Chapter 5 #2
My mind flashes to the barn. Holt’s arm around me, solid and safe, nothing like Van’s possessive grip.
His voice in my ear: “Let me handle this.” The scent of spiced caramel, toasted marshmallow, and warm vanilla had my whole body recognizing home in a stranger.
Luke and Arrow flanking me like guards, like protectors, like they’d burn the whole barn down before letting Van touch me.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. The lie falls out so easily, self-preservation dressed as truth. “I’m taken. And he treats me wonderfully. The way it should be.”
“Then,” she says slowly, “the least you can do is let your mother meet this man who will be your Alpha.”
My shoulders flinch back. Oh, no. No, no, no. The room spins again. I’ve just made everything so much worse.
“That’s… that’s not necessary.”
“I insist.” Her voice has that steel underneath the silk now. “Your father won’t let this go. He’s on my back daily about the embarrassment, the financial situation. The Stones are… upset about the arrangement falling through.”
The Stones. Van’s family. Old money, older values, the kind of people who still think Omegas should be seen and not heard, bred and not educated.
“Let me meet this Alpha, Cynthia,” she continues. “So I can tell your father something to make him leave it alone. Will you do that for me?”
Everything she does is for her. Not for me. Never for me.
I look around my little townhouse, my safe space with its mismatched furniture I picked myself, my miniature worlds I built with my own hands, my life I created from nothing but determination and terror.
She’ll critique everything, from the secondhand couch to the lack of proper Omega decorations, whatever those are.
The books on my shelves are too many, too varied, too obviously read.
The art on my walls is too modern, too abstract, too much opinion for an Omega to have.
But mostly she’ll notice what’s missing. An Alpha. A protector. A keeper. Someone to tell me what to think, what to wear, when to speak, when to spread my legs and be grateful for the privilege. She will never accept me living alone.
“Cynthia, I’ll be in Whispering Grove this Saturday,” she says without waiting for an answer, because my agreement was never required, only my compliance. “I’ll message you once I arrive to catch up, okay?”
Saturday. Two days away. Two days to produce an Alpha from thin air or face my mother’s disappointment and interrogation.
If I don’t have someone by my side who has claimed me, she’ll never let it go.
Not until I give in, move home, and let her marry me off.
And if she senses weakness? If she suspects I’m still unbonded?
She’ll call Van. Or maybe she already has.
One little failure, and I’ll be right back in the cage I barely escaped.
My mind spirals back to another moment of decision.
Standing in front of those massive, closed double doors, gold-trimmed, glossy, heavy enough to seal a tomb. Behind them, the ceremonial hall buzzed with anticipation. Guests settling into rows. Soft music playing. Van waiting at the altar like he was entitled to me.
I was alone. My father had stormed off down the corridor, barking into his phone about investments and reputations and some deal that suddenly mattered more than walking his daughter down the aisle. His voice echoed and faded, and for a few stolen seconds, there was no one left to watch me.
This is the moment . I remembered Aunt Alina whispering once, years ago, eyes sharp and knowing, If you ever decide to run—don’t wait. Don’t warn anyone. Just find your exit and go.
So I’d memorized the floor plans, studied the routes the staff used to slip in and out without notice. I’d even stolen a key from the head housekeeper’s ring, palmed it on a day I was supposed to be picking out floral arrangements.
Now, with my father’s voice disappearing around the corner, that key was burning in my pocket, the one I had promised myself to take everywhere since I stole it.
My hands trembled as I reached for the edge of my skirt, lifting layers of silk, lace, and tulle. I kicked off the heels that had been forced onto my feet that morning.
Now , I thought.
And I turned.
Not toward the room. Not toward the life they’d chosen for me.
I turned and ran.
Through the back hallway, into the workers’ quarters that smelled like starch and lemon oil, down the narrow stairwell that led to the back door with no guards. The stolen key slid into the lock with a click that sounded like thunder.
I ran for my life, barefoot and breathless, into the woods that surrounded our mansion. I ran for freedom even though I had no idea what that would look like.
I only knew what it wouldn’t look like.
Like Van’s hands on me.
Like my mother’s disappointed sighs.
And it sure as hell wouldn’t look like my father’s calculated indifference.
“If you want closure,” my mother says, interrupting my spiral back to today. “This is the way to start it.”
“Fine,” I whisper, hating myself for the word, for the weakness, for the twenty years of conditioning that makes me still, still, want her approval.
“Wonderful! I’ll see you then, darling.”
The line goes dead.
The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering on the coffee table.
For a moment, I just stare at it like it’s a snake that might strike again.
Then the tears come. Not pretty, delicate tears like Omegas are supposed to cry.
Huge, ugly sobs that shake my whole body, that come from somewhere so deep I didn’t know it existed.
Almost two years of freedom, of building a life, of becoming myself, and one phone call reduces me to that scared girl in a wedding dress who didn’t know if she’d survive the night.
What have I agreed to?
My legs move without my permission, carrying me to the door. I don’t even bother with shoes, my tights-covered feet silent on the cold concrete. I knock on Mrs. Meadow’s door with shaking hands, probably too hard, probably too desperate, but I can’t stop myself.
She opens immediately, takes one look at my face, and pulls me into a hug encompassing all the things mothers are supposed to be.
“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, guiding me inside. “What happened? Come, come. Sit.”
Her townhouse is the mirror of mine architecturally but completely different in every way that matters.
Where mine is sparse, hers is lived-in and loved.
Photos cover every surface, children and grandchildren smiling from frames that probably have stories she tells anyone who’ll listen.
Doilies protect furniture that’s older than me.
It smells like she’s been baking again, probably for another church function where she’ll pretend she didn’t make the best cookies and everyone will pretend to believe her.
She doesn’t ask questions, just puts cookies on a plate and pours milk like I’m five and skinned my knee.
The chocolate chips are still melty. She must have just pulled them from the oven.
Sometimes that’s exactly what you need—someone to mother you the way mothers should, with cookies and patience and no agenda beyond making you feel better.
“My mother called,” I finally manage between hiccuping breaths.
Mrs. Meadow’s mouth curls downward at the corners.
She knows I ran from something. She’s never pushed for details, but she knows it was bad enough that I don’t talk about family, that I sometimes have nightmares that make me scream.
She’s probably put together more pieces than I realize.
She’s sharp like that, notices things but doesn’t pry.
“Families can be complicated,” she says carefully, patting my hand. Her skin is paper-soft, marked with age spots.
That’s when I notice the boxes. Cardboard boxes stacked along the walls, labeled in her careful handwriting. Kitchen. Photos. Books. Charlie’s drawings.
“You’re moving?” The words come out accusatory, like she’s betraying me, which isn’t fair, but feelings aren’t fair.
She sighs, suddenly looking all of her seventy-three years. The lines around her eyes deepen. “My daughter-in-law just had twins. Surprise babies at forty-two, can you believe it? They need help, and honestly, dear, living alone at my age is getting harder. The stairs, the maintenance, the quiet.”
I understand that. The kind of silence that presses against your ears, that makes you talk to yourself just to hear a voice.
“I’ll miss you,” I say. “When are you moving?”
“Me too, dear, and it will be soon. I wanted to tell you properly, and was baking cookies to come over and let you know. It’s all happened so fast.”
Another loss. Another person leaving. Another safe thing becoming unsafe. I know it’s not about me, but it feels slightly personal to lose her as my neighbor.
“You’ll be fine,” she says firmly, reading my face like the large-print books she favors. “You’re stronger than you think. Whatever that phone call was about, whatever your mother wants, you are your own person, and you will do what is right for you, not her.”
“She wants to meet my Alpha,” I confess. “On Saturday.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Oh.”
“Yep. I don’t have one. I lied. Said I did because she was pushing me, and now she’s coming here Saturday and expects to meet this imaginary Alpha.”
Mrs. Meadow tilts her head, studying me. Her lips press together as she thinks, fingers brushing crumbs from the plate beside her.
“Well now,” she finally says, soft and slow. “That’s a bit of a predicament.”
She leans back in her chair with a quiet sigh. “All I can suggest is… if you have any male friends who could stand in. Just for the visit. If you feel you can’t be honest with your mother.”
“I really can’t,” I murmur. “It’ll be worse for me if I try.”
Mrs. Meadow pats my arm gently, her hand warm and papery. She picks up another cookie and places it into my palm without asking.
“Yes, I think a male friend might be your solution,” she says, more thoughtful now than certain. “Someone you trust. Not a stranger. It could be very obvious if it feels… well, staged.”
I sigh, my thoughts instantly going to Holt, yet he’s a stranger and it will be so obvious that we barely know each other.
She frowns a little. “Oh, such a tangle. I do wish I had a better answer for you.”
“It’s okay. The cookies are helping.” I smile and eat another one.
My phone buzzes. Harper: On my way! Wear something cute
Normal life is calling. I have to go pour beer for drunk people in costumes and pretend everything is fine. Pretend my mother isn’t coming. Pretend I have an Alpha. Pretend I’m not completely fucked.
“Thank you,” I tell Mrs. Meadow, hugging her carefully. She feels fragile but strong. “For the cookies and the advice. And I’m going to miss you when you’re gone.”
“Anytime, dear. I will miss you too.” She hugs me, then I head back to my place.
I wait for Harper, adding those bat tattoos because if my world is ending, I might as well look good for the coming apocalypse.