Chapter 7 #2
I tap the screen. A Nexus logo spins, then resolves into a woman in a slate-gray blazer, hair scraped back so tight it probably has clearance levels. Her badge catches the light.
“Is Omega Jessica Mancini present?” she asks without greeting.
Jess’s jaw flexes. She steps into frame beside me. “Present.”
The woman’s gaze flicks over her like she’s checking a box. “Any incidents, injuries, or emergent heat symptoms since transfer from Nexus?”
“No,” Jess says. “No incidents. No injuries. No Heat.”
The woman’s eyes cut to me. “Mr. Mercado?”
“Stable,” I confirm. “Adjustment within expected parameters.”
“Visual confirmation of tracking device,” she says. “Camera down, please.”
I angle the tablet toward Jess’s ankle. The monitor’s green light blinks steady against her skin.
“Model V-9, tamper-sensor active.” The woman nods to herself, already bored. “Unit is water-resistant to full submersion and impact-rated. Showers, baths, and swimming are permitted. Any sign of swelling, bruising, or attempted removal will flag on our end.”
Jess’s toes curl against the tile. “So I can’t even accidentally take it off,” she mutters.
“That device ensures your safety and the integrity of your placement,” the woman replies, like she’s read that line a thousand times. “If you request, we can schedule a follow-up home visit and psychological assessment. Until then, we’ll check back at the end of the month. Any questions?”
Jess shakes her head. Then the Nexus woman asks Cassian and Rowan a few routine questions.
“So you all agree to continue the ninety-day trial?”
“Yes,” we answer.
“Any further questions?”
“No,” I say.
“Jess?” the woman prods.
“Nope. We’re good here.”
“Very well. Nexus appreciates your cooperation.” The feed cuts before either of us can answer.
Silence stretches for a beat.
Jess stares at the blank screen, then down at the monitor blinking on her ankle. “Waterproof, huh,” she says quietly. “Nice to know even the ocean can’t shake them. When did they install these puppies?”
“About six years ago,” I say. “Before I started.”
Something in her expression flickers—confirmation or a fear she already had. I want to tell her she’s not property, that the hardware doesn’t get the final say—but the words taste like a lie with that green light staring back at us.
So instead, I reach for the kettle, pour myself another inch of tea I don’t need, and change the subject.
“We’ve got time to kill,” I say, forcing my shoulders to loosen. Jess still looks like she’s waiting for someone to tell her what to do with it.
“Board games or interrogation?” Rowan asks, already pulling a battered deck of cards from the junk drawer.
“Depends on the game,” Jess says.
“Rummy. Cassian cheats, Eli counts cards, and I win anyway.”
We crowd around the island, and within two hands, Jess is trash-talking like she’s known us for years. She catches Rowan palming an extra card and calls him on it with a grin that says I see you. Cassian tries to bluff his way through a terrible hand, and she reads him like a billboard.
“You’re terrible at this,” she tells him.
“I’m strategizing,” he protests.
“You’re hemorrhaging,” I correct, laying down a run that makes him groan.
Rowan wins the round by being quietly ruthless.
“Double or nothing,” she says, snapping the deck out of his hand before he can shuffle.
Cassian snorts. “You planning to count cards too?”
She flicks him a look over the spread, batting her eyelashes. “I don’t need to.”
Rowan leans back, folding those arms. “Confidence. Dangerous trait.”
“Only if I’m wrong,” she fires back.
We deal again. Cards slide across the table, and Jess’s nails tap a quick, sharp rhythm.
“You’ve played before,” Rowan says.
“Maybe once or twice. Hard to find opponents who don’t throw the deck when they lose.”
“Cassian does that,” I add.
“Once,” Cass protests. “And the table deserved it.”
Jess grins—unguarded now. “Your tell?” She nods at Cass. “You breathe heavier when you bluff.”
“You paying that much attention to me?”
“I pay attention to everything,” she says, quiet but sure.
“Occupational habit?” Rowan asks.
“Survival one.” She lays down her run. “Rummy.”
The table goes silent for a beat. Then Cassian groans, and I bark a laugh that breaks the tension.
“Guess we found her field skill,” I say. “Interrogation it is.”
Her mouth curves, soft and dangerous. “You’ll lose that one too.”
By the time the Instant Pot beeps, she’s won a hand and lost two, and she’s relaxed enough that when Cassian’s elbow bumps hers reaching for the cards, she doesn’t flinch.
We move into the dinner rhythm without planning it like old choreography.
Cassian lifts the roasting pan; I catch it. He carves; I spoon pan juices without drowning the meat. Rowan builds a salad with bomb-tech precision. Jess tears butter lettuce like she’ll earn another hour here if she doesn’t bruise it.
We eat. No ritual, just clink and reach and “hand me that” and “you’re taking the good carrots again, Cassian.” The conversation zigzags between trash talk and breadcrumb truths.
Cassian tells the story about the elevator incident with the Omega pickpocket, embellishing shamelessly. “She was cute,” he lies.
“You hate thieves,” I remind him.
“And elevators,” Rowan adds, voice dry as dust.
Jess laughs so hard she snorts water. When she wipes her face, she stares at the three of us like she’s doing math in her head. “You guys are like the world’s weirdest support group.”
“Better than group therapy,” Cassian says cheerfully.
“And why do you hate elevators?”
“I take the stairs whenever possible. Elevators are a metal box on cables. Not my idea of safe.” He grabs another slice of roast.
Jess glances at the fridge magnets—one’s a chipped ceramic lizard. Growing up, I had a German Shepherd for therapy. Followed me around everywhere.”
Rowan follows her gaze, mouth ticking up. “That lizard is a reminder of my mother,” Rowan says, cutting off a bite of his roast, “She once tried to domesticate an iguana.”
Jess looks up, fork paused. “Domesticate? Aren’t they pets?”
“Not this one. She named him Spartacus and gave him a corner of the sunroom with a heat lamp and a water dish.” Rowan’s mouth quirks. “He bit my uncle twice, my cousin once, and me when I tried to move his rock.”
Cassian snorts. “Tell her about the escape.”
“He lived in the neighbor’s garage for a month. They thought he was a lawn ornament until he moved.”
“Wow. Your mom sounds like chaos.”
“She respects a rebel,” Rowan says, and there’s warmth in it—the kind you only get from someone who’s made peace with their origin story.
“What happened to Spartacus?” Jess asks.
“Animal control. He’s at a reptile sanctuary now, probably terrorizing the staff.”
She grins at him, and there’s the click of two barely tamed things humoring the idea of domestication.
Jess’s gaze makes a slow loop around the room: spice rack color, battered cast-iron hanging from hooks, the pothos vine curling over the window.
She doesn’t ask about any of it, doesn’t point or comment, just absorbs.
The same way she absorbed Cassian’s tells at cards, the way she watched me and Rowan without judging.
It’s unfair how much I’m attracted to her for that.
“So,” she says around a bite of meat that makes her eyes go wide, “What else are you good at, Eli, besides cooking?”
“He’d be the one who’d help you bury a body,” Cassian says, and she grins.
“Sounds efficient.” She sets her fork down and looks at me—really looks, not through me to the Alphas. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“When you joined them,” she tilts her head toward Rowan and Cassian, “was it weird? Being the… I don’t know. Third?”
The question hangs there, honest and unguarded. No one’s ever asked me that. Not directly.
“Sometimes.” Lying to her just feels wrong.
“Mostly it’s just… right. Like finding a space that was always yours but you didn’t know existed.
” I pause, trying to find words that won’t sound defensive.
“I love Rowan and what we have. But wanting more doesn’t feel selfish—it feels honest. It’s like pie and roast. Both are amazing, but I wouldn’t want just one forever. ”
She nods slowly, like she’s trying the idea on for size. Then she does something that stops my breath: she reaches across the island and taps my wrist. “Thanks for explaining that.”
It’s Rowan’s gesture. The one he uses with me when words won’t fit.
She learned it in four hours, and she’s giving it back to me.
It lands under my ribs like a warm hand.
For once, I don’t feel like the mascot. Not a spare part.
A piece that fits with an Omega with us.
Last time I felt this way was with Meredith, but even she didn’t like me going to Rowan with her there.
She tolerated it, yes, but I was only to be with Rowan alone.
This feels different. This feels like she’s including me on purpose.
As if sensing my mood, Rowan’s knuckles lightly brush my hip on his way past to refill our tea. Jess catches the motion, but she just smiles, and I wonder again if she’s the perfect Omega for us.
I say. “Some people have an idea of how packs are supposed to work. Others live in the real world.”
Jess hums thoughtfully. “I vote real world.”
There’s a beat where the air tastes like more than cinnamon. Cassian pushes into it. “No more roast for me, that apple pie smells like heaven. All it needs is vanilla ice cream.”
“That would be amazing.” Jess wipes gravy from her bottom lip with her thumb, and I absolutely do not track the movement. “It smells so good, I think I could eat the whole pie.”
“Challenge accepted,” Cassian says, leaning back with a predatory grin. “Loser does dishes for a week.”
“You’re on,” Jess shoots back without hesitation.
Rowan and I exchange a look. “We’re not involved in this,” I say.
“Cowards,” Jess accuses, but she’s smiling.
The timer dings. I nearly trip getting to the oven. The pie is a show-off: bronze lattice, apples bubbling, sugar singing against the heat. I set it on a trivet, and the four of us just breathe it in.
“Yummy,” Jess says, eyes bright. “I can’t wait to try that.”
“Patience. Let’s clean up while it cools.”
Jess slides in along with us, rinsing her plate before adding it to the dishwasher, putting away the leftovers that we can use for tacos tomorrow, and wiping off the counter while I clean the Instant Pot. Rowan and Cassian clear off the table and put the knives and cutting board in the dishwasher.
Then Rowan gets out the ice cream and heaps it onto each of our slices, then sets them on the table.
We let the pie rest long enough to avoid lava tongues. Cassian ruins his palate anyway, demolishing his piece in three bites. Rowan closes his eyes on the first taste and exhales like he hasn’t let himself breathe in weeks. Jess mirrors him, fork suspended.
When she opens her eyes, there’s something hungry and alive there that has nothing to do with food. “Shit.”
“Language,” Rowan warns when her compliment dies at a swear word.
She flips him off, laughing. “Fine. It tastes like there was a family who loved each other and someone took notes.”
The kitchen goes quiet. Cassian freezes mid-bite. Rowan’s breath catches audibly.
I swallow around the sudden tightness in my throat, keep my voice even. “Then we’re doing it right.”
Later—after seconds of pie and there’s not even a crumb left—Jess hooks a hip against the island and tosses her chin toward me like she’s deciding whether I break easy or bend.
“You’re bi,” she says. Not a question. “And a Beta.” Flat, factual. “I don’t care about labels. I care if you’re honest.”
It’s a crowbar between my ribs. Clean, brutal, necessary.
“I am,” I say. No catch this time. “Does that bother you?”
She watches a beat longer, then nods once like we’ve passed step one. “No. But I’ve never been in a pack or around Alphas,” she says, voice pitched just for me, not for them, “treat me like I belong. Not like an afterthought.”
“All right,” I say. It’s the only answer and the right one. I let my shoulder brush hers—barely—so she can decide if that stays.
It does.
After the kitchen’s clean and the dishwasher hums its white noise, Jess leans against the counter with her second cup of tea, eyes landing on the stack of recipe cards threatening to escape their drawer.
“Can I see?” she asks.
I pull the drawer open—and the avalanche begins. Cassian catches two cards before they hit the floor; Rowan plucks one from midair.
Jess laughs and crouches to help. She picks up a card, reads aloud: “Nonna’s Biscotti—must make with real anise or die alone and unloved.” She glances up at me, brow lifted. “Dramatic.”
“That one’s from my ex-roommate’s grandmother,” I say. “She meant every word.”
We spread the cards across the island—decades of saved recipes, smudged and annotated with confessions like add more garlic and lie about the calories. Jess handles them carefully, fingers tracing the faded ink like it’s holy text.
“This one,” she says, holding up a lemon-bar recipe, “my mom used to make something like this. Different, but the same… feeling.”
“Make it with me sometime,” I say before thinking.
She studies me for a beat, then nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Cassian yawns loud enough to rattle the dishes. “That’s my cue. Ate too much, need to sleep it off.” He gives Jess a lazy salute. “You good?”
“Yeah. I might crash, too. Nexus isn’t exactly known for quality shut-eye.”
“You look good regardless,” Rowan says, soft and sincere, and I can’t help but agree.
Jess grins, unrepentant. “If you like me now, wait until I’ve had a full nine and a half hours of sleep.”
“I like her,” Cassian declares, heading for the stairs.
Rowan chuckles. “Guess you’re not a morning person.”
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “Not even in the slightest. I used to think I was part vampire or something. Or like a ten-ish to 1 am kinda gal.”
“Then you’ll fit right in,” I say. “We don’t really do mornings here—just late starts and strong coffee.”
Cassian calls back over his shoulder, “And threats of violence before noon.”
Jess laughs, the sound light and unguarded. “Perfect. Goodnight.”
“Night,” I answer, and Rowan’s hand finds the small of my back as we watch her go.
When she disappears around the corner, I exhale as Rowan rubs my back.
Welcome home, I don’t say it, but I know in my gut it’s true.