15. Theo
Chapter 15
Theo
She’s avoiding us.
The realization hits like a sour note in an otherwise perfect composition, and I hate how much it bothers me. It’s not just avoidance—it’s the artful way she dances around our existence, turning our own house into negative space where we’re defined by her absence.
Our home has transformed into a theater of elaborate avoidance rituals.
Ryker adjusts his morning run to circle the east wing three times when her scent lingers too strongly in the west.
Jinx’s fingers develop a new nervous habit—tapping thrice against his thigh whenever the security feed shows her moving through rooms we’ve just vacated.
Finn reorganizes his library by subject rather than author, creating excuses to linger in spaces where lemon and ozone cling to upholstery.
I find myself playing compositions in minor keys, the notes chasing the shadow-patterns her pacing creates on the ceiling during those midnight hours when sleep abandons us all. We’ve become actors in a performance none of us auditioned for, stepping around scenes we’re desperate to play.
Pretending this delicate balance we’ve built isn’t crumbling like the facade of my family’s estate back in Italy.
Dio mio , I hate it.
The pack bonds vibrate with discord—Ryker’s control wound so tight it hums, Jinx’s chaos bleeding crimson through our connections, Finn’s steady rhythm faltering. My omega instincts itch under my skin, demanding I fix this, smooth the jagged edges until we’re whole again.
We need out. Need movement. Need...
My mind drifts to Sanctuary, to bass drops that rattle bones and lights that paint skin in neon absolution. To a stage where identity becomes fluid, where omega doesn’t mean what my parents tried to make it mean.
Yes. That’s exactly what we need.
But first...
I knock on Finn’s door because some aristocratic habits refuse to die, no matter how many times I’ve killed my past.
“Why do you knock?” Finn’s voice carries sleep’s rasp as he opens the door. No shirt, just low-slung pants and bed-mussed curls. He blinks at me through those adorably crooked glasses, and something in my chest aches with how much I love this beautiful beta who helps hold our broken pieces together.
I know what he sees—dilated pupils, parted lips, the heavy sweet of my omega scent turned dark with want. I never learned to hide desire like a proper omega should. Never wanted to.
“Come here.” I let need bleed into my voice, that omega timbre that makes even our analytical beta’s pulse jump. Let him see how much I need this connection, this grounding. I grab his pants, dragging him into a kiss that tastes like desperation and belonging.
Just him. Just us. Just for a moment before everything changes again.
His lips are a contradiction—soft yet demanding, yielding with the same precise calculation he applies to everything. When Finn kisses, it’s like he’s solving an equation, each press and stroke a variable leading to the perfect solution. I chase his methodical passion with artistic chaos, turning our kiss into a duet of opposing styles that somehow creates harmony.
I could lose myself in this, in the way he tastes like earl grey and rain-washed stone. In how his hands settle at my waist with just enough pressure to ground without constraining. Freedom within structure—everything I never knew I needed until this pack showed me what family could be.
He breaks the kiss first, those clever eyes studying me through slightly fogged glasses. “Not that I’m complaining,” he says, thumb tracing circles on my hip, “but it’s barely evening. What brings you to my door?”
“Better question, why are you sleeping at this hour?” I counter, noting the pillow creases still marking his cheek. The shadows under his eyes speak of nights spent monitoring security feeds, analyzing data. Watching over us all in his own quiet way.
He shrugs, a too-casual gesture that sets off warning bells in my omega instincts. “Just catching up on rest.”
Liar. But I let it slide, filing away his evasion for later discussion. We have more pressing concerns.
“It’s been three days.” I don’t need to elaborate. We’ve all felt it—the growing tension since Ryker’s aborted motorcycle lesson. Since Cayenne started treating our home like an elaborate obstacle course designed to avoid contact.
“Three days, four hours, and approximately twenty-seven minutes,” Finn confirms because of course he’s been counting. “But who’s keeping track?”
I let my lips curve into the smile that usually precedes trouble. “What if I told you I had an idea?”
His groan carries fond resignation. “The last time you had an idea we ended up with a piano on the roof.”
“That was art, darling.” I wave away his pragmatism. “No, I’m thinking Sanctuary.”
The word hangs between us, heavy with possibility and risk. Finn’s body tenses slightly—he knows what my underground kingdom represents. The freedom. The danger. The carefully cultivated chaos that lets omegas be more than society’s pretty pets.
“You want to take her to Sanctuary?” His voice drops lower, conscious of enhanced hearing in the house. “Is that... wise?”
It’s probably not. But watching her cage herself in this house, watching her vibrancy dim day by day—that’s killing something in me I didn’t even know could die.
“She needs out,” I say simply. “We all do. And where better to let her taste freedom than in a place built for breaking rules?”
Finn groans, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling. I know he’ll indulge me. They all will. It’s one of the perks of being their omega—that, and watching their careful control fracture when I push just right.
“Fine.” His smirk holds resignation and mischief in equal measure. “Rock, paper, scissors to see who has to convince Ryker.”
“You’re on.” I bump his fist with mine, already tasting victory. “Best of three?”
“One and done.” The challenge in his voice makes my omega purr. Trust Finn to raise stakes with mathematical precision.
I chew the inside of my cheek, weighing probability against instinct. “Ready.”
“Set.”
“Go.”
I choose rock because it’s pure impulse, art over analysis. Lucky for me, Finn chooses scissors—ever the strategist overthinking simple things. I crush him with perhaps too much glee.
I dart down the hall before he can protest, nearly tripping over my feet in my haste to reach Cayenne.
“You owe me!” Finn’s voice chases after me.
My laughter echoes through the house as I rush toward her door—our temporary prison for a beta who refuses to be contained. I don’t knock. I’ve already seen her perfectly curved body in all its naked glory. Instead, I march down the steps like I own them because I fucking do.
I find her on the couch, a stack of books beside her like a fortress of paper and possibility.
“No,” she says before I can even open my mouth.
“You have no idea what I’m going to say.” I hover over the back of the couch, drinking in the sight of her. She’s lounging under a blanket, lost in one of my favorite series. The pages are worn, spine cracked with love—physical proof of stories revisited.
“How many books are in this series?” She turns it over, frowning at the cover. “They aren’t even numbered.”
“Twenty-three.”
“What number is this?”
“Three.” I tap the cover, memories of late-night reading sessions flooding back. “It’s my favorite one.”
“I’m glad I assumed correctly.” She sighs, dropping the book in her lap. “The Relic has a movie about it, right?”
“Movie night?” The hope in my voice is embarrassingly obvious.
She chews her bottom lip, and my artist’s eye catches how the gesture transforms her whole face—from guarded to considering. “I’m in, but only because I want to see how well they did for my favorite Agent Pendergast.”
I grab the book, closing it with the reverence old friends deserve. The bookmark she stuffed in the back goes exactly where she left off—I know the agony of lost pages too well. “Do you want to get out of the house?”
She immediately goes on alert, body tensing like code about to execute. “Explain yourself, pretty boy.”
A nickname. I’m winning.
I debate surprising her, but she’s been hiding from us for three days. Three very long days, and I’m a selfish creature. “Clubbing.”
“I’m in.” She tosses off the blanket, showcasing perfectly sculpted bare legs that make my mouth go dry.
I have to swallow and look away. “Five minutes.”
“I only need three.” She rushes to the bedroom, my competitive little minx.
My .
One simple word. She isn’t mine. She’s a house guest, and yet I can’t hide the hopeful joy that single word brings me. And the fact that she loves one of my favorite series?
Yes. A thousand times yes.
I skip back up the steps and head toward the front door where Jinx is already waiting. He’s a walking danger sign in his signature look—jeans, hoodie, Carhartt jacket, hat with the hood flipped up. A ghetto walking wet dream that makes me sigh at the sight.
“You’re attracted to danger.” His eyes find mine from beneath his lashes, carrying that edge of beautiful madness I can never resist.
“Yes.” I don’t deny it as I slide into my Italian loafers and shrug on my jacket. No point lying to a predator who can smell truth.
A grumbling Ryker walks down the hall, eyes squinting at me like I’m in trouble—and honestly, I hope it’s the sexy kind. His jeans and white t-shirt cling in ways that make me want to compose symphonies of sin. He pauses before me, arms crossed, while behind him Finn follows with a dangerous smirk.
I wonder how he convinced our alpha.
“Midnight,” Ryker grumbles.
I hum, stepping closer. “Are we roleplaying Cinderella?” I grab the loop of his jeans, tugging him toward me.
“No.”
I pull him flush against me, letting him feel exactly what he does to me. “We could.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game.” His voice drops to that alpha register that makes my omega purr.
“What game is that?”
“We both know what game it is.” He leans down, brushing his lips against my ear in a promise of retribution.
“Where to?” Cayenne’s voice cuts through the tension.
It’s been exactly three minutes.
I look past Ryker and my brain short-circuits. I don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it. I thought maybe she’d come up in a shirt and jeans, practical boots for the cold. After all, she is a practical girl—I’ve seen at least four different pairs of sneakers in her luggage.
Jinx whistles long and low.
Ryker drops his head to my neck, muttering, “I don’t want to know what she’s wearing.”
“Oh but you do, Alpha.” My voice comes out breathier than intended. “Oh but you do.”
I swallow my desire, but it’s a losing battle. There before us stands Cayenne in the tightest, shortest, slinkiest sequined black dress ever crafted. Those long legs could kill a man, especially in heels that look more like weapons than footwear. Her red hair flows to mid-back like liquid fire, and in her hands are two clutches—practicality meeting sin.
“I’m calling shotgun.” She holds up one clutch with deliberate casualness. “I’ll need to do my makeup.”
“It’s only a ten-minute drive.” Finn’s strained voice betrays him.
“I only need nine.” She winks at him, and my beautiful beta blushes hard enough to rival her hair. “Ready?”
“You look...” Jinx trails off, that feral edge bleeding into his tone. “Like a wet dream.”
“You look like you’re about to rob a bank.” She fires back without missing a beat. “Raw.”
“Raw?”
“Look it up.” She smirks, all beta defiance wrapped in omega temptation. “Who’s driving?”
“I am.” Ryker steps away, grabbing his jacket and marching out without once looking at her. Smart man.
“Toasty.” She follows him out, weaponized grace in motion, Jinx on her heels like a shadow.
“What did you sacrifice?” I ask Finn, grabbing his coat and holding it open for him to step into.
His smirk is pure mischief. “I threatened to change all our notifications to the Golden Girls theme song.”
I throw my head back in laughter, joy bubbling up like champagne. “Do it anyway.”
The SUV sits in the driveway like a promise of trouble—sleek, black, and large enough to hold five adults and all their questionable decisions. Ryker takes the driver’s seat like he’s preparing for battle, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
True to her word, Cayenne claims shotgun before anyone can protest. I slide into the back with Finn and Jinx, appreciating how the middle seat gives me a perfect view of the impending chaos.
“Don’t.” Ryker’s voice carries that edge of alpha command as Cayenne reaches for the overhead light.
She flips it on anyway. “I need to see what I’m doing.”
“It’s distracting.”
“You’re an alpha with enhanced everything. Pretty sure you can handle a little light.” She pulls out an arsenal of makeup from her clutch. “Unless you’d prefer I stab myself in the eye with mascara?”
From beside me, Jinx snorts, already typing on his phone. His sudden bark of laughter makes us all jump. “Holy shit, listen to this—Urban Dictionary defines raw as...”
“Don’t you dare,” Finn interrupts, but his beta curiosity betrays him. “What does it say?”
“ When someone looks dangerous but in like, a sexy way. ” Jinx reads with obvious delight. “ Like they might rob a bank but make out with you first .”
Heat floods my omega senses as Cayenne’s scent spikes with satisfaction. In the rearview mirror, I catch Ryker’s jaw clenching.
“That’s...” Finn pushes up his glasses, fighting a smile. “Surprisingly accurate.”
“Damn straight.” Cayenne steadies her hand as we take a turn, applying eyeliner with surgical precision.
“Not the only meaning,” Jinx scrolls further, his grin turning feral. “According to Urban Dictionary, raw also means?—”
“Sex without a condom.” Cayenne doesn’t miss a beat, hand steady as she wings her eyeliner. “I know.”
The car swerves slightly as everyone processes that deliberate bombshell. My omega senses flood with the spike of alpha pheromones—desire tinged with challenge.
Jinx’s laugh holds that edge of beautiful madness. “You knew exactly what you were saying.”
“Always do.” She meets his gaze in the rearview mirror, all beta defiance wrapped in deliberate temptation. “What’s wrong, Havoc? Can’t handle a little verbal sparring?”
“Children.” Ryker’s grip on the steering wheel could bend metal. “Perhaps we save the urban dictionary lessons for when we’re not in a moving vehicle?”
I catch Finn’s small smirk as he pushes his glasses up. Always the analyst, cataloging every interaction, every charged moment.
Ryker takes the next turn harder than necessary. “Ground rules.”
“Here we go,” I mutter, but his steel grey eyes find mine in the mirror.
“VIP lounge only.” His tone brooks no argument. “You want nights like this to happen again? You follow my lead. We go in through the back, we stay in our section, we leave together.”
“Sir, yes sir.” Cayenne mock salutes, but there’s an edge to her voice that makes me wonder if she’s remembering other orders, other constraints.
“I mean it.” He pulls into Sanctuary’s back lot, cutting the engine. “One hour of freedom isn’t worth risking everything else.”
The weight of what he’s not saying settles over us. Sterling Labs. Assassins. All the reasons we should be home instead of here. But I catch the way Cayenne’s shoulders straighten at the word freedom , how her scent shifts from embarrassment to anticipation.
Worth it. Already worth it.
Ryker pulls up out back. To anyone looking it’s just a small café on a corner. But it’s anything but underground.
See after purchasing the café we discovered tunnels underground. Tunnels I used to my advantage. I instantly knew I wanted to create a speakeasy type of situation for omegas only.
And I did.
Sanctuary thrums with life even through the back entrance—bass vibrating through concrete, music bleeding through steel doors. I usher our little group inside, nodding to the security who know better than to question my guests.
“Straight up,” I direct, herding them toward the VIP stairs before anyone can get distracted by the controlled chaos below. The familiar scent of sweat and secrets and submission wraps around me like a welcome home.
Finn’s already scanning sight lines, his analytical brain mapping exits and vantage points. Ryker takes position outside the VIP lounge like the world’s sexiest bouncer, while Jinx melts into the shadows with a murmured promise of drinks.
I guide Cayenne into my sanctuary within Sanctuary—a glass-walled haven overlooking the stage where the band is setting up. The view alone is worth whatever hell Ryker will give me later.
“Holy shit.” She presses against the glass, and I watch her reflection’s eyes go wide as she processes what she’s seeing. “Is that?—”
“Dash’s band?” I move beside her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin but not quite touching. “They play here sometimes.”
“Which means...” Her sharp intake of breath tells me the moment she spots them. Aria and her pack, holding court near the stage like the royalty they are. “You brought me to where my best friend hangs out?”
There’s something in her voice I can’t quite read—hurt maybe, or longing. Both?
“I thought,” I choose my words carefully, watching her face for micro-expressions like I would study a new composition, “that maybe seeing her happy and safe might help. Show you that you didn’t just abandon them. That your choices protected them.”
She turns to me then, those green eyes holding storms. “You’re more dangerous than they give you credit for, pretty boy.”
“Oh?” I let my lips curve into the smile that usually precedes trouble.
“You see too much.” Her hand comes up, hovering near my face but not quite touching. Like she’s afraid to complete the gesture. “Feel too much. It’s not very omega of you.”
I catch her wrist before she can retreat, pressing her palm to my cheek. “Good thing I never learned to be a proper omega then.”
“I built this place,” I say softly, watching her watch Aria, “after we found the tunnels beneath the café. Old prohibition routes, probably—history giving sanctuary to a new kind of forbidden.”
Her fingers are still warm against my cheek, grounding me as the memories surface. “The first time I ran from my family’s arranged marriage, I learned something about omegas. We’re all running from something. Expectations. Traditions. The pretty cages they build for us.”
“So you built this instead.” Her voice carries understanding that makes my chest ache. “A different kind of cage?”
“No.” I turn into her touch, letting her feel the passion behind my words. “A fortress. We only allow mated packs here—ones who’ve proven they protect rather than prey. Every alpha goes through rigorous screening. This isn’t about constraint. It’s about choice.”
She looks back through the glass, and I follow her gaze. Aria glows with happiness, surrounded by her pack’s love. But then Cayenne’s breath catches as she spots Willow and Ginger in the crowd.
The guilt hits my senses like sour lemons—sharp and biting.
“Why the guilt, piccola?” I brush my thumb across her wrist where her pulse races. “You protected them. Got them out of harm’s way when Sterling Labs?—”
“I didn’t tell them everything.” The words spill out like confession. “About why I had to run. About what I found. About...” She swallows hard. “About who I might really be.”
“The Sterling name,” I murmur, pieces clicking into place.
She nods, still watching her friends below. “How do you tell your best friends that you might be related to the people trying to kill you? That your father could be—” She cuts herself off, but I catch the tremor in her hand.
“Family isn’t always blood,” I say, thinking of my own perfectly pedigreed relatives versus the beautiful disasters I chose. “Sometimes it’s who you choose to protect. Who you choose to trust.”
“Trust gets people killed.”
“So does running alone.”
Our moment shatters as Jinx returns, the scent of cherry tobacco and danger preceding him. He balances a tray of drinks with surprising grace for someone who radiates chaos.
“Lemon drops for our resident hacker,” he announces, setting down glasses that glow like nuclear waste under the club lights. “Since you seem to have a thing for citrus.”
Cayenne grabs one without hesitation, throwing it back in a single motion that makes my omega instincts both purr and worry. The glass hits the table with deliberate precision.
“Another,” she demands, but her voice carries an edge that wasn’t there before. Below, Aria laughs at something her pack says, the sound barely reaching us through the glass. The distance feels larger than just physical space.
“Careful, Glitch.” Jinx slides another drink her way, but his eyes hold that feral understanding that says he recognizes running when he sees it. “Can’t hack your way out of a hangover.”
“Watch me.” She grabs the second shot, but her hand trembles slightly. “I’ve done harder things than process alcohol while my head tries to explode.”
I catch Jinx’s gaze over her head, seeing my own concern mirrored in his amber eyes. Because this? This isn’t about the drinks. This is about seeing everything she left behind to keep them safe. About watching her best friends live the life she might have had if Sterling Labs hadn’t painted a target on her back.
“You know what I think?” I settle into the couch, my omega instincts demanding I create a safe space for what comes next. “I think it’s time you tell us what was worth sacrificing everything. What you found in Sterling Labs’ systems that made you choose solitude over sanctuary.”
She stares at the empty glass, turning it so the neon lights fracture through the crystal like the pieces of truth she’s been holding back. When she finally meets my eyes, I see the weight of secrets heavy enough to crush worlds. “You sure you want to know? Some truths are like poison—they corrupt everything they touch.”
Jinx’s laugh carries that edge of beautiful madness that first drew me to him, that perfect blend of danger and devotion. “Baby, in case you haven’t noticed,” he moves closer, predator grace wrapped in leather and promises, “this pack? We don’t run from poison. We build immunity.”
The smile that curves her lips is sharp enough to draw blood, but I catch the flicker of hope beneath the blade. “Then maybe,” she sets down the glass with the precision of someone used to handling dangerous things, “it’s time to show you exactly what kind of venom runs through the Sterling bloodline.”