Chapter 20 Xavier
XAVIER
Ifind her at The Hollow Tap at half past eight, which is exactly where I expected her to be after spending two hours calling every restaurant, coffee shop, and hotel in Pine Hollow looking for a woman who clearly needed space to process the disaster our pack meeting had become.
We woke up this morning and she was gone.
I thought that after seeing her through the night she would feel safe, but clearly she pulled a disappearing act, since neither Griffin nor I handled Logan biting her very well.
Of course, he bit her. They have history, real history not like Griff and I who just dated her.
Sure, I kissed her, but I didn't wake up to her sweet scent every day, like Logan has done.
The scent hits me before I even push through the heavy oak doors.
Vanilla bourbon, but sharp with distress and alcohol, cutting through the usual bar atmosphere of stale beer, fried food, and the kind of ambient misery that comes from people drowning their problems in overpriced liquor.
My medical training immediately catalogs the implications: elevated stress hormones, probable dehydration, and the distinct chemical signature that suggests someone has been drinking steadily for at least two hours.
I pause in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting while guilt sits in my chest like a lead weight.
Yesterday's pack meeting was supposed to resolve the tension created by Logan's impulsive bite.
Instead, it turned into a territorial pissing contest that proves we haven't matured as much as we'd like to think.
The Hollow Tap hasn't changed since I was in college, all dark wood paneling and vintage beer signs covering every available wall space.
The usual after-work crowd fills most of the tables, construction workers and office staff unwinding with cheap beer and loud opinions about whatever sports tragedy is playing on the mounted televisions.
Savannah sits with her back to the room. She's wearing her black sweater, the one that hugs her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry despite the circumstances. Her auburn hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, and even from this distance, I can see the tension in the line of her spine.
More concerning is the collection of empty glasses arranged in front of her. Three empty wine glasses and what appears to be a whiskey tumbler, currently being refilled by the bartender, who's wearing the expression of a bartender who's starting to worry about his customer's wellbeing.
This is my fault. Not entirely, but enough that I should have come looking for her hours ago instead of staying home to mediate the ongoing argument between Griffin and Logan about pack hierarchy and marking protocol.
I make my way through the crowd noting the way several patrons glance at Savannah with varying degrees of concern and interest. She's beautiful even in distress, which means she's probably been fending off unwanted attention along with whatever emotional processing brought her here.
"Excuse me," I say quietly to the bartender, Jack, as I approach the bar. "Has she been here long?"
Jack, a grizzled man in his sixties who's been serving Pine Hollow's drinking problems for three decades, gives me a look that suggests he's been hoping someone would show up. "Since about one. Started with wine, moved to the hard stuff about an hour ago. She's not causing trouble, but..."
"But she's drinking like someone who's trying to forget something important," I finish, guilt twisting in my stomach because I know exactly what she's trying to forget. "I've got her. Thanks for keeping an eye on her."
Jack nods with obvious relief. “I thought she must be having a real rough day, but I was starting to get concerned."
I settle onto the barstool beside Savannah, close enough to provide support but far enough away to avoid crowding her. My mint and cologne scent probably smells like clinical calm and professional competence, which feels like a lie when my chest is tight with worry and self-recrimination.
"Savannah."
She turns toward me with the careful precision of someone who's had just enough alcohol to affect their coordination but not enough to completely impair their judgment.
Her brown eyes are slightly glassy, pupils dilated in the dim bar lighting, but her gaze is still sharp with intelligence and something that looks like barely controlled pain.
"Xavier." Her voice carries only the slightest slur, confirming my assessment that she's intoxicated but still functional. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," I admit, signaling Jack for a club soda with lime. "You left early. I assume you haven’t been here all day.”
"I'm peachy. Can't you tell?" She gestures toward her collection of empty glasses with exaggerated care. "Nothing says 'okay' like drinking in a bar alone while alphas gets to claim you next."
"Savannah, I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"What happened yesterday was unacceptable. Logan marking you without consent, Griffin treating you like his next conquest, and me failing to shut down that behavior immediately. None of it was okay."
She takes another sip of whiskey. "At least you're willing to admit it was fucked up. That's more than I got from the other two."
"They were wrong. And I was wrong for not speaking up more forcefully when the conversation started going sideways."
"Why didn't you?" Her question is quiet, but it carries weight. "You're clearly the most rational one in that pack. You could have stopped it."
"Because I was selfish. Them two always gang up on me. I’m always the neat one. The rational one. The boring one. This time, the pair of them weren’t in agreement. There were no kisses and hugs last night.”
Savannah's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "You wanted them to fight?”
"I wanted you to see that I'm not like them. That I would treat you with the respect and consideration you deserve instead of acting like a caveman with claiming issues." I pause, running my hand through my hair as I recognize how pathetic that sounds.
"Xavier..." Savannah's voice is soft, understanding.
"You came to Pine Hollow to plan Emma's wedding.
You agreed to stay in our guest room as a professional courtesy, not to become the prize in some kind of pack territory dispute.
" I lean forward, my forearms resting on the bar as guilt settles heavy in my chest. "The fact that we turned your presence into a competition says everything about our maturity level and nothing flattering. "
She's staring at me now with an expression I can't quite read, her head tilted slightly to one side. Surprise, maybe, mixed with something that might be relief. "Keep going."
"You deserve better than what we gave you," I say, my voice dropping lower.
"Like what? Pretending to be civilized?" Savannah asks, one eyebrow arching.
"I thought I was better than them," I admit, my shoulders sagging. "More refined. More mature."
Savannah finishes her whiskey and sets the glass down with careful precision, her fingers drumming once against the bar. "You are. Because you don't eat with your mouth open like Griffin or break wind without caring who else is in the room like Logan."
"We all do those things, Savannah. Apart from talking with food in your mouth. That's gross." I shake my head, a rueful smile tugging at my lips. "The more I think about it, I don't even know what Griffin's good qualities are."
She turns to face me more fully, and the bar's amber lighting catches in her hair, turning the auburn strands to burnished copper. Then we both break into laughter as we sit trying to think of Griffin's good qualities.
The sound bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest, genuine and unrestrained. "God, you make me laugh," I say, wiping at my eyes as the laughter subsides. "I can't remember the last time I laughed like this, but I've been needing it since you came."
Her vanilla bourbon scent warms, carrying notes of genuine happiness that make my chest tight with something I don't want to name.
“You. You bring us together. Not tear us apart.”
Savannah stares down at her hands, and I can smell the shift in her scent as some of the distress markers fade. "I'm still angry about yesterday.”
"You should be. We behaved terribly," I say, my hands clasped tightly in my lap as I fight the urge to reach for her.
"I'm angry at all three of you, but myself even more.
" Savannah's fingers trace the rim of her empty glass, her movements agitated and restless.
She looks up at me, hazel eyes bright with unshed tears that make my chest ache.
"Because despite the territorial bullshit and the marking drama, part of me still wants this. Still wants you, and Logan. Griff is another story.”
Her voice breaks on the last words, and I can smell the shift in her vanilla bourbon scent as vulnerability mingles with frustration.
"Savannah..." I lean forward instinctively, my hand reaching halfway across the space between us before I catch myself.
"Which makes me either incredibly optimistic or phenomenally stupid." She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, a gesture so defeated it makes something crack in my chest.
"It makes you hopeful. And hope is what's going to get us through this if we're smart enough not to fuck it up again." I close the distance between us, covering her restless fingers with mine. Her skin is warm and slightly trembling.
She laughs, but there's no humor in it, just bitter resignation. Her shoulders shake with the sound. "Big if."
"Agreed. But I'm willing to try if you are. Willing to do the work to prove we can be worthy of your hope." I squeeze her hand gently, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my thumb.
"What kind of work?" Savannah asks, turning her palm up to curl her fingers around mine. The simple gesture sends warmth shooting up my arm, and I watch as some of the tension leaves her face.
"Pack therapy. Whatever it takes to learn how to function as mature adults instead of animals." I lift our joined hands, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. "I want to earn your trust instead of assuming I deserve it."
"And Griff? Logan?"
"Will follow my lead or face consequences. I'm done enabling their emotional immaturity because it makes me look better by comparison."
For the first time since I found her here, Savannah's vanilla bourbon scent carries notes of something that might be hope. "You really think they can change?"
"I think we all can if we want it badly enough. The question is whether you're willing to give us the chance to prove it."
She considers this, absently tracing patterns on the bar's surface with her free hand. "I have a condition."
"Name them," I say, my voice steady despite the anxiety churning in my stomach.
"No more territorial pissing contests," Savannah declares, her chin lifting with determination as she meets my gaze directly.
"Agreed," I reply without hesitation, my hands spreading flat on the bar between us.
"And therapy. All of us. Individual and group. I'm not doing this again unless everyone involved is committed to actually growing up." Her fingers drum against her empty glass, the sharp tapping echoing her resolve.
"I'll set up appointments tomorrow," I promise, already mentally cataloging which colleagues I can call for referrals.
"And if someone crosses a line, any line, I'm gone. No second chances, no explanations, no dramatic confrontations. I just leave." Savannah's voice drops to barely above a whisper, but the steel beneath her words is unmistakable. Her shoulders square as she delivers what amounts to an ultimatum.
The finality in her tone makes my chest tight with something that feels like panic, but I nod anyway, my jaw clenching with the effort to stay calm. "Understood."
She studies my face for a long moment, her brown eyes searching mine with the intensity of someone trying to read a medical chart. I force myself to remain still under her scrutiny, letting her see whatever she needs to see.
"Okay," Savannah says finally, her voice soft with something that might be cautious hope.
My hand moves instinctively toward hers on the bar.
“We can try. But Xavier?" She catches my fingers with hers, squeezing gently. "This is the last chance. For all of us. If this doesn't work..."
"It will," I say with more conviction than I feel, but the warmth of her touch gives me strength.
I signal to the tender to pay the tab, then I stand up slowly, extending my hand toward her with careful deliberation."Come on. Let's go home and start over. The right way this time."
Savannah looks at my outstretched hand for a moment, her head tilted as if weighing her options. Then she places her palm against mine with the careful trust of someone who's decided to take one more leap of faith. Her skin is warm and slightly unsteady as I help her to her feet.
"Home," she says. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I like the sound of that."
"Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of the night showing you exactly why that leap of faith was worth taking," I murmur, threading our fingers together as we move toward the exit.
As we walk through the crowded interior, her hand warm and trusting in mine, I can't help but think that sometimes the best treatment for a broken pack is the courage to admit you've been doing everything wrong and the commitment to do better.
Tonight, we're starting over.
And this time, I'm not letting fear make my decisions for me.