11. Stone
Chapter 11
Stone
T he rain plasters my shirt to my skin as I burst through the front door, barely managing to kick off my shoes before grabbing them and heading for the stairs. My phone buzzes again—probably that investigator I’ve been talking to all day texting to say he still hasn’t found anything. I ignore it. Can’t deal with him right now. Can’t deal with any of this.
But halfway up the stairs, a familiar scent stops me cold. Sweet omega. Home . Pack . The scent that used to mean everything was right with the world.
“Stone?”
I turn slowly, finding Finn hovering in the doorway to the kitchen. He’s wearing one of Ren’s old shirts, the fabric hanging loose on his frame. The sight holds me still. There was a time when seeing him in our clothes made my chest warm. Now it just reminds me of everything we’ve lost.
“Hey.” My words emerge grittier than I mean them to. Water drips from my hair, creating puddles on the hardwood. “Sorry, just need to change.”
“Oh.” He shifts his weight, fingers playing with the hem of the shirt. “I, um…I made pasta. The kind you like. With the spicy sauce?”
The hopeful note in his voice makes me feel like shit. Deservingly so. When was the last time we shared a meal? Just the two of us? But the omega at the cabin flashes through my mind—how she watched the food like it might be a trap. I need to get back to her.
“Thanks, Finn. I’m not really?—”
“Did you like the chicken yesterday?” he interrupts, taking a small step forward. “I used herbs from the garden…”
Fuck. The chicken I didn’t eat. The dinner I took to the cabin instead, desperate to get some real food into that terrified omega. Guilt twists my gut as I watch hope fade from Finn’s eyes.
“It was good,” I lie, the words tasting like bitter medicine. “Really good.”
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He knows I’m lying—he always knows. But he nods anyway, retreating toward the kitchen. “Well, there’s pasta in the fridge if you want it later.”
I take the stairs two at a time, stripping off my wet clothes the moment I hit my room. The omega at the cabin needs food and more clothes and blankets, pillows…fuck. I stop for a moment, catching my reflection in the mirror. My hair’s plastered to my head, the ends curling and sticking out here and there, and I’m drenched.
Downstairs, I hear Jax and Ren enter. Hear them talking to Finn before a set of hard footsteps comes upstairs, disappears into Ren’s room, and the door slams shut.
Blankets? Pillows? Fuck, I’m acting like I’m planning on keeping this omega in that cabin.
I run a hand through my hair, gripping the strands by the roots.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck FUCK.
But I have to. I have to get her supplies and real food. Need to make her feel safe. Need to make sure she knows she can trust me. That I care. And Finn’s cooking…fuck, his cooking could make anyone feel cared for.
Guilt wars with necessity as I pull on dry clothes. Quick movements, efficient. Can’t waste time. She might have run. Might be out there in this rain, alone and terrified. I’ve been gone for hours. The thought makes my hands shake as I drag a t-shirt over my head.
Back downstairs, I pause at the kitchen doorway. Finn’s at the counter unloading the dishwasher. His movements are methodical, measured. Like everything he does these days.
“I’m heading out,” I say softly. His shoulders tense, but he doesn’t turn. “Might be late.”
“Again?” The word is barely a whisper. “It’s raining, Stone. I thought…I didn’t think you’d be leaving again.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Again.”
He nods, still not looking at me. “Be careful in the rain.”
I should leave. Should turn and walk away. But my feet carry me to the fridge instead. The pasta sits on the middle shelf, perfectly portioned and wrapped. Next to it, other containers filled with the meals he makes daily, hoping one of us will stay home long enough to share them.
Making a decision I know I’ll hate myself for later, I grab the pasta. “Thanks for cooking.”
His scent brightens slightly—just enough to make my chest ache. “Of course.”
I hear the TV switch on in the media room, probably Jax, as I’m reaching for my keys. With a held breath, I slip out the back door before he can corner me, the container of pasta clutched against my chest.
The rain feels colder now, or maybe that’s just the guilt. The path to the cabin is dark, but I know where I’m going.
Please still be there , I think as I push through the wet undergrowth. Please don’t have run .
I don’t know why it matters so much. Don’t know why finding her in those woods feels like fate or destiny or whatever bullshit people call it. Don’t know why her terror makes me want to burn the world down, or why her tiny attempts at bravery squeeze something vital within me.
I just know I can’t let her run. Can’t let her face this world alone.
Not when she looks at food like it might be poison. Not when she kneels like she expects pain. Not when her eyes hold shadows no omega should have to carry.
And because…fuck…because her scent calls to me, every primal instinct, in a way that shouldn’t be possible. A scent match for a pack like mine? Some god is laughing in our faces.
The cabin comes into view, a solid shape against the rain. It’s dark. No light in the windows. Nothing.
My heart slams against my ribs as I take the steps two at a time, all pretense of moving slowly forgotten. The container of pasta nearly slips from my rain-slick hands as I fumble for the door handle. Fuck. No. She can’t be gone. Not in this weather. Not alone.
“It’s just me,” I call out anyway, desperately hoping she’s just being cautious about the lights. The silence that follows makes my chest constrict. I can’t catch her scent through the rain, can’t tell if…
I push the door open, holding my breath. “I brought food,” I add softly, not sure if I’m talking to an empty room or not. The darkness inside is so fucking thick I can’t see my hand in front of me, and for a moment all I can hear is the rain and my own thundering heart.
Please be here. Please .
The door squeals as I step inside and push it closed, water dripping from my clothes onto the wooden floor. The strong scent of honey and vanilla almost makes my knees buckle. Too strong for it to be the remnants of her presence. She’s still here. My eyes strain against the darkness, searching for any movement, any sign. The alpha in me wants to snap on the lights, to command her to show herself, but I force that instinct down. Hard.
“I know you’re here,” I say softly, letting my eyes adjust. “You don’t have to hide.”
A tiny shift of movement from the corner catches my attention. She’s pressed herself into the far wall, practically becoming one with the shadows. The position gives her clear sight of both the door and the windows—strategic. Survival instinct . Something not naturally ingrained in an omega. The thought makes my jaw clench.
“Sorry I was gone so long.” I set the pasta on the table, movements deliberate and slow. “Work was…complicated.”
She doesn’t respond, but I don’t expect her to. Her scent carries notes of fear, but also…curiosity? Probably I owe that curiosity for the fact she stayed despite having hours to run.
“You didn’t turn on any lights.” It’s not a question, but I keep my voice gentle. “Smart. Safer that way.”
Another tiny movement. She’s good—almost silent. But I catch the way she shifts slightly, responding to the praise even if she doesn’t mean to.
“May I turn on the lamp?” I ask, staying perfectly still. “Just the small one?”
The silence stretches. I can hear her breathing—quick, shallow breaths that make my chest ache. Finally, the smallest whisper: “Yes, Alpha.”
I stiffen. Heat rushes through me, my cock going hard at just those two words. And following right behind this unbidden and unwanted heat is pure disgust. Her submission hits something primitive within me that it shouldn’t. What the fuck is wrong with me? She’s terrified, traumatized, conditioned to submit because god knows what they’d do to her if she didn’t. The fact that any part of me responded to that makes me sick.
What’s worse, from what I’ve gathered, that probably isn’t the only thing she’s been taught to do to submit. The fact she presented to me this morning without even the slightest prompt was proof enough.
It’s like she was trained to be the perfect little slave.
My muscles stiffen as the word settles in my mind. The perfect little slave for some piece-of-shit alpha.
Omegas are submissive…but not like this.
I force my breathing to steady, pushing back against both the arousal and the self-loathing. Baby steps. The rain drums against the roof, matching the rhythm of my thundering heart.
I reach for the small lamp, movements telegraphed and slow. The soft light floods the corner of the room, and air snags in my lungs. She’s wearing my clothes—the hoodie and drawstring sweats I’d left earlier. They dwarf her small frame, making her look even more fragile than before. But there’s something about seeing her in my clothes that makes me rumble with satisfaction.
I shut that feeling down. Hard. She’s not mine to protect. Not mine to…anything. Scent match or not, we have Finn and…we can’t…we can’t hurt him more than we already have. We wouldn’t survive it.
And that brings me to how this is a big fuck-up and will be an even worse fuck-up if I don’t manage things carefully.
“You found the clothes,” I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral. “Good. They’re warmer than what you had on.”
She’s still pressed into the corner, but now I can see how she’s positioned herself. Back to the wall, knees drawn up to her chest, making herself as small as possible. The hoodie has slipped, revealing the edge of what looks like an old scar on her collarbone. My hands clench at my sides.
“I brought pasta.” I gesture to the container without moving closer. “It’s still warm. Finn—” I stop short. Mentioning Finn to her is bringing up protective instincts. “It’s good. If you’re hungry.” But then my gaze shifts to the table, only to see the chicken is still there, still perfectly wrapped, still untouched. Which means she’s only eaten that apple I gave her this morning .
Good going, Stone . Maybe she doesn’t like chicken?
Her eyes flick to the container with the pasta, then away. That same wariness from this morning, like she’s expecting a trick. Like food is a trap waiting to spring.
“You didn’t eat much earlier,” I continue, easing down to sit on the floor. Getting closer to her level, making myself less threatening. “The apple…” I study her, noting the way her chin is bowed to her chest. How she doesn’t look at me. How she doesn’t even move, as if trying to erase her presence. No. Her existence .
And like this morning, she hasn’t said a word out of place. I’ll have to use the same tactic again with the direct questions.
“Hey,” I whisper. “You can answer me. I won’t bite.”
She flinches and I almost groan with the immediate guilt. What sort of choice of words was that?
I clear my throat and it’s a deep rumble that makes her head dip even more, even as her neck angles slightly toward me. Fuck.
“Please answer. You only wanted the fruit? You don’t like chicken?”
“I’m sorry, Alpha.” The words come out rushed, fearful. “I didn’t mean to waste?—”
“No.” I cut her off, then immediately regret my sharp tone when she flinches again. Softer: “No apologies needed. Not for food. Not for anything.”
She blinks, but not at me. At the floor, because she still keeps her gaze low. Confusion is evident in her scent. Those hazel eyes hold so many questions she’s afraid to ask. So much fear of getting the answers wrong.
“What’s your name?” I maintain that gentle tone in my voice. No alpha command behind it. Just a simple question that shouldn't require courage to answer.
She hesitates, fingers twisting in the hem of my shirt. “H-Hailey.”
“Hailey.” I let the name settle between us .
Her eyes drop even lower. Some ingrained response that makes my blood boil. What did they do to her in that place?
“Are you cold?” I ask, noticing the slight tremor in her hands. Fuck, I’d left the blanket and pillows. So eager to leave the house before any of my brothers noticed and started asking questions. “I can get you a blanket.”
She shakes her head quickly. Too quickly. She’s lying.
I rise slowly, telegraphing my movements as I retrieve the thin blanket from the cot. Her scent spikes with anxiety as I approach, eyes widening even as she stares at the floor, but she doesn’t try to run. Progress, maybe.
“Here.” I hold it out, then let it fall within her reach when she doesn’t move to take it. “It’s clean. It will help.”
She reaches for it hesitantly, movements so careful it’s like she expects it to be yanked away. When her fingers close around the fabric, she pulls it to her chest with a speed that betrays how badly she wanted it.
“Thank you, Alpha.” The words are mechanical, rehearsed. Everything about her screams of conditioning—from the way she holds herself to how she won’t meet my eyes probably unless I order her to.
I settle back on the floor, giving her space. The rain drums against the roof, filling the silence between us. So many questions crowd my tongue. Where was she being taken? Who was waiting for her? What exactly did they do in that “Academy” that made her so afraid of everything?
But asking would only frighten her more. And right now, she needs to eat.
“The pasta,” I say quietly. “Would you like me to leave while you eat?”
Her scent spikes with…something. Fear? Uncertainty? “I…I don’t…”
“Whatever makes you comfortable.” I keep my voice steady. Gentle. “I can stay or go. Your choice. ”
For a split second, her gaze darts to me before it flies to the floor, and she makes herself even smaller. It’s like I’ve spoken in tongues. Choice. Such a simple concept, but clearly foreign to her.
“You can eat however you want,” I add, remembering how she’d been with the apple this morning. “Sitting, standing, at the table. Whatever feels right.”
Her fingers clench in the blanket. “The food…” She swallows hard, breath picking up and her entire body freezing the moment she speaks. I didn’t ask a direct question that time and I can see her hesitate. See the moment she waits as if she’s convinced that I will do something crazy like… God. She thinks I’ll strike her.
It takes everything within me to keep my voice level. “It’s alright. Go ahead.”
For a few moments, she doesn’t continue. Those pretty eyes flick to me again before darting back to the floor.
“The food. It’s…for me?”
The question breaks something in my chest. “Yes. All of it.”
“But…” Her voice drops to barely a whisper. “It looks…nice. Too nice for…”
For me. The unspoken word hangs between us, making my jaw clench again.
“It’s for you,” I repeat firmly. “As much as you want. However you want to eat it.”
She studies the floor for a long moment, like she’s trying to solve a complex puzzle. Finally, she asks, “Will you…will you stay? Please?”
The ‘please’ catches me off guard. It’s not the mechanical politeness from before. This is real—a genuine request. The first thing she’s actually asked for.
“Of course.” I shift slightly, making myself comfortable against the wall. “Would you like me to get the container for you?”
She shakes her head, unwrapping herself from the blanket with careful movements. The shirt slips again as she stands, revealing more of that scar. It disappears under the fabric, but I catch enough to recognize the deliberate pattern. Someone marked her. Branded her.
The alpha in me roars for blood, but I force it down. She needs calm right now. Steady. Safe.
She retrieves the container with those same careful movements, like she’s expecting to be punished for every step. When she settles back in her corner, she holds the food like it might disappear.
“It’s not a test,” I say softly, reading the anxiety in her posture. “There’s no right or wrong way to eat.”
She opens the container slowly, and the scent of Finn’s cooking fills the cabin. Her stomach growls audibly, but she doesn’t move to eat.
“Would it help if I looked away?”
She startles slightly at the question, then nods.
I turn my head toward the window, giving her privacy while keeping her in my peripheral vision. The rain creates patterns against the glass, and I find myself counting the drops to keep from watching her too obviously.
The first tiny sounds of eating make something in my chest unclench. She starts slow, hesitant, but gradually the movements become more confident. Hungrier.
“Good?” I ask softly, still watching the rain.
“Yes, Alpha.” Her voice sounds stronger, less frightened. “Thank you.”
We sit in companionable silence as she eats, the rain providing a steady backdrop. I can smell how her anxiety slowly ebbs, replaced by something closer to contentment. It’s a good smell on her. Right.
When the sounds of eating stop, I risk a glance. She’s finished most of the pasta, though I can see her eyeing the remainder like she’s unsure if she’s allowed to continue.
“You can finish it,” I encourage gently. “Or save it for later. Whatever you prefer. ”
She blinks, eyes darting to me for a split second, that same confused look in her eyes. “Later?”
“Yes. I’ll bring more food tomorrow. But you can save that if you want.”
“Tomorrow?” Her scent spikes with something complex—hope warring with fear. “You’re…coming back?”
“Yes.” I can’t tell her that staying away would be near impossible. If she hasn’t figured out what I am yet—what we are—she eventually will. Now that I notice, I spot the jacket I’d left behind pressed close beside her. My scent. She’s no doubt attracted to it. Though, I’m going to hedge a guess that she has no idea why. If she did, she’d know I’d rather die than hurt her. “I won’t leave you out here alone.”
Her gaze searches the floor, but not before I catch the shimmer of tears. “Why, Alpha?”
Why?
It’s barely a whisper, but it carries such a heavy weight, I feel it in my bones. She’s so brave. I wish I could tell her, but I can’t yet. Not until I gain more of her trust and unravel the details of her arrival on our property. I can’t get too close, or I’m pretty sure I’ll push her away.
But she’s so brave. I can already tell. This omega—Hailey—has a core of steel beneath her fear.
I can see it now in how she holds the tears back, even as her body shakes. The sight of her pain makes me growl, and she flinches, pressing into the wall immediately.
Fuck.
“I’m sorry, Alpha.” She moves so quickly, I don’t realize what she’s doing, what I’ve done, until she’s on her knees before me, ass in the air, hands outstretched, forehead pressed into the wood. The same position she’s presented herself in before. “I’m sorry, Alpha.”
Oh fuck. This is my fault. She asked a question and instead of responding, I got stuck in my head and growled.
I fall to the floor with her, grasping her hands in mine. They’re so small, so soft. “No, please. Please don’t do that. I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry at…” At whoever hurt you. At myself for frightening you. At this whole messed up situation.
She remains frozen, but doesn’t try to pull away from my grip. I want to tug her into me, let her fall against my chest, but I know I must take my time with this. Her breathing comes in short, sharp bursts that make my chest ache.
“Can you sit up for me?” I keep my voice gentle, thumbs brushing over her knuckles. “Please?”
She shifts slowly, uncertainty in every movement, but she lets me help her into a sitting position. Her eyes remain downcast, but she doesn’t pull her hands away. Small victories.
“I growled because I was angry at the people who hurt you,” I explain softly. “Not at you. I’d never growl at you like that.”
Her shoulders tremble slightly, but she stays still in my loose hold. Not melting into the comfort, but not rejecting it either. Like she’s suspended between what she’s been taught and what she wants to believe.
“Because no one deserves what was done to you,” I continue quietly. “Because you deserve to be safe.”
She doesn’t respond, but her scent shifts again. Confusion, disbelief, but underneath…the tiniest spark of hope.
I release her hands slowly, making sure she’s steady before moving back. “Try to rest,” I say, rising carefully. “I’ll be back in the morning. The door locks from the inside. Use it.”