Chapter 28
CINDY
T he pink flowy dress is too light for how heavy everything feels today.
I smooth my hands down the fabric for the tenth time, staring at my reflection in the hallway mirror.
Hair braided in two plaits over my shoulders, shoes that Harper helped me pick out last week when we were laughing about how ridiculous this whole wedding was going to be.
If it weren’t for this horrible wedding, it would be a glorious day.
The sun is shining bright and warm, there’s a cool breeze coming off the mountains, carrying the smell of pine and earth, and Halloween decorations are everywhere, making the whole property look like a Gothic fairy tale.
But my stomach won’t stop churning.
I glance at my phone again. The screen is empty. No new messages. No missed calls. Nothing.
I sent three texts to each of them. Luke, Holt, Arrow. Each message more desperate than the last. Where are you? Are you okay? Please answer me .
Nothing. Radio silence.
Luke’s message from this morning is still there, sent at six fifty when I was still half asleep: We’re going on an errand. Won’t be long. Still sleeping, sweetheart?
I’d woken up at eight to find the bed empty and cold. The sheets on Arrow’s side had lost all their warmth. I’d pressed my face into his pillow, breathing in his scent, figuring they’d be back by nine. Maybe ten at the latest if they stopped for breakfast.
It’s past ten thirty now.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, tempted to text them again. But what good would it do? I’ve already sent three messages each, called them. They’re not responding, and that’s not normal. But now? Nothing from any of them.
Something is wrong. I can feel it in my gut, that twisting, aching sensation that won’t go away no matter how much I try to rationalize it. It’s the same feeling I had the night before I ran from my wedding.
I make my way to the kitchen, needing something to settle my stomach. The chamomile tea I brewed earlier sits on the counter, still warm enough to drink. I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat ground me, and move to the window overlooking the backyard.
Mother is out there.
Of course she is. Showed up an hour ago with what she called the troops .
A handful of relatives. I can see the frustration on Mother’s face even from here.
Her lips are pressed into that thin line she gets when things aren’t going according to her plan.
She’s gesturing at the inflatable skeleton bride and groom, her mouth moving in what I know are sharp, clipped commands.
Someone is trying to deflate one of the massive pumpkins, tugging at it uselessly while it bobs in the breeze.
Another person is untangling orange streamers, pulling them down from the pergola, only to have more appear.
There are cobwebs everywhere, fog machine canisters stacked near the tables, jack-o’-lanterns lining every available surface.
I grin despite the anxiety clawing at my chest. The guys made this setup as un-wedding-like as possible, as gaudy and tacky and wonderful as they could manage. Every single decoration is a middle finger to Mother’s vision of elegance and sophistication.
But they should be here now to see Mother’s agony, to laugh about it with me, to make crude jokes about the inflatable decorations and probably add more just to piss her off further.
Where the fuck are they?
I sip my tea, the chamomile doing absolutely nothing to ease the knot in my stomach. My eyes keep going back to my phone sitting on the counter, willing it to light up with their names. With anything.
Nothing.
The marrying couple isn’t even here yet either.
Monica and Trevor. Mother said they’re meant to appear any moment.
Right now I don’t give a fuck if this wedding goes ahead or not.
Mother and her troops can do whatever they want in the yard.
They can deflate every decoration, replace the Halloween setup with whatever elegant nonsense she has planned.
I just want to know my men are okay.
It’s not like them to not respond. In the time since the heat, we’ve been in constant contact.
Group texts throughout the day. Individual messages when one of them thinks of something to say.
Luke sending me dirty pictures when he’s bored.
Holt checking in to make sure I ate lunch.
Arrow forwarding recipes he wants to try.
But now? Hours of silence.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard again. Maybe one more text to Holt. Just one. Just to feel like I’m doing something.
Please just let me know you’re okay.
I hit Send before I can second-guess myself. Watch the message show as delivered. Wait for it to change to Read.
It doesn’t.
“You okay?” a male’s voice asks.
I spin around, nearly dropping my mug. Hot tea sloshes over the side, burning my hand, but I barely feel it.
Mack is standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
Arrow’s brother. Tall and broad-shouldered, with that same dark hair and sharp jaw, though Mack’s is covered in stubble like he forgot to shave this morning.
He’s in dark jeans and a leather jacket, hands in his pockets, and there’s something comforting about seeing him here. Solid. Real.
“Front door was unlocked,” he says, nodding toward the entrance. “Figured you four might want some help today with this monstrosity of a wedding.”
Relief floods through me so fast I feel lightheaded. “Mack.” I set my mug down before I actually drop it. “Have you spoken to Arrow today? Or the others?”
His eyebrows draw together, and I watch concern flicker across his face. “Not since yesterday. Why? What’s wrong?”
“They went on an errand this morning.” My voice comes out thin, strained. “No idea what for. Luke just said they’d be back soon. But I haven’t heard from them in hours.”
Mack pulls out his phone immediately, already dialing. “Goes to voicemail,” he says finally, and I hear the edge in his voice now. He starts typing, his thumbs moving fast across the screen. “Sending him a text now. Telling him to call me immediately.”
I watch him type, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. The marks on my neck and my upper breast are tingling, all three of them at once.
“I’m sure they’ll be back soon,” Mack says, but there’s something in his voice that tells me he’s not as confident as he’s trying to sound.
I nod, but the dread won’t let go. It’s sinking its fangs deeper, making it hard to breathe.
“Okay.” Mack pockets his phone. “Let me go check on what the fuck they’re doing out there.” He jerks his head toward the backyard where Mother’s troops are still wrestling with decorations. “And there are some flowers at the front door. Big arrangement. I’ll grab them and bring them in.”
“Thanks,” I manage.
He pauses in the doorway, looking back at me. “They’re okay, Cindy. I can feel it. Arrow is too stubborn to let anything happen to him, and the other two are just as bad.”
Then he’s gone, his footsteps echoing down the hallway toward the front door.
I’m alone again with my phone and my spiraling thoughts.
What if they’re hurt? What if there was an accident? The roads up here can be dangerous, especially the mountain passes. What if they went off the road, what if they’re trapped somewhere, or what if they’re calling for help and no one can hear them?
Stop it.
I force myself to take a breath. Then another. They’re fine. They have to be fine. This is Luke, Holt, and Arrow. Three ex-bikers who’ve survived God knows what. They’re not going to be taken down by an errand.
But then why aren’t they answering?
Footsteps sound in the hallway again, and I turn, expecting Mack with an armful of flowers and maybe some reassurance.
It’s not Mack.
It’s Van.
The world tilts sideways. Everything goes fuzzy at the edges, like I’m looking at him through water. My vision narrows to just him, standing there in my kitchen like he has every right to be here. Like the past two years never happened. Like I never ran.
He’s exactly how I remember seeing him at the Harvest Dance. Six feet tall, blond hair styled perfectly. Designer clothes. Navy suit jacket over a crisp white shirt, the top two buttons undone. No tie. Expensive watch glinting on his wrist.
But his eyes. God, his eyes.
Cold blue. Ice blue. The kind that never quite match his smile, that never show what he’s really thinking. They’re fixed on me now with that look I remember from every nightmare. The one that used to make me feel like prey being circled by a predator.
My hands start shaking so hard I have to grip the counter to keep from dropping to the floor.
I’m back there. In the family estate, in that room with the white walls and the locked door and the single window too high to reach. Van’s voice in my ear. His hand on my arm, fingers digging in just hard enough to hurt without leaving marks visible to anyone else.
The burn scar throbs like it’s fresh, like his lighter is pressed against my skin right now.
“Hold still,” he said, his voice almost gentle, almost. The metallic click of the lighter echoed in the dark before the flame flared to life, hungry and bright.
“Please, don’t—” I begged, jerking against the grip that held me still.
He smiled. “You did this, remember? You made me angry. You always make me angry.”
Then the heat hit. White-hot, blistering pain that tore a scream straight from my throat.
He pressed harder, until I could smell my own skin burning.
“That’s what happens when you forget your place,” he murmured. “A good Omega knows how to submit.”
I shake the memory away, sliding the cup of tea away from me on the counter .
“You owe me a wedding,” Van states. His tone is smooth, pleasant even. Conversational. Like we’re old friends catching up over coffee.
His hands are in his pockets, posture relaxed, leaning slightly against the doorframe.