5. Finn
Chapter 5
Finn
T he kitchen feels emptier after Stone leaves. Strange how the absence of just one person can make such a large space feel like it’s collapsing in on itself. My hands remain braced against the sink’s edge, shoulders hunched as if they could shield my heart from the familiar ache of rejection.
Four perfectly plated dinners sit on the counter behind me, steam still rising from the herb-crusted chicken. The rosemary’s earthy scent mingles with the buttery aroma of fresh bread, a combination that used to draw my alphas home. Now it just highlights their absence.
I should move. Should at least cover the food before it gets cold. But my body feels leaden, weighted down by the hollow echo of Stone’s retreating footsteps. A perimeter alert. Right. As if we both don’t know that’s just an excuse.
The bread is done and the timer on the oven chirps insistently, demanding attention I can’t seem to muster. I’ve spent three hours preparing this meal, each ingredient carefully selected and prepared. As if perfect execution could somehow fix what’s broken between us.
My hands shake as I finally straighten, the tremors I fought so hard to hide from Stone now free to surface. The wooden spoon I’d been clutching clatters against the granite countertop, the sound sharp in the empty kitchen.
“Fuck.” My throat closes up. Stupid fucking omega hormones. I won’t cry.
I refuse to.
The hot sting of tears threatens anyway, but I blink them back. Crying won’t change anything. Won’t make my alphas want to stay.
Moving on autopilot, I begin the familiar ritual of dealing with another abandoned meal. Plastic wrap over perfectly seared chicken that will end up in tomorrow’s lunch. Fresh bread that will go stale before anyone thinks to eat it. My fingers brush against the garnish I’d arranged so carefully—fresh herbs from the garden I tend alone now.
A bitter laugh escapes before I can catch it. Here I am, a male omega pushing well over average height, playing at being the perfect homemaker. I tower over other omegas—female and even the rarer males like me—and I lack the delicate build that alphas instinctively want to protect. Even my hands are wrong—too large, too rough from years of kitchen work and gardening.
The pack bond pulses dully in my chest as Stone moves further away. I know exactly where he’s headed. The cabin. His sanctuary from us. From me .
I discovered it by accident almost two years ago, when the emptiness of the house drove me to follow him one night. The shame of that memory still burns—me, skulking through the woods like some lovesick teenager, watching through the windows as Stone found peace in solitude rather than his omega’s presence.
How far we’ve fallen from those early days when Ren’s intensity at that charity gala had made me feel like the only omega in the world. He’d stationed himself by the exit, those ice-blue eyes following my every move until I finally dared to approach him. I’d been so na?ve then, thinking his possessiveness was romantic. He’d called me every day, checking how I was, asking me about my day, even stopping by. And when he’d introduced me to Jax and Stone the following week, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. Three gorgeous alphas wanting to court me. It all happened so fast, like a dream I was afraid to wake from.
My fingers clench around a dinner plate, knuckles white with sudden anger. All those promises. All those sweet words. And now? Now I’m lucky if we even have something as simple as dinner together.
The plate trembles in my grasp. Setting it down before I drop it, I lean against the counter and try to steady my breathing. The bond mark on my neck tingles—Jax’s bite, deepened by Stone and Ren in turn. “It’ll be fine,” Ren had said, eyes bright with conviction. “You’ll be perfect for us.”
Perfect. The word tastes like vomit now.
I’d been too overwhelmed by their attention, too desperate to belong, to see what was right in front of me. To be honest…I don’t know why they chose me.
This morning, Jax had left coffee by my nest. Still hot, and made exactly how I like it. Those little gestures hurt most—proof they remember how to care for me, even as they pull away. It’s the crumbs of affection that keep my hope alive, even when hope itself has become a form of self-torture.
The kitchen’s warmth suddenly feels stifling. I finish wrapping the plates of food before moving to the window. Outside, the grounds of the manor are mostly dark.
The road to the house stretches away like a silver ribbon, and for a moment, my chest tightens with unexplained panic. The flash of headlights. Impact. The world spinning. The smell of burning rubber and the metallic tang of blood flooding my mouth. Someone shouting my name—was it Ren? Stone?
I shake it off. Just another fragment of that night I can’t quite piece together. The night that changed everything, though I’m still not sure how or why. Whatever happened on that dark road two and a half years ago fractured something in our forming bond. Something no one wants to discuss.
Sometimes, in the darkest hours of night, I catch fragments of memory—screeching tires, shattering glass, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. But it’s all hazy, like looking through rain-streaked windows. The doctors said trauma can do that. Make you forget. But I sense there’s more they’re not telling me. More in the way my alphas’ scents spike with guilt whenever I mention that night. More in the way Ren hasn’t touched a steering wheel since.
I press my forehead against the cool glass. The forest stretches dark and inviting beyond the edges of the manicured lawn. Somewhere out there, Stone is walking to his private retreat. Probably breathing easier with each step away from here.
My reflection stares back at me, distorted by the glass. Three years we’ve been bonded, and I still catch them sometimes, in unguarded moments, looking at me like they’re trying to reconcile something. Probably trying to reconcile what they got with what they wanted.
I huff out a breath, fogging up the glass. The phone in my pocket feels heavy. I could call Jax. Tell him Stone’s gone again. But what would be the point? Jax is probably with Ren, handling whatever mysterious “pack business” keeps them away so often lately. More likely, they’re just finding their own escapes. Their own cabins in the woods.
I’m about to turn away from the window when a soft chirp from my phone makes my heart leap. I hurry to pull it from my pocket, fingers feeling clumsy as my heart thumps hard. The moment I lift the lit screen so I can see who it is, my heart drops.
It’s just a weather alert. Of course. Out of habit, I pull up the pack group chat. The latest message from me was this morning:
Making Stone’s favorite tonight. Hope everyone can make it.
Jax’s reply had come an hour later:
Pack business. Will probably run late. Don’t hold dinner.
Professional. Distant. Like messaging an employee rather than his omega.
Ren had just sent a thumbs up emoji.
Stone’s “Might make it” had given me that foolish spark of hope. Should have known better. His messages are always carefully noncommittal now. Always leaving himself an out.
Such simple exchanges. Such telling responses.
The thing is, I do know why Stone goes to the cabin. I’ve seen the weight he carries, the way guilt shadows his eyes whenever he looks at me. He’s trying—they all are, in their own ways. But you can’t force a bond to be something it’s not.
Staring out into the forest beyond, I know that for a fact. The distance between the kitchen and the forest has never felt so small. So tempting. My feet know the way. Could trace that hidden path even in darkness. Three rights, two lefts, past the lightning-struck oak that looks like a grasping hand in the dark. I’ve memorized every step, though I’ve only made the journey a handful of times.
But I won’t go. Not tonight. Something hard and resolute forms in my chest—maybe pride, maybe just exhaustion.
Instead, I force myself to focus on the routine that’s become my armor. Cleanup first. It’s easier to think when my hands are busy, when I can pretend the tremor in my fingers is just fatigue from cooking.
The first plate clinks against the counter too loudly. I leave it there as I get the others to put them all in the fridge. I’d spent hours getting the herb crust just right, remembering how Stone’s eyes had lit up the first time I’d made it. Back when he still looked at me like that—with surprise and something close to pride.
“ Where did you learn to cook like this ?” he’d asked. He’d been genuinely curious then, impressed even.
I hadn’t told him about the countless cooking shows I’d studied, the hours of practice when everyone was asleep. How I’d cut and burned myself learning to handle knives properly, determined to master at least one proper omega skill.
Through the window, the forest seems to whisper. Go. Follow him. Maybe this time…
But I know what I’d find. Stone, seeking solitude in that weathered cabin. And worse—the moment he caught my scent, the flash of guilt that would be in his eyes.
My chest aches with phantom pain. The pack bond stretches thin these days, like a rubber band pulled almost to breaking. Through it, I feel a sudden spike of alarm from Stone, quickly muted as he throws up his mental barriers. For a moment, concern overrides my hurt. What’s happening out there? But then I realize—he’s finally free to feel without hiding it from me. In his cabin, away from the pressure of our failing bond, he can just be.
I can still feel all three of them, but the connections are weak. Fragile. Stone’s presence fades with each step he takes toward the cabin. Jax and Ren are distant points of light, so far away I sometimes wonder if I imagine the faint pulse of their existence.
I am not what they wanted. Not what any alpha wants, if I’m honest. Male omegas are rare enough to be considered special, but special doesn’t mean desirable. We’re curiosities at best, mistakes at worst.
The tears finally break free, sliding hot down my cheeks as I mechanically put the food into the fridge. Three years of trying to prove myself worthy of a bond that was never meant to be mine. Three years of watching them pull away, one missed dinner at a time.
The dining room takes longer to set right than it should. Each chair tucked in feels like an admission of defeat. Each smooth of the tablecloth like erasing evidence that I’d hoped—again, always hoping—that tonight would be different.
The kitchen light flickers as I hit the switch, casting one last amber glow across my domain before plunging it into darkness. Tomorrow I’ll be back here, going through the same motions. Cooking meals that won’t be eaten. Setting places that won’t be filled.
The stairs creak under my weight as I climb them. The sound echoes in the empty house.
Our bedroom—my bedroom now, if I’m honest—waits at the top of the stairs. The pack bed dominates the space, big enough for four but cold with emptiness. Three pillows remain untouched while I curl up alone on mine, trying not to miss their scents.
It’s a sorry excuse for a nest.
I don’t bother turning on the lights. Moonlight streams through the windows, painting silver paths across the hardwood floor.
The sheets are cool against my skin as I slide between them. The tears from earlier have dried, leaving behind a strange sort of clarity. They’re trying to let me go gently, in their own ways. Stone with his cabin, Jax with his distant professionalism, Ren with his brutal honesty.
I’m the fool that can’t let go. Won’t. Because beneath the pain and inadequacy, despite knowing I wasn’t chosen so much as settled for, I love them. Love them with an omega’s complete devotion, inappropriate package be damned.
So I’ll wake tomorrow and do it all again. Cook meals that might go uneaten. Tend gardens that only I enjoy. Keep our home warm and welcoming, even as they find reasons to stay away. Because that’s what omegas do—we nurture, we care, we hope.
Even when hope feels like swallowing glass.