Chapter 5 #2
Knox, leaning against the cooler, goes still. His lazy, cocky posture drops, shoulders squared, his expression sharpening like a predator scenting live prey after weeks of canned food.
Rhys, who never shows anything he doesn’t want to, lets his eyes flick down and up in one smooth, hungry sweep. His lips part. His fingers flex at his sides like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching.
It’s not planned, but it might as well be. All four of us lock onto her in the same breath.
And she notices.
She freezes mid-step, caught in the crosshairs of four stares. Her eyes go wide, a warm, liquid honey-brown that catches the sunlight as a flush blooms high on her cheeks. Her grip tightens on the dish until the aluminum foil crinkles.
Her scent spikes, sharp little sparks of adrenaline and embarrassment pushing straight through the blockers.
Easy, I tell myself. Easy.
We all move at once.
Eli peels away from Carol with a smooth excuse about “checking the grill.” Knox pushes off the cooler, straightening. Rhys shifts to the side, already angling to intercept any random neighbor who might converge.
And me?
I head straight for her like there’s a leash attached to my collar and she’s holding the other end.
“Hey,” I call, forcing my voice into something that sounds social, not feral. “You made it.”
She startles a little, then smiles. It’s tentative, but it’s real, and it hits like sunlight directly under my ribs.
“Hi,” she says. “I brought…brownies? It felt rude to show up empty-handed.”
“Brownies are never rude,” I say, accepting the container from her hands like it’s a holy relic. “Showing up without brownies is rude. This is you being an exemplary citizen.”
Her laugh bubbles out, and it’s so nervous and sweet. My alpha settles a little when her scent warms, the anxious edge smoothing a fraction.
Good. Better.
“These look amazing.” And I’m not even lying. They do. Perfectly cut, little swirls of ganache on top. “Did you bake these?”
“Yes,” she says, almost apologetically. “Sorry if they’re a little—”
“Sweet?” I cut in, grinning. “Good. I like myself a little sugar.”
Her mouth quirks.
Behind her, the gate clinks. More neighbors. Noise swells. I want to drag her away from all of it and tuck her somewhere quiet, where she can breathe without a dozen eyes on her.
I force myself to pivot. “Come on. You look like you know good food. Help me not poison everyone?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “I what?”
“You have that face,” I explain, leading the way to the grill. “The one that says, ‘I own at least three kinds of salt and know how to use them.’ I trust your judgment. Be my taste tester. If anyone dies, I want to be able to blame the sous-chef.”
“Wow,” she says, following, the hem of her sundress brushing her knees. “Such a generous offer. Truly neighborly.”
“I’m a complex guy,” I say. “Mostly chaos, but occasionally helpful.”
At the grill, Eli is adjusting the temperature. He’s in full Host Beta mode now. Focused, steady, eyes tracking everything.
He sees us approach and I catch the micro-shift in his stance.
“Eli,” I say, setting the container on the nearest table, safe from the heat. “Brownies from Mia. Emergency taste tester volunteer.”
Mia blinks. “I did not volunteer. I was drafted.”
“Even better,” Eli says, and his voice does that lower, rougher thing I’ve only ever heard when he’s exhausted or turned on. His eyes land on her like it’s an effort not to linger. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she echoes, a little softer.
Her scent flutters again. Strawberry and nerves.
I lean against the grill, close enough to feel the heat. “Okay, expert,” I say to Mia, handing her a plate with a sliced sausage, a piece of grilled chicken, and a sample of the samosas Mrs. Pritchard brought. “Tell me if this is acceptable or if I need to change my name and flee from the HOA.”
She eyes the plate like it’s a trap. Then she glances at me, then at Eli, who’s watching her with the kind of intensity that would make a sane person walk backward into the bushes.
To his credit, Eli catches himself and pulls his gaze back to the grill, focusing on flipping the burgers.
Mia lifts the fork and takes a bite of the sausage first.
I watch her mouth close around the fork. Watch her tongue catch the edge. Watch her throat work as she swallows.
This was a mistake. I am a fool. I cannot be trusted around utensils.
She chews. “Okay,” she says. “That’s really good. Smoky. Not too salty. Did you marinate this?”
“Secret recipe,” I say. “If I tell you, we’ll have to mate-bond you into the pack.”
She chokes.
Eli’s hand slams down on the side shelf of the grill so hard the tongs jump.
“Declan,” he says, very calmly, not looking at me.
“Joking,” I say quickly, hands up. “Kidding. That was a joke.”
Her scent sweetens, a sudden flash of warmth that makes my fingers curl against the grill handle.
“I—I mean, I’m sure it’s a great recipe,” she stammers. “Full of…marinade.”
Eli exhales through his nose. I can feel the restraint in it. He just…contains himself. That’s Eli’s superpower. Being a dam against the current of all our worst impulses.
It doesn’t change the fact that I meant it more than I should’ve.
Mine. Ours. Claim her. Knot her. Mark her.
The thoughts flicker through my head so fast and bright I’m glad no one here is a mind reader.
“Try the chicken,” I say, forcing some levity back into my voice. “Tell me it’s not dry. I need you to lie to me if it is.”
She takes a bite. Her eyes close for a split second.
Every muscle in my back locks.
Then she opens them, nods. “It’s perfect,” she says. “Juicy. You don’t need my help at all.”
“Lies,” I protest. “I always need help.”
“You say that, but this is perfect.” She gestures with her fork. “I’m starting to think the ‘chaos’ thing might just be an act.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I whisper loudly. “You’ll ruin my brand.”
She smiles.
Mission fucking accomplished.
Before I can say anything else, a hand appears at her elbow. Rhys. Appearing at her side like he was always there.
He holds out a red plastic cup. There’s condensation on the outside, beads of sweat sliding down his fingers.
“For you,” he says quietly. His voice is lower than mine, rougher, like gravel dragged over velvet. “Sparkling water. Lemon. Before you get cornered by Tom and he insists you try his ‘special’ punch.”
Mia blinks. “How did you—”
“He’s already offered it to three people,” Rhys says matter-of-factly. “It has at least four different kinds of alcohol and one questionable fruit floating in it. I don’t recommend it.”
She takes the cup. Her fingers brush his. I see the way his hand tightens for half a second before he lets go. Just one heartbeat of contact. His nostrils flare.
Easy, I shoot down the bond-like awareness between us. Slow.
He flicks his gaze to me. Just a fraction. A tiny shift of weight, an almost imperceptible tilt of his head.
You good? it says.
Yeah, I fire back with a raised eyebrow. You?
He exhales. His shoulders drop half an inch. Yeah.
He steps back, enough to stop crowding her. “If you need anything,” he says, eyes back on Mia, “food, drink, just look at one of us. We’ll get it for you.”
Her eyes soften. “Is that a standard service you provide to all neighbors?”
“No,” he says. No smile. Just the blunt truth. “Just you.”
The air between them hums for a beat.
Then Knox’s laugh slices through it like a knife. He’s across the yard, surrounded by three guys in tech-bro t-shirts, all of them gesturing animatedly at a phone screen.
Rhys’s attention snaps away. His whole posture goes alert.
“Problem?” Eli asks under his breath.
“Kid from 130 is about to challenge Knox to a ranked match in something,” Rhys mutters. “We’re five minutes from a tournament forming in our living room.”
“Fuck,” Eli sighs. “Contain him.”
Rhys nods and peels away, already angling toward the group.
I watch him go, then glance back at Mia. Her gaze is tracking him like she can’t help it.
“You hungry?” I ask, because if I keep letting her watch us like we’re some kind of feral male wildlife documentary, she’s going to overload.
“A little,” she admits, then drops her voice. “Mostly overwhelmed.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a lot. Tom means well, but he’s invited everyone, even people from Sweetwater Oaks.”
She huffs a laugh. “I noticed.”
Movement over her shoulder catches my eye. Carol is prowling our perimeter like a shark in a floral blouse, eyes narrowed, scanning for violations.
“Shit,” I mutter. “HOA incoming.”
Mia stiffens slightly. “That’s Carol?”
“You haven’t met?”
“She left a pamphlet in my mailbox.” Mia grimaces. “I have never been so aggressively informed about trash can placement in my life.”
I snort. “She goes feral over bins.”
“Goals,” Mia deadpans.
I like her. So much. Too much, too fast.
“Declan,” Eli says quietly, nodding toward the oncoming HOA storm. “Rotate. I’ll handle her.”
“Copy that, boss,” I say, then lean toward Mia. “Run while you can. Save yourself.”
She laughs, but she doesn’t move. She squares her shoulders like she’s bracing to be polite.
As Eli intercepts Carol, we get fifteen blessed minutes where things are almost normal. Mia sits. She eats. She laughs at some of Tom’s stories. Mala, the golden retriever, adopts her, laying her big furry head in Mia’s lap and looking up with worshipful eyes.
Every time I glance over, one of us is within ten feet of her.
Not planned.
Very us.
Rhys shuts down a frat boy attempt to coax Mia into a game of beer pong with one flat, “She said no,” that has the guy backing up with his hands raised.
Then he ends a conversation about crypto with a gamer dude when the guy starts steering toward “omegas are just biologically—” by stepping between him and Mia and saying, “Nope,” in a tone that brooks exactly zero argument.