Chapter 7 #4
Maybe a bird took them. Maybe you misremembered what you hung. Maybe you left them in the washer like an idiot and you’ll find them tomorrow, damp and smelling foul.
I check the washer, running my hand along the drum in case wet lace is stuck to the side. It’s empty.
When I finally give up on work and brush my teeth, the mirror shows me a stranger: pale, wide-eyed, hair in a messy ponytail from being tugged on all day.
“You are not going to cry about underwear,” I tell my reflection. “You are not.”
I don’t cry. Instead, I brush my teeth, wash my face, and pull on one of my big, safe cotton sleep shirts. It hits mid-thigh and has a faded print of a beach on it.
Safe.
In bed, I try to read. The words blur. My brain keeps supplying scenarios.
Maybe they took them on impulse, meaning to bring it back, and then panicked. Maybe they all argued about it. Maybe Eli yelled. Maybe Rhys said nothing and burned with disapproval. Maybe Knox made a joke. Maybe Declan hid it behind his back like he hid whatever it was by the hedge.
I clamp my eyes shut.
Are they looking at them?
Are they…scenting them?
The thought makes my thighs clench.
I hate myself for it. I hate that my body’s reaction to theft isn’t pure fear, but this confused, sticky heat.
If Julian had done this… Hell, if any of my exes had stolen my underwear and demonstrated any sort of alpha hoarding behavior, I would have filed a restraining order.
But Julian never wanted my scent. Julian never wanted anything of mine enough to risk a felony.
Stop it, I scold myself. Stop justifying it.
At some point, I drift into a thin, restless half-sleep.
Dreams swirl: sheets flapping, fingers on rope, a hand at the small of my back, a low voice saying ours, ours, ours.
A noise yanks me up through the layers.
I lie still, heart already thudding.
It’s subtle at first. Just the faint crunch of boots on gravel. Too rhythmic for an animal. Too light for a raccoon. Voices follow, low and muffled.
I hold my breath.
The bedroom window is cracked an inch. Night air seeps in, along with sound.
“—here somewhere,” a voice murmurs. Male. Familiar in the way that makes my pulse spike.
Rhys.
My insides lurch.
I slide my hand under my pillow and find my phone by muscle memory, the cool rectangle a lifeline. Dial 911!
Do not be dramatic, I tell myself. They’re probably checking their own yard. Probably making sure their trash cans didn’t sprout legs.
The footsteps move again, closer to the property line.
I can hear the faint rustle of leaves, the soft brush of a hand on bark.
The image forms in my mind: a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette moving along the hedge, head bowed, eyes scanning the ground.
I slip out of bed before I can talk myself out of it, bare feet silent. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
At the window, I ease the curtain back a fraction of an inch.
The backyard is painted in shadows and silver lines of moonlight. The clothesline is a dark slash against the sky, my sheets ghostly pale.
And there, along the fence, is Rhys.
He prowls. That’s the only word for it. Slow and controlled, weight rolling through his feet like a cat in human form. Jeans, dark hoodie, hood down. His hair is a darker smear against the night, his head turning as he scans the ground.
He pauses near the corner of their yard, right across from where my line is anchored. There he crouches, one hand braced on the grass.
My breath stops in my chest.
He reaches out, fingers brushing the empty grass. Or the soil.
Possibilities crash into each other in my head like a pileup.
Why go back to the scene of the crime? Why touch the ground right there?
Unless he’s checking to see if he missed anything. Unless he’s checking to see if I hung anything else out after dark.
“Nothing,” he says quietly before rising. The words carry just enough on the still air to reach me. “Not on this side.”
Another voice answers from closer to their house. Eli, low and rough. “Check along the back. If it fell, that’s where it’ll be.”
My heart does a complicated, painful twist.
If it fell.
Are they sweeping their yard like a specialized ops team, except instead of diffusing a bomb, they’re hunting for lace?
Knox’s voice comes from somewhere I can’t see, a hushed, furious murmur. “I want it found. Tonight.”
My fingers tighten on the curtain until the fabric bites my skin.
I want it found.
Rhys moves again, scanning the hedge where our yards meet. His posture is all tension, all focus. A big, dark alpha moving the perimeter of my hedge under cover of night. Hunting.
Then, he stops.
Slowly, his head turns toward my house, and he looks up.
I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The angle is sharp; he can’t possibly see me through the curtain and the dark room. I am a shadow in a box.
But Rhys stares right at the window anyway.
He stands there for a long beat, still as a statue, his face unreadable in the moonlight. He looks like a sentry. Or a wolf waiting for the rabbit to bolt.
For a second, I swear he inhales deeply.
I jerk back from the window, the curtain fluttering back into place, as I stumble away from the glass, clutching my phone to my chest like a shield. My breathing is shallow, fast.
“Oh my god,” I whisper to the empty room.
They aren’t just messy. They aren’t just loud.
They are obsessed.
I replay the conversation in my head. I want it found. Check along the back.
They cleaned my bins. They fed me. They called me “our omega.” And now, they’re scouring my property line in the middle of the night to make sure they didn’t miss a single scrap of satin.
A shiver works its way up my spine, but it’s not the good kind. It’s the cold, sobering kind that wakes you up from a daydream.
Sierra was wrong. This isn’t some weird situation that may turn out great. This is a cautionary tale about why you don’t accept grilled meats from men who drill holes in walls at midnight.
I crawl back into bed, pulling the duvet all the way up to my chin.
My omega, the stupid girl, whispers: They’re attentive.
“They are thieves,” I hiss back at her in the dark.
“Yes,” my omega agrees in the silence. “And they’re definitely not boring.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the image of Rhys crouching in the moonlight.
I need a plan.
I need to get my things back, I need to set boundaries, and I need to stop swooning over the way they look in tactical gear.
Outside, the faint sound of footsteps continues, steady and sure, prowling the line between our worlds.
I go to sleep that night clutching the duvet, utterly convinced of one thing:
The pack next door has my underwear.
And they are currently outside looking for the rest of the set.