Chapter 7 Savannah
SAVANNAH
I'm halfway to the kitchen doorway when I hear the voices getting closer, and I quickly step back toward the counter. No way I'm getting caught trying to escape like some kind of coward. I'll face this head-on, even if "this" turns out to be exactly what I think it is.
The voices reach the kitchen, and suddenly they're all here.
Dax enters first, his clean pine scent carrying warmth and the kind of mild exasperation that says he's been playing referee since breakfast. His auburn hair looks like he's been running his hands through it, which, knowing this pack, he probably has.
Xavier follows, and my brain decides this is the perfect moment to short-circuit.
Eight years, and he's still stupidly attractive in ways that should probably be regulated by some kind of public safety commission.
Impeccably dressed despite the early hour because of course he is, his cool mint and expensive cologne scent mixing with something sharper that screams "I'm professionally frustrated. "
His dark hair is perfectly styled with silver threading through it at the temples that somehow makes him look even more like the kind of man who could ruin my life with a single raised eyebrow.
Behind those designer glasses, his intelligent hazel eyes find mine immediately, and my stomach does something embarrassing that I'm going to pretend didn't happen.
Griff comes next, and my heart does something stupid that I'm going to blame on caffeine withdrawal.
His sandy hair is disheveled like he's been stress-running his hands through it, which honestly tracks with what Emma said about their domestic disaster situation.
His sandalwood and sawdust scent carries notes of guilt and defensiveness, because apparently even his pheromones know he screwed up yesterday.
But it's his face that makes me want to throw something.
Still boyishly handsome in that "aw shucks, I'm just a simple construction worker" way that used to make me forgive him for everything.
Those warm brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles, that easy grin that made everything seem manageable even when it absolutely wasn't.
Don't stare, I command my traitorous eyeballs, but they're already busy cataloging all the ways eight years have been unfairly kind to him.
Broader shoulders. Better-fitting jeans.
Those skilled, calloused hands that I definitely did not spend way too much time thinking about during my self-imposed celibacy.
And then Logan enters last, because apparently the universe has a twisted sense of dramatic timing.
The air leaves my lungs like I've been sucker-punched by my own terrible taste in men.
Those storm-gray eyes sweep the kitchen like he's assessing threats and escape routes, his smoky cedar scent mixing with leather and rain in that combination that always made my omega instincts roll over and beg.
His dark hair shows more silver at the temples, and his rugged hands grip a coffee cup like it's the only thing keeping him from doing something drastic. Which, knowing Logan, it probably is.
But it's his presence that hits me like a freight train carrying all my worst decisions.
Still has that intensity that made me feel protected and desired and completely in over my head.
Still carries himself like a man who's used to being in control, who notices everything and definitely noticed that my scent just betrayed exactly how much seeing him again affects me.
Perfect. Just perfect.
All three of them. In Emma's kitchen. Looking exactly like men who've been arguing about responsibilities and trust and the ways they keep disappointing each other.
My body's response is immediate and mortifying.
Heat pools low in my belly, omega instincts recognizing their combined scents like coming home after a long journey.
My vanilla bourbon scent sharpens with arousal I can't hide, filling the kitchen with the kind of biological honesty that makes everyone uncomfortable.
Eight years hasn't been long enough to forget how much you wanted them.
The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable.
I'm still pressed against the counter, gripping the granite edge like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
Logan hovers near the coffee pot, storm-gray eyes darting between his pack mates.
Griff stands in the middle of the kitchen, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders rigid with tension.
Xavier positions himself near the doorway, spine straight, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Emma moves around the island, opening cabinets and rearranging things that don't need rearranging. Her nervous energy fills the space like static electricity.
"Does anyone want coffee?" she asks, her voice pitched too high. "I just made a fresh pot."
Dax steps closer to his fiancée, sliding an arm around her waist. He looks at me with genuine warmth. "Glad you came, Savannah. Did you have a good journey?"
I push off from the counter and cross my arms, the movement making my vanilla bourbon scent spike with irritation. Logan's nostrils flare in response.
"Well," I let my voice drip with false sweetness, "considering I stood at that bus station for thirty minutes yesterday and I hadn't been back to this charming town in eight years, I was expecting a slightly better welcome than being abandoned."
Xavier shifts his weight from one foot to the other, adjusting his glasses. Guilt radiates from his mint scent. "That was my fault. I trusted Griffin to handle the pickup."
Griff spins around to face him, sandy hair catching the morning light. "Stop calling me that."
Logan abandons the coffee pot and moves toward the center of the kitchen, his jaw clenched tight. "Griff, all you had to do was call Emma. Tell her you couldn't make it. Basic human courtesy."
Griff starts pacing, three steps toward the window, pivot, three steps back. His sandalwood scent sharpens with defensiveness. "I forgot, okay? Someone’s life was in danger, and I forgot."
"Charming," I drawl, watching him wear a path in Emma's tiles. My chest tightens with familiar frustration. Some things never change.
Griff stops mid-pace and faces me, brown eyes flashing. "It's not like I did it on purpose.”
Logan takes another step forward, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "No, but you planned to leave someone stranded without a backup plan. Again."
"It was one time! How many times must I apologize!" Griff throws his hands up, nearly knocking over a ceramic fruit bowl on the counter.
"I don't remember you apologizing to me!" I snap. It should have been the first thing he did when he saw me, but he was too busy being defensive.
"It was yesterday," Xavier says coolly, straightening to his full height. His clinical voice cuts through Griff's protests like ice. "And it represents a pattern we've discussed multiple times."
Griff whirls to face him, his pacing becoming more agitated. "Oh, here we go. Dr. Xavier's talking about my commitment issues."
I can’t believe they ignored apologizing to me.
“Your commitment issues don't need analyzing," Logan retorts, moving to lean against the opposite counter. "They analyze themselves."
"That's rich coming from you.”
Logan pushes off the counter, his storm-gray eyes narrowing. "At least I show up when I say I will."
“Do you want a fucking medal? Or a kiss on the cheek for it?” Griff gestures wildly, nearly knocking over Emma's coffee maker.
Xavier pinches the bridge of his nose, his mint scent carrying the sharp edge of a developing headache. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You two need to stop acting like fucking children.”
"Maybe, because you keep treating us like ones that you’ve decided to bring home from the ward,” Griff shoots back.
It hits home. Griff is the laid-back one of the three, but he's not acting like that at all. He's defensive and looks as if he's about to fight two men at a bar, not two alphas that he's in a pack with. All of this feels wrong.
Xavier goes very still, his hazel eyes turning arctic behind his glasses. "I'm not the one who uses work as an excuse to avoid difficult conversations."
"And I'm not the one who thinks reading about emotions counts as actually having them," Griff says.
Logan slams his palm against the counter hard enough to make the coffee mugs rattle. "Both of you need to shut up. This is exactly why she left in the first place."
The words hit the kitchen like a physical blow. Everyone freezes. Griff stops pacing. Xavier's hand drops from his nose. Even Emma stops her nervous reorganizing.
My stomach drops to somewhere around my ankles. The familiar sting of old wounds reopens, and I can feel my scent shifting toward something bitter and hurt.
Griff's face goes pale, his brown eyes finding mine across the kitchen. "Logan..."
"No," Xavier says quietly, his hazel eyes meeting Logan's with something that looks like disappointment. "She left because Logan broke her fucking heart."
The silence that follows is deafening. I feel a tear prick at the corner of my eye, but I blink it back before anyone can see.
"Don't flatter yourselves," I say, my voice steady despite the moisture threatening to spill over. "I wouldn't touch any of you if you were on your hands and knees begging."
But even as I say it, that single traitorous tear escapes, sliding down my cheek before I can stop it.
The silence that follows is deafening. I watch this spectacular display of alpha dysfunction with a mixture of fascination and horror. It's like watching a car accident in slow motion, except I used to be emotionally invested in all the cars involved.
Emma grabs my wrist, her grip tight enough to leave marks. "Living room. Now."
She practically drags me toward the doorway while the three alphas stand frozen in their triangle of dysfunction, each one looking like they'd rather be anywhere else.
As we reach the threshold, I hear Griff’s voice, quiet and defeated: "I don't know how to be what you need me to be."
"We're not asking you to be anything other than yourself," Xavier responds, his clinical edge softening. "We're asking you to be present. To show up."
"I try," Griff says, sinking onto one of the bar stools.
"Trying isn't enough anymore," Logan adds, but his voice has lost its angry bite. "We need consistency. All of us."
Emma pulls me into the living room and closes the kitchen door behind us. Her jasmine scent carries stress and something that might be embarrassment.
"Do you see what I mean?" she says, gesturing toward the muffled voices coming through the door.
I sink onto her overstuffed couch, my legs suddenly unsteady. The weight of what I just witnessed settles over me like a heavy blanket. "Emma, I thought that you were exaggerating."
She sits beside me, tucking her legs underneath her. "I wish it was."
Through the door, I can hear their voices, no longer sharp with anger but earnest and searching. The shift makes something twist painfully in my chest. They're just drowning in their own inability to communicate.
And apparently, I'm supposed to be their life preserver.
The thought terrifies me almost as much as it intrigues me.
Thank you, universe, for orchestrating the most elaborate emotional minefield known to womankind and then handing me the map with a cheerful "good luck!
" Because clearly what I needed in my life was to play relationship counselor to three gorgeous, dysfunctional alphas who already broke my heart once.