19. Olive
The late afternoon sun filters through the sheer curtains of the east wing sitting room, casting a warm golden glow over the plush carpet. I sit curled up in the corner of the oversized velvet sofa, a thick thriller paperback resting on my lap.
The mansion remains totally quiet. Malcolm and Lawrence went out to run errands. Finn lingers somewhere in the west wing, and Victor stays locked away in his self-imposed exile.
I stare at the open pages of my book, but the printed words blur together.
My mind refuses to focus on a fictional murder mystery when my real life feels like a chaotic puzzle.
The lingering ache in my muscles reminds me of the intense, mind-melting encounters with Lawrence and Malcolm over the last forty-eight hours.
They took my control, shattered my defenses, and gave me a sense of peace I never expected to find in this house.
But a huge, glaring void still sits in the middle of my chest.
My pack remains incomplete. Victor stays away. He avoids the east wing like a plague zone, treating me like fragile glass that might break if he breathes too loud.
A quiet buzz vibrates against the sofa cushion.
I blink, pulled out of my thoughts. I reach over and grab my phone. The screen illuminates, showing a new text message notification.
I unlock the device. The sender's name makes my eyebrows pull together in surprise.
Elena. Sam’s mom.
I gave her my personal cell number for when I didn't have shifts at the hospital. When I got fired, she promised to text me updates on Sam's treatment since she knew I cared about him.
I tap the notification, opening our chat thread.
Two messages load on the screen. The first one contains a block of text. The second is an image attachment.
ELENA:
Hi Olive. I know you aren't working right now, but I had to share this with you. We got a surprise visitor in Sam’s room this afternoon. Victor came back.
My stomach twists into a tight, anxious knot. I stare at the words, my brain struggling to process the information.
I tap the image attachment to download the photo.
The picture fills my screen. It looks slightly blurry, taken from a chair near the window. Elena clearly snapped the candid shot without alerting the subjects.
Victor sits in the cramped, uncomfortable plastic guest chair next to the hospital bed. He wears a plain black t-shirt and jeans. The snooty, aristocratic ego vanished. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, gripping a red Nintendo Switch controller in his hands.
Sam sits propped up against his pillows, pointing a finger at the television screen with a huge, gap-toothed smile.
Victor looks at the kid. A genuine, relaxed laugh stretches across his handsome face. The cold glare he usually wears is gone. He looks entirely at peace, completely focused on the ten-year-old boy in the hospital bed.
The breath leaves my lungs in a sudden, breathless rush.
I stare at the glowing screen. I zoom in on Victor's face.
No professional photographers flash their cameras to capture a charity stunt for the team's social media pages. He went there alone.
He went back to the pediatric oncology ward. He walked right into the sterile environment that triggered his devastating panic attack, and he sat down to play Mario Kart with a sick kid.
Another text bubble pops up from Elena.
ELENA:
He stayed for over an hour. He didn't make a big deal out of it. He just sat down, apologized to Sam for leaving the other day, and hung out with him. Sam hasn't stopped smiling all day. Thank you for setting this up.
My hands shake.
I drop the device onto the velvet cushion next to my knee.
The ice wrapped around my heart cracks down the middle. The stubborn, defensive anger I carried for weeks shatters into a million tiny pieces.
I judged him harshly. I stood outside that waiting room on the very first day and labeled him an entitled, callous prick.
I heard him complain about the smell of bleach and the waste of his free time, and I wrote him off as a villain.
I held onto that hatred like a shield, using it to protect myself from the terrifying reality of his intense, icy stare.
But Victor isn't just a villain.
I have no idea what caused him to sprint out of that pediatric ward looking like he saw a ghost. I don't know what kind of fears hide behind his cold, untouchable mask. We’ve barely spoken two words to each other since I moved into this house.
But looking at this photo rewrites the entire narrative.
Something terrified him that day. And instead of running away forever, he drove back to the hospital, faced whatever spooked him, and offered a sincere apology to a child he had disappointed.
He put in the grueling work to fix his mistakes.
He didn't do it for praise. He didn't even tell his packmates he planned to go. He did it quietly, in the dark, because it was the right thing to do.
He is trying to be a better man.
A hot, stinging tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it away, but another one falls right behind it.
The realization crashes over me, stripping away all of my remaining pride.
I want him. My body craves his juniper scent, but my heart craves the man sitting in that plastic hospital chair.
I want the Alpha who fights his own fears to make a kid smile.
I want the man doing the quiet work to make amends.
The gap between us feels like a canyon, filled with cruel words and brutal rejections. I told him I would rather sleep in a freezing car than talk to him. I threw his panic attack in his face in that parking lot.
I weep into my hands, overwhelmed by the crushing wave of regret and the terrifying, beautiful realization that I am in love with a man who thinks I hate him.
The tears fall hot and fast, soaking the palms of my hands. I curl my knees to my chest on the velvet sofa, letting the overwhelming wave of emotion crash over me.
The quiet solitude of the east wing sitting room offers a safe place to fall apart. The silence wraps around my trembling shoulders.
Footsteps pad softly against the carpet in the hallway.
I try to wipe my face, scrubbing the wetness from my cheeks, but the tears refuse to stop. The floodgates opened, and the dam sits in ruins.
Finn steps through the arched doorway. He wears dark gray sweatpants and a fitted white t-shirt. His messy auburn hair points in every direction, catching the golden afternoon light.
He stops in his tracks. His warm brown eyes lock onto my face.
The relaxed, easy-going posture vanishes instantly. His protective instincts surge to the surface. The crisp scent of an ozone thunderstorm floods the room, rolling toward the sofa with an intense, comforting urgency.
"Olive." Finn crosses the room in three long strides.
He drops to his knees right in front of the sofa. He reaches out and pulls my trembling body right off the cushions and into his chest.
I collapse against him. I wrap my arms around his thick neck and bury my face in his shoulder.
"I've got you." Finn wraps his strong arms around my waist, anchoring me against his solid frame. "You're safe. Talk to me, sweetheart. What happened?"
He keeps his voice a low, soothing rumble, rubbing his large hand in slow, rhythmic circles over my back to ground my nervous system.
I pull back just far enough to reach my phone on the cushion. My fingers shake as I pick the device up. The screen still displays the text thread with Elena.
I hand the phone to Finn.
He takes it. His brow furrows in confusion. He looks at the screen, reading the text message from Sam's mom. His eyes drop to the candid photo of Victor sitting in the hospital room holding the red game controller.
Finn stares at the picture. A slow, deeply affectionate smile spreads across his rugged face.
He locks the phone and sets it on the coffee table. He looks back at me, his brown eyes softening with complete understanding.
"He went back." I wipe a tear from my cheek. "He faced his nightmare. He apologized to Sam."
"He did." Finn brushes a stray tear off my cheek with his thumb. "He put in the work."
"I was so awful to him." I drop my forehead against Finn's collarbone.
"I stood in that strip mall parking lot and I threw his trauma right in his face.
I called him a coward. I told him he lacked a spine.
I said the cruelest things I could think of to make him hurt, and he still went back to the hospital to make amends. "
"You reacted out of fear." Finn rubs my back, his tone offering total forgiveness. "You fought for your survival, Olive. You lashed out because you felt cornered. He knows that."
"I want him." The confession leaves my lips in a desperate, ragged breath. "I want the whole pack, Finn. I want Victor. But I ruined it. I built a huge wall between us, and I have no idea how to cross it. He won't even look at me when I walk into the kitchen. He thinks I despise him."
Finn shifts on the floor. He pulls back slightly, tilting my chin up so I have to look him in the eye.
"Victor loves you." Finn looks at me with absolute, unwavering certainty.
I shake my head, fresh tears welling in my eyes. "He doesn't even know me."
"He knows enough." Finn offers a gentle, dimpled smile.
"He knows you possess enough fire to melt his ice.
He knows you protect the people you care about.
He knows you refuse to back down from a fight.
He loves you, Olive. He sits in his room on the other side of this house punishing himself because he thinks he ruined your life. "
The truth hurts worse than a lie.
"What do I do?" I grip the fabric of his white t-shirt. "How do I fix this?"
"You don't have to fix anything right now.
" Finn brushes my dark hair behind my ear.
"Victor is waiting for you to open the door.
He respects your boundaries. When you feel ready, you walk up to him and you tell him you want him.
He will cross oceans to get to you the second you give him the green light. "