Chapter 14 #3
He laughed, but the sound was hollow, an echo of his usual brightness, like a bell with a crack in it.
"I was... a lot." The words came out self-deprecating, tinged with old hurt that had never quite healed.
His amber eyes stayed fixed on his hands, his honey-blond hair falling forward to hide his face.
"Too loud, too energetic, too much of everything.
I couldn't sit still, couldn't focus, couldn't be what they wanted me to be no matter how hard I tried.
When I presented as Alpha at fourteen, it got worse.
I had this... need, I guess. This constant ache for something I couldn't name. "
"Pack." Nolan's voice was soft from beside me, warm with understanding, his green eyes gentle as they rested on Kol. He'd shifted closer without me noticing, his shoulder almost touching mine now.
"Pack." Kol nodded, his honey-blond hair falling further across his face, his voice rough with old longing, with years of wanting something he couldn't have.
"But my family didn't understand. They were all Betas—they'd never felt that pull, that hunger for belonging to something bigger than yourself.
They thought I was being dramatic. Attention-seeking.
That I'd grow out of it if they just ignored it long enough.
" His hands clenched in his lap, knuckles going white with old frustration and hurt.
"So I left. Bounced around for a few years, looking for something that fit. Nothing ever did."
"Until here?" My voice was gentle, my fingers still carding through his hair without conscious decision, offering what comfort I could.
"Until here." Kol looked up at me, his amber eyes shining with emotion he wasn't trying to hide, a tremulous smile curving his lips despite the tears threatening to spill over.
His whole face had softened, vulnerability replacing his usual bravado, letting me see the lonely young man he'd been underneath all that restless energy.
"I showed up with a supply delivery three years ago.
Just a job, just another stop on the road to nowhere.
But Reid took one look at me and told me to come back the next week.
And the week after that. And then one day he just—" His voice cracked slightly, and he had to stop, had to swallow hard around the lump in his throat. "He asked me to stay."
"You belonged here." Reid's voice was quiet from his armchair, certain as stone, leaving no room for doubt or argument.
His dark eyes rested on Kol with obvious affection, with the pride of someone watching a wounded thing finally heal.
He'd picked up his empty whiskey glass again, cradling it loosely in his large hands, the firelight casting shadows across his weathered face.
"Could see it the first time you drove up that road.
Just took a while for you to see it too. "
Kol made a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sob, wet and broken and grateful—and pressed his face against my knee for a moment, hiding.
His shoulders shook slightly, and I felt dampness seep through my jeans.
I let him, my fingers never stopping their gentle motion through his hair, offering silent comfort.
"My turn, I suppose." Nolan's voice was calm, steady, but there was something underneath it—old wounds, carefully tended but never quite forgotten.
He shifted on the couch, angling his lean body toward me, his green eyes going distant with memory, looking at something I couldn't see.
His hand was still resting on the cushion between us, palm up, and I found myself reaching for it without thinking, lacing my fingers through his.
He squeezed gently, a small smile crossing his freckled face, grateful for the anchor.
"I always wanted to be a vet. Ever since I was a kid.
Animals made sense to me in a way people never did. "
He paused, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of my hand, the touch grounding for both of us.
"I went to school, got my degree, opened a practice.
" His voice was matter-of-fact on the surface, but I could hear the strain underneath, the places where the story turned sharp and painful.
His sandy hair fell across his forehead as he ducked his head slightly, his green eyes fixed on our joined hands, on the way our fingers fit together.
"But I could never find a pack that fit.
I tried—God, I tried. Joined three different ones over the years.
They all fell apart. Incompatible dynamics, conflicting personalities, Alphas who couldn't share power or territory or anything else.
" He shook his head slowly, a rueful smile crossing his freckled face, self-deprecating and sad.
"I started to think maybe I was the problem.
Maybe I just wasn't meant for pack life. "
"You're not the problem." The words came out fierce, surprising me with their intensity, with how much I meant them. I squeezed his hand hard, probably too hard, but I needed him to understand. "You're the gentlest person I've ever met."
Nolan's smile softened, the rueful edge melting away, his green eyes warming as they lifted to meet mine. Something vulnerable and hopeful bloomed in their depths, like a flower opening toward the sun.
"I was about to give up." His voice was barely above a whisper, rough with emotion he usually kept carefully controlled and contained.
His fingers tightened around mine, holding on like I was the only thing keeping him from drifting away.
"Close my practice, move somewhere remote where it wouldn't matter that I was alone, resign myself to being packless forever.
And then one of my clients mentioned a ranch outside of Thornwood that needed a vet.
Said the owner was difficult but fair, paid on time and didn't ask stupid questions.
" He laughed softly, the sound fond and warm despite the tears brightening his eyes.
"I drove out expecting to do one farm call and be on my way. That was four years ago."
"He showed up at my door at six in the morning.
" Reid's voice was dry as old leather, amused despite the roughness, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with the memory.
He swirled his empty glass out of habit, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, fond and warm.
"Told me my mare had a respiratory infection and I was an idiot for not catching it sooner. "
"You were an idiot for not catching it sooner." Nolan's voice was prim, precise, but his green eyes were dancing with barely suppressed laughter, the fondness between them obvious and well-worn, comfortable as an old shirt. His lips twitched, fighting a smile he couldn't quite contain.
"Then he stayed for breakfast." Reid's voice had softened, something tender creeping into his rough tone, his dark eyes finding Nolan's across the room with an affection that made my chest ache.
He set down his glass, leaning forward slightly in his chair, firelight painting half his face in gold.
"And lunch. And dinner. And the next day. And the day after that."
"The horse needed monitoring." Nolan's cheeks had gone pink, a flush spreading across his freckled skin like sunrise, visible even in the dim firelight. He ducked his head, hiding behind his sandy hair, but he was smiling—soft and sweet and helplessly real. "It was medically necessary."
"For two weeks?" Reid's eyebrow rose, skepticism and affection warring clearly on his weathered face, his lips twitching with a smile he was barely containing.
"She was a very sick horse." Nolan's voice was dignified, prim, but his green eyes were sparkling with barely suppressed laughter, his whole face alight with the joy of an old, beloved joke. His shoulders shook slightly with the effort of keeping a straight face.
The room dissolved into soft laughter, warm and easy, the tension of shared stories easing into something lighter. I felt it then—the bonds between them, the years of history, the way they'd found each other one by one and held on tight.
They wanted me to be part of it. My eyes drifted to Sawyer, still silent in his armchair, his pale blue gaze watchful in the shadows. He caught me looking and held my stare for a long moment, something unreadable passing across his harsh features.
"Sawyer will share when he's ready." Reid's voice was gentle, understanding, his dark eyes flicking to the quiet Alpha with obvious respect and patience. His tone held no pressure, no expectation, just acceptance. "His story is his own to tell. Or not."
Sawyer nodded once, that short, sharp gesture of his that said more than most people's speeches, and I thought I saw something like gratitude flicker across his rough features, softening the hard line of his jaw.
His pale blue eyes met mine again, and something passed between us—an acknowledgment, a promise. Not yet. But someday. When I'm ready.
I nodded back, letting him know I understood, that I'd wait as long as he needed.
The fire had burned low, embers glowing orange and red in the hearth, heat still radiating into the room in gentle waves.
Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the windows softly, but in here it was warm and safe, filled with the mingled scents of four Alphas and the lingering echo of shared stories.
Kol was still at my feet, his head now resting against my knee, his breathing slow and even, his amber eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion.
Nolan's hand was still in mine, his thumb still tracing those gentle, absent circles on my skin.
Reid was watching the dying fire, his expression peaceful, the hard lines of his weathered face softened by contentment.
Even Sawyer had relaxed, his usual rigid posture easing into something almost comfortable, his beer finally raised to his lips for a long swallow.
I didn't want to leave.
The realization hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath.
I didn't want to walk back to the bunkhouse, to that narrow bed that smelled like nothing and no one, to that quiet space where I was alone with my thoughts and my fears and my memories.
I wanted to stay here, in this warmth, with these people who had shared pieces of themselves with me and accepted the broken pieces I'd offered in return.
"You should stay." Kol's voice was sleepy and slurred, muffled against my knee, his amber eyes blinking up at me with drowsy sweetness. All his usual restless energy had finally been spent, leaving something soft and vulnerable in its wake. "The bunkhouse is cold. Stay here."
"Kol." Nolan's voice held a gentle warning, though his thumb never stopped its soothing circles on my hand. His green eyes flicked between the two of us, careful and watchful. "We talked about not pressuring—"
"'I’m not pressuring." Kol yawned hugely, his jaw cracking, his whole body going boneless against my leg like a cat in a sunbeam. His words came out muzzy and half-formed, innocent in their simplicity. "Just stating facts. Bunkhouse is cold. Fire is warm. Logic."
I laughed despite myself, the sound wet and trembling, caught somewhere between tears and joy.
"He's not wrong." Reid's voice was quiet, careful, picking each word with deliberate precision.
His dark eyes found mine across the room, warm and patient, offering without demanding.
He didn't move, didn't push, just held my gaze with that steady calm I was learning to lean on, to trust. The firelight played across his weathered features, painting him in shades of gold and shadow.
"There's a guest room, if you want it. No expectations, no strings. Just somewhere warm to sleep."
I looked around the room—at Kol already half-asleep against my leg, his face soft and unguarded; at Nolan's gentle concern, his green eyes watchful and kind; at Sawyer's quiet solidarity, his pale gaze steady from the shadows; at Reid's patient offer, his dark eyes warm with something that looked like hope.
They'd given me pieces of themselves tonight. Their stories, their pain, their winding roads to this place and this moment. They'd let me see behind the walls, trusted me with their vulnerabilities.
The least I could do was stay.
"Okay." My voice came out rough, cracked around the edges, thick with emotion I couldn't quite name. I squeezed Nolan's hand, let my other hand rest gently on Kol's hair. "Okay. I'll stay."
Kol made a sound of sleepy triumph against my knee, nuzzling closer, and I felt his smile against my leg.
Nolan's face broke into a soft, relieved smile, his green eyes crinkling at the corners with quiet joy.
Sawyer nodded once from his chair, something like approval warming his pale gaze, his shoulders finally relaxing completely.
Reid just looked at me with those dark eyes, warm and steady and full of something that made my heart ache with wanting.
"Welcome home, Aster." His voice was low, rough with emotion, carrying the weight of a promise, of a vow. The words wrapped around me like the warmth of the fire, like the mingled scents of four Alphas, like the feeling of finally, finally belonging somewhere.
Welcome home.
I didn't go back to the bunkhouse that night.