21. Theo
Chapter 21
Theo
My skin prickles with fever-bright sensitivity, each nerve ending firing in discordant patterns. A bead of sweat traces my spine like a misplaced note, too early, too insistent. My body composes a symphony I’m not ready to conduct. My sheets stick to places they shouldn’t, heavy with sweat that carries none of the satisfaction of performance or passion.
Just discomfort. Wrongness.
The mirror offers no comfort—my reflection fever-bright and restless. Dark hair plastered to my neck, tattoos seeming to writhe with my unease. Something’s coming. Something that tastes like change and endings and broken promises.
My fingers tremble against the sheets, searching for citrus and electricity where only my scent remains. My throat tightens around her name, unsaid but pressing against my teeth like a prayer. Each inhale feels hollow without the bite of her lemon-sharp presence weaving through my approaching heat.
The thought of spending this heat without Cayenne feels wrong in ways I can’t explain. But pack protocol demands I speak with Ryker first. Our alpha needs to approve any changes to heat arrangements, especially with a beta. Through our pack bonds, I can feel him already awake, probably doing his morning security checks. His presence pulses with quiet strength, steadying my racing thoughts.
When he passes my door, his scent carries understanding. Protection. Permission not yet granted but being considered. My omega preens at the attention, even as my human side tries to maintain composure.
We’ll need to talk about this.
But first, I need to figure out why everything feels so off-balance. Why my heat’s early. Why Cayenne’s scent carries notes of goodbye beneath her usual citrus and electricity.
I stumble into the hallway, seeking cooler air. The calendar hanging by my door catches my eye—the one where I meticulously track my cycles. Red circles mark my heats, as predictable as a metronome. Except...
“That can’t be right.”
I trace the dates with shaking fingers. Two weeks. I should have two more weeks of freedom, of control, of being more than just biology. But my body composes to its own rhythm, always has. And right now it’s playing a symphony of warning.
The mansion feels different in these pre-dawn hours. Quieter, like holding its breath. No Jinx prowling the halls, no Ryker checking security systems, no Finn with his precise movements and knowing eyes.
Just the impossible scent of... cooking?
I follow my nose to the kitchen, drawn by curiosity stronger than discomfort. The scene that greets me stops me in the doorway, caught between warmth and warning.
Cayenne stands at the stove like she belongs there, which is the first sign something’s wrong. In two months, I’ve never seen her do more than make coffee and occasionally toast. Yet here she is, wearing one of Jinx’s oversized shirts, hair pulled back in a messy bun, actually cooking.
She’s humming too—one of my compositions, though she’s absolutely murdering the tempo. The domesticity of it all makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with approaching heat.
“Since when do you cook?” I lean against the doorframe, cataloging details my omega instincts insist are important. The tension in her shoulders. The way her movements carry too much precision, like she’s performing rather than just being.
“Since I discovered your fancy coffee maker only works if properly bribed with breakfast.” She doesn’t turn around, focused on whatever’s in the pan. “Also, your calendar is wrong.”
“What?”
“Your heat tracker.” Now she does look at me, and something in her eyes makes my skin prickle. “It’s off by about two weeks.”
I move closer, drawn by the scent of what appears to be... “Are those actually edible pancakes?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” A smile flickers across her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I contain multitudes.”
“Multitudes of what? Hidden culinary talents?”
“Family recipes.” The words come out bitter, and she turns back to the stove too quickly. “My mom used to say if you can follow code, you can follow a recipe. It’s all about precise measurements and timing.”
I slide behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and hooking my chin over her shoulder. She stiffens for just a moment before melting back against me. Even her heat feels familiar now, like she’s always belonged in our kitchen, in our pack.
“These actually smell good.” I eye the perfectly golden pancakes. “Who taught you the recipe?”
“Mom.” She flips another pancake with surprising skill. “Said breakfast food was the ultimate comfort when your world goes sideways.”
“Smart woman.” I press closer, letting my scent wrap around her. “Speaking of worlds going sideways...”
“Your heat.” She doesn’t stop cooking, but her free hand covers mine on her stomach. “How early are we talking?”
“Just pre-heat symptoms for now.” I nuzzle into her neck, careful to avoid Jinx’s mark. “Could be days or weeks before it hits fully. Sometimes the pre-heat phase can last up to a month.”
“A month of you being all...” She waves the spatula vaguely. “Cuddly and warm?”
“More than that.” The words slip out before I can stop them, my omega pushing for honesty. “I want... I mean, I’ve been thinking...”
She stills, pancake forgotten. “Theo?”
“I need to talk to Ryker first,” I manage, aware of pack protocol even through the heat-haze. “But I was hoping... maybe... you’d consider being there? For my heat?”
Her hand tightens on mine, and for a moment I catch something that might be longing beneath her citrus scent. “I’d be honored. If Ryker approves.”
The simple acceptance makes my omega purr, even as something else—something warning—tickles at my instincts. But before I can analyze it, she’s turning back to her pancakes, humming off-key again.
“Lucky me.”
Something in her voice makes me tighten my hold. “You okay?”
“Just thinking.” She plates another perfect pancake. “About family recipes and comfort food and how sometimes the simplest things matter most.”
I hum agreement, but that feeling of wrongness persists beneath my skin. Like watching a performance where the timing is slightly off, where the next note might shatter everything.
“Speaking of comfort,” I reach past her to steal a bite of pancake, “any chance these come with?—”
“Real maple syrup?” Our alpha pauses in the doorway, his eyes finding mine first. Through our bond, I feel his awareness of my heat symptoms, his protective instincts surging. His gaze flicks meaningfully toward his study before he turns to Cayenne with practiced casualness. “Someone’s been in my private stock.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining when I used it on other things last night,” Cayenne quips, and the tips of his ears go red.
“Third shelf behind the protein powder? Already decimated that last week.” But her laugh holds something fragile. “Some security expert he is.”
I’m about to point out that Ryker probably meant for her to find it—our alpha’s been leaving little treasures for her to discover for weeks now—when the morning news ticker catches my attention.
“Hey, turn that up?” I nod toward the small TV in the corner. “They’re talking about the beta virus.”
She stiffens in my arms, just slightly. Just enough for my omega instincts to spike with warning.
“Probably nothing new,” she says, but her hand shakes as she reaches for the remote. “Just more speculation and?—”
The volume rises just as the screen fills with a face I’ve never seen before, but somehow know immediately. Those eyes. That particular shade of green that I see every morning across the breakfast table.
Roman Sterling stands at a podium, every inch the benevolent tech mogul in his perfectly tailored suit.
And in my arms, Cayenne stops breathing.
“...pleased to announce that Sterling Laboratories has developed the first comprehensive vaccine against beta-specific viral threats.” His voice projects practiced conviction wrapped in concern, a perfect performance of corporate compassion. “For too long, our beta population has suffered from weakened immune responses while alphas and omegas remain largely unaffected...”
Cayenne doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at the man who gave her his eyes and left her with nothing else.
“Due to recent outbreaks of what the media has termed Hollow Plague, ” Sterling continues, hands gripping the podium with practiced precision, “we’ve accelerated our trials. The vaccine will be available through select medical facilities by the end of the week.”
I want to turn it off. Want to shield her from this moment that feels like watching someone peel back their own skin. But my arms have become her only anchor as she watches her father sell salvation to the very people he’s been destroying.
“Of course,” he smiles, and it’s her smile, but wrong somehow. Calculated where hers blazes true. “Sterling Labs will be providing this treatment at significantly reduced costs to ensure all beta citizens have access to?—”
The pancake in the pan starts to smoke.
“Cayenne.” I gentle my voice, trying to reach her through whatever storm is raging behind those green eyes—his eyes. “The food...”
“Let it burn.” Her voice comes out stranger than I’ve ever heard it. Not broken, exactly. But changed. Like watching someone rewrite their own code in real time. “His hands.”
The observation hits me like a physical blow. Because she’s right—those elegant fingers gripping the podium could be hers. Could be the hands I’ve watched fly over keyboards.
“I always wondered,” she continues, eerily calm now, “where I got my perfectionism. My need to control every variable.” A laugh that holds no humor. “Turns out I come by it honestly.”
“You are nothing like him.” I try to turn her away from the screen, but she’s transfixed.
“Really?” That broken laugh again. “Because from where I’m standing, the similarities are...” She trails off as Sterling adjusts his tie with a gesture I’ve seen her make a hundred times. “Genetic.”
On screen, he’s taking questions now. Each answer perfectly crafted, reasonable, concerned. A master class in manipulation that makes my stomach turn.
“My hands might be his,” she says quietly, “but I know exactly what he’s doing with that vaccine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it.” Now she does turn, meeting my eyes with a focus that terrifies me. “What better way to track betas than to inject them with something you created? Why hunt them down when you can make them come to you?”
The pancake is beyond saving now, filling the kitchen with acrid smoke. Like her words, it leaves a bitter taste that can’t be ignored.
“We should tell the others.” I reach for the stove, trying to salvage what I can. Of the breakfast, of this moment, of her. “Ryker needs to?—”
“No.” She moves suddenly, switching off both TV and burner in quick, efficient movements. Those hands—his hands—steady now with terrible purpose. “No, I think I finally understand exactly what needs to be done.”
Something in her voice makes my approaching heat spike with warning. Makes me want to wrap her in silk and safety and never let go.
Instead, I watch her serve perfect pancakes onto waiting plates, each movement a mirror of the precision we just witnessed on screen.
Like father, like daughter.
Only her hands create rather than destroy.
Right?
“Cayenne.” My voice comes out as something I’ve never heard before—a whine that starts deep in my chest, pure omega instinct calling for reassurance.
She stills completely, then turns to me with softer eyes. “Oh, honey.” Her arms open and I’m in them before I can think, pressing my face into her neck. “I’m right here.”
“Something’s wrong.” I can’t stop the words, can’t control the way my scent spikes with distress. “Everything feels wrong.”
“Shhh.” She strokes my hair, and her hands are nothing like his now—all gentle comfort and genuine care. “It’s just the pre-heat making you sensitive. Here...” She guides me to sit at the counter, sliding a plate of perfect pancakes in front of me. “Eat. Sugar helps with hormone fluctuations.”
I watch her pour coffee, add exactly the right amount of cream—the way she’s learned I like it over these weeks. Every movement precise but full of affection.
“Better?” She settles beside me, pressing her leg against mine.
The contact helps, settling something in my chest. “You’re really okay?”
“I’m really okay.” She cuts into her pancakes, the picture of calm. “It’s not every day you see your father for the first time, but...” She shrugs, taking a bite. “Sometimes life is just complicated.”
Her simple acceptance feels wrong against my instincts, but her steady presence and calm scent make it hard to hold onto my unease. Especially when she starts humming one of my compositions again, still completely off-key but somehow perfect.
Finn finds us like that—me pressed against Cayenne’s side while she demolishes pancakes with surprising enthusiasm. His eyes take in everything: the smoking pan, the TV still playing Sterling’s press conference on mute, the way I can’t quite stop touching our beta for reassurance.
“You cooked.” He adjusts his glasses, analyzing this new data point. “And apparently didn’t burn down the kitchen. Mostly.”
“Your faith in me is heartwarming.” Cayenne gestures to the stack of remaining pancakes. “Want some? They’re actually edible.”
“So I smell.” He settles across from us, precise movements betraying nothing of what he thinks about Sterling’s face still flashing across the screen. “Real maple syrup?”
“From Ryker’s stash.”
“Brave.” But his lips twitch as he cuts his pancakes into exact squares. “Speaking of our alpha,” Finn cuts his pancakes into exact squares, “he’ll want to see this announcement.”
“I’m sure Quinn’s already recording it.” Cayenne’s voice stays perfectly casual. “He’s nothing if not thorough with his surveillance.”
I feel Finn’s attention sharpen, even as he maintains his relaxed posture. “Very thorough.”
“That’s Quinn.” She sips her coffee, the picture of innocence. “Always on top of things.”
Something passes between them—some beta-to-beta communication I can’t quite decode. But before I can puzzle it out, heavy footsteps announce Jinx’s arrival.
“Who the fuck tried to burn down my kitchen?”
I lean into Cayenne’s side, drinking in the familiar chaos of morning. This—this right here—is what I’d missed for so long after fleeing my family’s estate. The way Jinx stalks the kitchen like an offended chef, how Finn cuts everything into precise squares, Cayenne’s quiet laughter as she steals bacon from Jinx’s plate when he’s not looking.
This. This is what family feels like. Not the rigid formality of my childhood home, not the carefully orchestrated performances my parents demanded. Just people who fit together, broken edges and all.
Jinx drops a fresh plate of bacon on the table, swatting Cayenne’s hand away. “At least someone here knows how to cook meat properly.”
“Hey, my pancakes are perfect.”
“Your pancakes,” he points the spatula at her accusingly, “are suspiciously perfect. What did you do with the real Cayenne?”
Her laugh carries no hint of the tension from earlier, no echo of Sterling’s face still playing silently on the TV behind us. Just pure joy as she steals another piece of bacon right from under Jinx’s nose.
I press closer to her side, letting their banter wash over me. Let myself pretend this moment could last forever.
But my heat simmers under my skin, a warning of change to come.
Morning light paints us all in soft edges—Jinx perched on the counter despite Ryker’s disapproving look, Finn meticulously cleaning his glasses between bites, Cayenne leaning into my side like she belongs there. Because she does. She always has.
The TV drones on in the background, Sterling’s face replaced by news anchors debating the vaccine announcement. None of them see what’s really happening. None of them understand the game being played.
But that’s a problem for later. Right now, in this perfect moment of pancakes and pack bonds, I let myself memorize every detail. The way Cayenne’s laugh mingles with Jinx’s growl when she steals a third piece of bacon. How Finn’s eyes soften watching them play. The quiet pride in Ryker’s scent as he surveys his family.
His family. Our family.
My heat pulses again, a discord note in this morning’s harmony. Usually it brings anxiety—memories of arranged matches and expectations too heavy to bear. But now, watching my pack share breakfast and banter, I feel only peace.
Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
Won’t we?
But Cayenne’s fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for her coffee, and something in my omega soul whispers that this perfect morning feels too much like a goodbye.
I push the thought away, bury it under the warmth of pack and home and belonging. Let myself believe that some things are stronger than blood and destiny.
“Theo.” Ryker’s voice holds that alpha command that always makes my inner artist want to compose symphonies of submission. But when I meet his eyes across the kitchen chaos, there’s something else there. Something almost... vulnerable. “My study. Now.”
I follow him, catching Finn’s knowing look as we leave. He’ll keep Jinx from burning down the kitchen. Probably.
The moment his study door closes, Ryker’s shoulders drop that fraction only I ever get to see. “Your heat.”
“I want her there.” The words spill out like an aria I can’t contain. “I know it’s not?—”
“Do you remember your first heat here?” He cuts me off, voice rough. “After you escaped that arranged match bullshit?”
How could I forget? I’d been terrified, feral with fear of being trapped again. But Ryker... “You sat outside my door for three days. Wouldn’t let anyone near me.”
“Broke two of Jinx’s ribs when he tried to bring you water.” His laugh holds no humor. “Nearly shattered our pack bonds with how hard I fought them.”
“Ryker—”
“These heats...” He moves closer, predator-grace wrapped in protective steel. “They’re ours. Sacred. The one time I get to have you completely. No performances, no masks. Just us.”
Oh.
OH.
“You’re jealous.” The realization hits like a perfect crescendo.
“I’m...” He growls, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck. Maybe? It’s not that I don’t want her there. You know I do. But...”
“But you want one more heat that’s just us.” I step into his space, letting my scent wrap around him. “One more time where you don’t have to share.”
His forehead drops to mine, a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. “Am I being a possessive asshole?”
“Yes.” I can’t help but smile. “But you’re my possessive asshole. And Cayenne’s. Even if you need a little time to adjust to sharing heat-space.”
“One more?” His voice drops to that place that makes my omega write sonnets. “Give me one more heat to worship you properly. Then we’ll talk about including our beta.”
Our beta. The words sing through our bond.
But something still feels wrong. Like a composition where the final note hangs unresolved. That warning in my instincts growing stronger with each passing moment.
Even as my heart counts each breath like the final measures of a song I never want to end.