turn in perfect synchronization toward Damon and Ezekiel, their expressions a mixture of concern and brewing anger.
Ezekiel's dark eyes shift questioningly to their leader, watching as Damon lifts the crystal tumbler of whiskey to his lips.
The liquid disappears in one smooth motion, as if the expensive aged spirit were nothing more than a cheap shot instead of what has to be at least half a glass of high-end whiskey on the rocks.
The casual way he treats such fine alcohol speaks volumes about his state of mind – this isn't about appreciation or enjoyment, but necessity.
The empty glass meets the marble island counter behind him with a soft click that somehow manages to sound ominous in the charged atmosphere. His darken eyes sweep across his pack first, something unspoken passing between them all before his gaze finally settles on me.
I brace myself for disappointment, for that look of defeat I've seen so many times before on the faces of those who tried to help me. But Damon's expression remains remarkably composed, almost relaxed – though there's steel in the depths of his darkened eyes, a determination that makes my heart skip.
"Yes," he confirms, his voice carrying that smooth authority that seems as natural to him as breathing. "Rajesh Prava Ahvi has interfered with our official claim to make you our Omega." The way he says my father's full name carries subtle venom. "He's informed us that another pack has proposed you're on a temporary break that would be resolved three days from now."
He pauses, clearly gauging my reaction before adding.
"Two days, since today technically doesn't count, it seems."
I fight to keep my expression neutral despite the heavy weight of disappointment settling in my chest.
It's harder than it should be – years of practice at hiding my emotions crumbling in the face of having hope snatched away yet again. The silence that follows his words feels thick with implications, with all the things that could happen in those two days.
"What did you do to counter them?" Rhett's question carries that dangerous edge I remember from the forest, when he wore a glowing mask and delivered fiery justice.
Damon's lips curve slightly, though the expression holds no real humor.
"I made it very clear we had the intention of marrying Kamari." His tone suggests this was less a statement of intent and more a declaration of war. "But they were very firm with retaliation and further emphasized cultural and spiritual factors that would deem our pack not a good fit for Kamari."
"Cultural and spiritual implications my foot," Ezekiel huffs, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall. "We're ten times more culturally diverse than those bastards." His scowl deepens as he adds, "They're all clearly picked by favoritism and nothing more. Or better yet, ranked by who's the biggest douche bastard of the lot."
The crude assessment of my father's chosen pack draws a surprised laugh from me despite the gravity of the situation. Trust Ezekiel to cut through all the formal posturing and call it exactly what it is — a collection of men chosen not for compatibility or care, but for their willingness to maintain the status quo of male dominance.
The bluntness of his observation somehow makes it easier to breathe, to push back against the crushing weight of inevitability that's been pressing down on my chest since Damon started speaking. Because he's right – this has nothing to do with cultural preservation or spiritual bonds.
It's about power and control, about keeping Omegas submission through tradition and fear.
Looking around at my pack – and when did I start thinking of them as mine? – I see nothing but strength and determination. No defeat, no resignation, no acceptance of my father's interference as final.
Instead, I see four powerful Alphas, each unique in their abilities and influence, united in their desire to protect what they consider theirs.
They consider me worth the trouble I’ve already caused just by our unexpected crossing of paths.
The contrast between them and my father's chosen pack couldn't be more stark.
Where those men seek to diminish and control, these Alphas want to elevate and support. Where that pack would force submission through tradition and fear, this one offers protection through genuine care and respect.
The sunlight streaming through the windows catches the crystal tumbler Damon set down, creating rainbow patterns across the marble counter.
They dance and shift with each slight movement, beautiful and unpredictable – like the hope trying to bloom in my chest despite years of learned caution.
"What exactly were our options despite the obvious emphasis of our motives to claim our princess?" Kieran's question carries that analytical tone he probably uses in high-stakes financial negotiations, already looking for angles and possibilities.
Damon shifts slightly, his posture somehow becoming even more authoritative.
"I made our position absolutely clear regarding Kamari's status as our intended Omega." His golden eyes narrow slightly as he continues. "They presented various cultural and legal obstacles, but I informed them we would be attending their apparent ceremony in two days."
The mention of a ceremony makes me frown, understanding exactly what ritual they're invoking.
"It's called Samarpan Ka Utsav," I explain, the Hindi words feeling heavy on my tongue. "It's basically a public stance of proposal and marriage before a gathering of powerful individuals."
My hands twist in my lap as I elaborate, knowing they need to understand the full implications.
"It's not just any ceremony…it's a display of power and influence. The ultimate approval must come from the leading elder who has the money and power in the industry to back them up."
A bitter smile crosses my lips as I think of how things used to be.
"Before my father, it was my grandmother who held that position of authority." My voice softens as I mention her, memories of her quiet strength and hidden defiance surfacing. "But she fell extremely ill, and to be truthful, I have no idea if she's still with us or not in the land of the living."
The admission hurts more than I expected – this uncertainty about someone who meant so much to me.
"My family practically gatekeeps any information unless it benefits them to share something." The words carry years of frustration and pain, of being cut off from the few people who truly cared about my wellbeing.
Looking around at these men who've shown me more genuine care in twenty-four hours than my father's chosen pack did in years, I feel the familiar weight of resignation settle over me. There's no point fighting against the inevitable. No matter how much they might want to protect me, some traditions are too deeply entrenched to overcome.
A heavy sigh escapes me as I set Kieran's book aside with careful reverence.
"I should get ready to leave," I say quietly, hating how defeat colors my tone. "There's no point fighting the inevitable."
The words taste like ash in my mouth, but they carry the weight of experience.
How many times have I seen hope crushed beneath the wheels of tradition and power? How many others have tried to help me only to be overwhelmed by the sheer force of my father's influence and connections?
These men, powerful as they are, don't understand the intricate web of cultural obligations and spiritual manipulation that my father has spent years weaving.
They can't comprehend how thoroughly he's integrated himself into every aspect of our community's power structure, how carefully he's cultivated his image as a guardian of tradition and proper values.
The ceremony he's planning isn't just about claiming me — it's about making a statement to the entire community. About showing what happens to Omegas who dare to defy their designated path, who try to choose their own destiny instead of accepting what their families arrange for them.
My gaze drifts to the book I've just set aside, to the world of possibility and hope that Kieran created within its pages.
How cruelly ironic that I finally found the author whose words gave me courage, only to have reality remind me why some dreams are better left as fiction.
Rising slowly from my seat, I bow deeply, the gesture carrying all the formal grace my upbringing instilled.
"Thank you for giving me the best twenty-four hours I could ask for, despite the implications." My voice remains steady through sheer force of will. "Your kindness and desire to take care of me is not only acknowledged but leaves me humbly grateful."
Memories flood through me unbidden – every moment from that first encounter at Cardinal's until now.
The way they protected me from hunters in the forest, how they tended my injuries, their genuine interest in my thoughts and feelings. Even these last precious moments, simply reading in comfort while "my" Alphas kept me company, represent everything I thought I'd never experience.
These are memories I can hold onto, I tell myself.
Treasures to clutch close during the dark days ahead. At least I'll know that such tenderness is possible, that not all Alphas view Omegas as property to be controlled. I've had a glimpse of what pack life could be – what it should be – and that knowledge will have to sustain me.
I intend to stand, to walk away with whatever dignity I can muster, but my body feels leaden with defeat. The mere thought of leaving this sanctuary, of walking willingly into what I know awaits me, makes every muscle protest.
I'm aware of the lump forming in my throat, trying to swallow it back because this isn't the time for cowardice.
Dark suede slippers enter my downcast field of vision, followed by gentle hands cupping my cheeks. Then words in Hindi – my birth tongue – float through the air like a loving caress:
"Meri rajkumari, tum kyun ro rahi ho?"
I blink rapidly, the familiar language taking a moment to process.
Ezekiel's question – asking why I'm crying – makes me realize that tears are indeed flowing down my cheeks. His thumbs brush them away with infinite care as I slowly lift my gaze to meet his.
Confusion wars with wonder as I study his face, understanding dawning that he not only speaks my language but pronounces it with the kind of precision that only comes from true cultural immersion.
The realization that he might share my heritage, might truly understand the weight of tradition and expectation I carry, makes something crack inside my carefully maintained composure.
"Main nahi jana chahti jab mera dil itna bhara hua hai," I confess in Hindi, the words carrying more truth than I could express in English.
The admission that I don't want to leave when my heart feels so full breaks something loose inside me.
A quiet sob escapes as I watch his eyes darken with shared pain.
Before I can try to recover my composure, his arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest with protective urgency.
"You're not going anywhere," he declares firmly, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other presses securely against my lower back. "We're not giving up on you."
His voice carries absolute conviction as he continues.
"When Damon said our pack has the intention of marrying you, we meant it. If we only have two days to prove it, then that's what we'll do."
The strength in his embrace matches the determination in his words, offering physical anchor to emotional promise. His scent — that perfect blend of coffee, bourbon, and sandalwood – wraps around me like a protective blanket, while his heartbeat thunders steadily under my ear.
Fresh tears soak into his shirt, but he doesn't seem to mind.
If anything, his hold tightens slightly, as if he can shield me from the world through sheer force of will. The gentle way he rocks us slightly, the soft Hindi endearments he murmurs into my hair — it all speaks of genuine understanding rather than mere comfort.
He's not just an Alpha offering protection to an Omega.
He's someone who comprehends the cultural complexities I'm facing, who recognizes the war between tradition and personal choice that's been raging inside me.
"We are going to fight for you," Ezekiel declares against my hair, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "Though no one else has proven such to you, it's about time a pack does, and we'll keep our word." His arms tighten around me, the gesture protective rather than constraining.
His scent deepens with his emotions, that blend of coffee, bourbon, and sandalwood becoming richer, more intense.
It wraps around me like a security blanket, speaking of safety and understanding in ways words never could. The coffee notes seem sharper now, carrying the same alertness and focus he brings to his detective work, while the bourbon and sandalwood create a foundation of strength and stability.
Another presence enters my personal space as Kieran's arms circle around both Ezekiel and me. His unique aroma of cappuccino, buttery toffee, London Fog tea, and lavender adds new dimensions to the sensory cocoon forming around me.
"We'll tackle this once and for all," he promises, his usually composed voice carrying fierce determination. "So we'll be given the chance to prove to you that you're ours permanently."
The way he says 'ours' makes something deep inside me resonate with recognition. His scent mingles perfectly with Ezekiel's, the coffee notes harmonizing while the other elements create something entirely new yet perfectly balanced.
The lavender should seem out of place among such masculine aromas, but instead it adds a sophisticated edge that's uniquely Kieran.
Rhett joins next, his strong arms wrapping around us from another angle.
"Even if it means getting a little messy to prove a point," he adds, that wild energy he usually contains now focused entirely on protection. His scent – dark chocolate and black cherry mixed with fresh rain, mint, and hints of raw sugar and crushed autumn leaves – completes another layer of our growing sanctuary.
Finally, Damon's presence completes our circle. His scent of aged whiskey, leather-bound books, and real oud weaves through the others with practiced authority.
"You will be our one and only Omega," he emphasizes, each word carrying the weight of unbreakable promise. "Mark my words."
Surrounded by their combined strength, wrapped in this cocoon of protection and promise, I feel something shift inside me.
The resignation that's been my constant companion since childhood starts to crack, letting hope seep through like sunlight through storm clouds. Their scents tell a story my heart wants desperately to believe – one of unity and determination, of four powerful Alphas choosing to fight not just for an Omega, but for me specifically.
The way their aromas blend speaks of perfect compatibility, not just with each other but with my own sweet and spicy notes. Together we create something unprecedented, something that transcends traditional pack dynamics.
This isn't just about protection or possession – it's about completion, about pieces fitting together in ways that were always meant to be.
Standing in their embrace, surrounded by their strength and determination, I let myself truly believe for the first time.
This is what a pack should be…and it’s time to prove it once and for all.