Chapter 15
Breakfast Confessions
~ROSEMARIE~
All eyes are on me.
Three pairs of eyes, to be exact. Three Alphas staring at me like I've just suggested we all move to Mars and start a commune. The heat creeps up my neck, flooding my cheeks, and I can feel myself beginning to blush under the weight of their combined attention.
The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. The morning light streaming through Tank's windows seems too bright.
The scents of three Alphas wrap around me like a cocoon I didn't ask for but can't escape—smoked leather and woodsmoke and patchouli, all mingling together until I can barely distinguish where one ends and another begins.
What did I just do? What did I just propose? To be these men's fake Omega for... what? A few weeks?
I do the math quickly in my head. Valentine's Day is less than six weeks away.
Six weeks of pretending to be bonded to a pack of Alphas I've known for less than twenty-four hours.
Six weeks of playing house with a firefighter, a model, and a military bodyguard who collectively smell like every fantasy I've never let myself have.
Six weeks of lying to the world. Six weeks of pretending that this is real, that I belong here, that I'm not running from a family that wants to sell me off like livestock.
This is insane. This is absolutely, certifiably insane. What was I thinking?
The silence stretches on, deafening in its intensity.
I find myself desperately wishing the steaming hot coffee and the breakfast spread could make some sort of noise—anything to break this horrible, awkward tension.
The aroma drifts through the room, rich with bacon and pancakes and the lingering warmth of caramelized honey, but the scent does nothing to fill the void of sound.
Sasha whines softly from his spot near the refrigerator, as if even he can sense the weight of what I've just said. The sound is oddly comforting—at least someone in this room isn't staring at me like I've grown a second head.
Tank is staring at me with an expression I can't read.
Elias's eyebrows have climbed so high they've nearly disappeared into his hairline.
And Julian—the model from the gym, the one who called me Sweet Ditzy and gave me iron gummies and apparently hasn't stopped thinking about me any more than I've stopped thinking about him—looks like someone has just informed him that the laws of physics have been suspended.
"It could be..." I start, and my voice comes out smaller than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. "It could be a helpful gesture. Not like I need to be paid or anything. I just—I mean, you need an Omega, and I'm an Omega, and—"
Stop talking. Stop talking before you make this worse.
I frown, a new thought occurring to me. "Well... maybe there is a problem."
Tank arches an eyebrow, the first movement any of them have made since I opened my mouth. "What problem would that be?"
I sigh, running a hand through my messy hair. The borrowed t-shirt shifts on my shoulder, and I'm suddenly very aware of how I must look—barefoot, wearing an Alpha's clothes, standing in a kitchen that doesn't belong to me after a night that definitely belonged to me in ways I'm still processing.
"Well," I say carefully, "I'm practically a runaway Omega. So that may cause some... complications."
Elias frowns, the teasing light fading from his hazel-green eyes. "What do you mean, runaway?"
How do I explain this? How do I tell them that my family views me as property? That my aunt is trying to force me into an arranged marriage? That there are bounty hunters searching for me, and being associated with any pack—even temporarily—could put targets on their backs?
"It's... complicated," I admit, and the word feels inadequate for the tangled mess that is my life. "So maybe we should eat breakfast first? Before I dump my entire tragic backstory on you and ruin everyone's appetite."
There's a beat of silence, and then Tank nods slowly. "Fair enough." He gestures to the table, where the food has been waiting patiently. "We should eat before it gets cold anyway."
"I'm definitely hungry," Elias agrees, already reaching for his plate. "Starving, actually. That twelve-hour shift took it out of me."
Julian says nothing. He just watches me with those piercing green eyes, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. Like every piece of information about me is being catalogued and analyzed behind that beautiful, frustrating face.
I notice his scrutiny but pretend I don't. It's easier that way. Safer.
He's probably hard to please. A man who looks like that, who works in an industry built on perfection and appearances—he probably has standards that most people couldn't meet on their best day.
I wonder if he's only in modeling, or if there's something else.
Something beneath the surface that explains the way he carries himself, the intelligence in his eyes, the hint of something darker that lurks behind the pretty facade.
I make myself a plate—smaller than the ones I prepared for the Alphas, because my stomach is still knotted with nerves—and settle into the remaining chair at the table.
It puts me between Tank and Elias, with Julian directly across from me.
His scent reaches me even at this distance: patchouli and vanilla and cardamom, dark florals and polished woods.
It mingles with the other two—Tank's smoked leather and cedar, Elias's woodsmoke and pine—creating something new.
Something that feels like it could be home.
Don't think like that. This is temporary. This is fake. This is just a business arrangement to help a stranger save his career.
The quietness is less awkward now that we're all focused on eating. Forks clink against plates. Coffee is sipped. Sasha has positioned himself beneath the table, his warm weight pressing against my bare feet, and I find myself grateful for the grounding presence.
I take a bite of the pancakes I made, and they're actually pretty good. Fluffy, slightly sweet, with just a hint of vanilla. The bacon is crispy but not burnt. The eggs are seasoned properly. I'm a decent cook, when I have time and space and ingredients to work with.
This is the first time I've ever sat down to eat with Alphas like this.
The realization hits me unexpectedly, settling in my chest with a weight that's both heavy and hollow.
I grew up in a family full of Alphas—my father, my brothers, the endless parade of "suitable matches" my aunt paraded through our home.
But I never ate with them. Not really. I was always served separately, always kept at a distance, always reminded that my place was not at the table but on the auction block.
My father took his meals in his study. My brothers ate together, a closed circle that never included me.
And Aunt Vivienne—the woman who's been trying to sell me off since my parents' death—she made it very clear that omegas don't dine with Alphas.
We serve them. We wait for them. We eat what's left when they're done.
And my ex-pack... we never sat down together either. There were always demands, always expectations, always something more important than sharing a meal. I was there to serve, not to belong.
But here, in Tank's sunlit kitchen, with Sasha's fur warm against my toes and the scent of three Alphas surrounding me... here, I'm sitting at the table. I have a plate. I have a seat. No one has asked me to eat in another room or wait until they're finished.
Julian is focused on his food, eating with the precise, deliberate movements of someone who's been trained to be aware of every bite.
Elias eats with more enthusiasm, making small sounds of appreciation that should be annoying but somehow just seem genuine.
And Tank... Tank is watching everything.
Watching his packmates. Watching me. Watching the way I hold my fork and the way I cut my pancakes and the expression on my face.
It shouldn't feel this significant. It shouldn't make my throat tight or my eyes sting. It's just breakfast. It's just—
Tank's eyes lock with mine across the table.
"What's on your mind?"
I laugh nervously, caught off guard by the directness of the question. "What? Nothing. Do I look weird or something?"
He shakes his head slowly, those dark eyes never leaving mine. "No. Your expression is filled with longing. Which is... intriguing to me."
Longing. He saw longing on my face. He noticed something that private, that personal, that buried—and he called it out like it was nothing. Like reading people is as natural to him as breathing.
No one has ever seen me that clearly before.
No one has ever looked at me and noticed the things I'm trying to hide.
My family saw a bargaining chip. My ex-pack saw a possession.
But Tank... Tank saw longing. Tank saw the hunger for something I've never had.
And he didn't look away or pretend not to notice.
"You're rather observant," I say, deflecting with a small smile. "Is that a skill set?"
Tank smirks—that devastating half-smile that does things to my insides—but before he can answer, Elias jumps in.
"Well, Mr. Military Bodyguard over here definitely has those qualifications," he says, gesturing at Tank with his fork. "Comes with the territory."
I blink, processing this new information. "Oh. You weren't just a normal bodyguard? You were military?"
Tank shrugs one massive shoulder, like his entire career history is barely worth mentioning. "Something like that."
I think about that for a moment—about the way he moved at the mixer, fluid and controlled.
The way he assessed threats before they materialized.
The way his body is covered in sacred tattoos that speak of discipline and ritual and something deeper than civilian life.
The way he handled those bounty hunters without breaking a sweat, like danger was just another day at the office.