40. Sterling
STERLING
“ O uch,” I mutter for the tenth time, jerking my arm back from the stovetop where a fat, angry splatter of marinara sauce just kissed my skin.
I stare at the bubbling pot accusingly, like maybe it’ll apologize. It doesn’t which is rude.
I lean on the counter, head dropping into my hands with a low groan.
Why did I invite them over again? It’s not like I’ve ever cooked for a whole pack before. Hell, if I’m honest…I’ve barely cooked for myself.
A professional bowl-of-cereal and toast-for-dinner kind of girl, right here.
But this morning, when JP was pulling on his jeans, his back rippling in the early morning light, the messy sheets still warm next to me and the smell of him clinging to my skin, I freaked out.
I felt the panic take root in my stomach. An awful, yawning pit of loneliness threatened to open up inside me at the thought of him walking out that door and not coming back. What if we just go back to how it was before?
I’d jumped out of the nest and blurted the first thing that popped into my mouth: “Come back for dinner with everyone?”
He’d turned, halfway through buttoning his fly, and had given me a look, that was half amusement, half something molten and tender that made my stomach flip.
And instead of answering me, he’d simply grabbed me by the waist, tossed me back into the nest, and made good on about twenty different promises he’d made last night about what he was going to do to me.
One sweaty, blissed-out hour later, when we were both a mess of tangled limbs and heavy breathing, he finally managed to pry himself up and get dressed.
Pausing at my bedroom doorway, hair wild, cheeks still flushed, he grinned at me—a grin that if he ever learned to weaponize would be my undoing—and asked casually, “What should we bring for dinner, beautiful?”
And every synapse lit on fire.
The boys are coming over. Blake, too. My pack… Can I call them that? Already feels like family.
Now, standing in my tiny kitchen, burning myself over a pot of homemade spaghetti sauce that tastes suspiciously like tomato paste and smoke, I’m starting to think maybe I should’ve just said pizza.
I’m so giddy I keep catching myself smiling at random things—like the mismatched plates I dug out, or the ratty kitchen towel Cass used last time he dried dishes here.
Everything feels brighter, lighter.
There’s a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls on the counter because apparently three Instacart grocery deliveries weren’t enough for my would-be Alpha horde. I swear, if they ever go to war, they’ll bring baked goods instead of weapons.
I wipe my hands on a towel, bouncing on the balls of my bare feet.
I’m wearing my favorite leggings—simple but butter-soft—and one of Cass’s old t-shirts because…comfort. And, frankly, I can’t seem to pry myself out of it on weekends anymore.
My Omega feels very attached to it, clinging to the scent of fir trees and ocean breeze that somehow hasn’t faded, even after a couple of washes.
I press the soft fabric to my face for a second, inhaling deep.
Still him. Still safe.
I have a sneaking suspicion Cass scented it on purpose—left it here just for me to burrow into like a lovesick fool.
If so, it’s working.
I’ve just finished setting the table…way early, considering the boys won’t be here for like an hour and a half, but I’m just too excited.
Groaning at myself, I fight the overwhelming urge to peek out the curtains again, hoping, giddy with anticipation at seeing their truck pulling into the driveway.
Good God. I need to get a grip.
I take a deep breath, turn the sauce down to a low simmer—it still has a while before it’s ready—and grab my phone before flopping onto the couch. I shoot a quick text to Daisy.
Sterling: Girl…whatcha doing? (Funny cat gif)
Daisy: Plotting murder…
Sterling: WHAT?!!
Daisy: LOL! Just dealing with teenagers who think showing up an hour late is acceptable.
Sterling:
Daisy: Hahahah. It’s not that crazy…
Sterling: What happened to your staff??
Daisy: That’s a boring story. What’s up with you?
I start typing, then stop. Start again. Stop. Not sure what is up with me.
Daisy: What’s up? I see the dots, girl…Have those boys finally kidnapped you?
Sterling: I wish!
Sterling: No, I’m making them dinner though…I’m just nervous.
Daisy: Oh babe, you got this. You’re a total prize. Those fuckers should be kissing the ground you walk on.
Sterling: That might be unsanitary, considering I walk around a classroom full of five-year-olds most days.
Daisy: …Gross.
I’m laughing under my breath when I hear tires crunching on the gravel in the driveway and my whole body perks up.
Sterling: Speak of the devil, I think they just pulled up. Gotta go!
I drop my phone and attempt to vault gracefully over the back of the couch, which turns into my falling and immediately tripping over my own feet, scrambling for balance as I race toward the door.
“They’re here!” I sing-song under my breath, yanking it open without even checking because of course it’s them?—
Only it’s not.
It’s Cass’s father—and he looks fucking pissed. Drunk too, maybe.
Either way, pissed or dangerous, both feel vicious.
The smile slides right off my face, like butter melting off hot bread.
Cold dread floods through me, freezing me in place for a second before my instincts kick in. I move to close the door, trying to make it clear he’s not welcome here.
But he doesn’t even flinch. Just brings his hand up to block the door from closing.
He stands there, looming, filling the entire doorway with his broad, angry frame. His gaze rakes over me, slow and invasive, taking in my scent in a way that feels violating.
His clothes are rumpled, his boots muddy, and the stink rolling off him is foul—a sour combination of cheap whiskey, sweat, and something bitter underneath. It rolls over me and every Omega instinct inside me is screeching?—
Unsafe. Unsafe. Unsafe.
I blink, stepping back without thinking, my body already preparing to run or hide.
“Uh—Mr. Redgrave?” My voice wobbles despite my best effort to sound firm. “What are you?—?”
He doesn’t answer, just pushes his way inside. Barging in like he owns the place. His frame taking up all the space in the foyer.
I stumble back another step, heart racing for all the wrong reasons now. Mentally trying to figure out where I’ll be safest in my house.
“You and I need to have a little chat, sweetheart,” he says, his voice saccharine.
My brain is scrambling. I need an escape plan. Where are the boys? Where’s my phone?
I left it on the counter—too far to grab without making it obvious.
I square my shoulders. And try again to put all my strength and power into my voice.
“Now’s not a good time. You should leave,” I say, trying for firm but not aggressive. I open the door wide and wait, hoping he’ll get the hint and leave. Like he’s a fussy customer and not an Alpha nearly twice my size hell bent on fucking with me.
Graves smirks, taking another slow step toward me. Trying to intimidate me with his size. I know this tactic. I grew up with a pack who would used being an Alpha to be a bully.
He doesn’t leave. In fact, he steps closer, grabbing the door from my hand and shuts it with a slam, until he boxes me in, pinned between him and the closed door.
“You think I give a fuck about your schedule?” he sneers. “You’re gonna listen real careful. And you’re gonna do exactly what I say.”
I swallow hard, my system frozen in fear. My Omega is desperate to hide, to get away from the threat.
“Why are you here?” I ask, looking to my right and sidestepping away from him. Attempting to put more space between us. And I slowly start to make way toward the kitchen and back door.
He lets out a short, mean laugh. It’s ugly.
“I came here to tell you to leave,” he says, stepping forward. His voice is low, deadly. “Pack your shit up and disappear. You stay, and they get nothing. I’ll make damn sure of it.”
I back up without thinking, my legs bumping into the couch behind me.
And he follows, crowding into my space until I have to tilt my head back just to meet his gaze. The smell of whiskey and old anger clings to him like rot.
“You want money?” he sneers. “You want a handout? A payday?”
He steps even closer, until the heat of his breath brushes my face, and I have to fight the instinct to recoil.
“You leave my son. You forget about them. You get the fuck out of Twilight Harbor, and you stay out.”
I plant my feet, trying to find some steel inside the trembling wreck of my body.
“Why would I do that?” I snap, even though my voice shakes. “You have no say over me. You’re crazy?—”
It’s the last word that sends him over the edge.
His hackles rise, the air crackling with dangerous Alpha fury. He leans in until he’s practically bent over me, close enough that I can see the bloodshot rage in his eyes, smell the bile sour on his breath.
I try to shrink back but the couch pins me in place, leaving nowhere to run.
“Look, bitch,” he growls, voice vibrating with barely leashed violence. “You don’t leave, and I will ruin them. I’ll take the house. The boat. Every fucking thing they care about. Blake? The state will take him away. Cass and those other worthless bastards will be broke and scrambling to survive.”
He bares his teeth in a parody of a smile.
Anger flares bright through the fear.
He dared to threaten Blake?
I lift my chin.
“They’re my pack,” I say, voice shaking but determined. “I’m not going anywhere.” And I bend, ducking out his reach, and head to the kitchen, desperate for space…no longer caring if he senses my fear.
Graves’s face darkens.
His hand shoots out, gripping my arm just above the elbow so hard I gasp.
Pain bites instantly into the tender flesh. I know it will bruise. I try to pull back, but his grip tightens, steel under flesh.
“You’re not their anything,” he snarls. “You’re just another heat-sick bitch playing house. And fuck if they’ll ever have that without my say.”
I twist my wrist, trying to get free.
“Let go,” I bite out. “Let go of me, now.”
He yanks me closer, until I can feel his sour, hot breath on my face.
“You think you matter? You think you can replace Blake’s mom? Their future with you is dead. You think your scent and slick is enough to get them to give up a business, a home, a future?”
“You don’t get to decide that for them. They don’t need you or your influence. I’m not scared of you,” I lie, trying to wrench free again, but his grip only gets harder.
And this time I do cry out in pain. “Stop,” I beg.
Graves’s eyes narrow. And it’s terrifying: there’s nobody behind his eyes. And when his hands grip my throat and he pulls me up against his body, I’m near convulsing with fear. His hands tighten, testing how much he can squeeze until it’s too much.
“You’ll tell them you’re leaving,” he says, voice low and vicious. “You’ll pack up, and you’ll be gone by morning. Or I’ll make sure you get a nice little visit from someone a lot less polite than me.”
Tears spring unbidden to my eyes, a mixture of rage and pain.
Graves stands there, breathing heavily like he just won something. Then as suddenly as he grabbed me, he lets go and I stumble sideways, my hip slamming into the edge of the counter.
My ears ring. My neck feels like it’s on fire.
I feel sick.
Gutted. For a second, I’m twelve years old again, scared and powerless and trapped.
But then I think about Blake’s laugh. About Cass’s stubborn tenderness and Quinn’s easy smile.
I think about JP’s tortured gentleness as I shove the fear down. I shove it down hard and nod. Because I just need him gone. I need him away from my house. I need to figure out what the hell just happened.
“I’ll tell them,” I whisper.
Graves smirks and turns, stomping out the door and slamming it so hard the frame rattles.
I stand there, trembling, my body screaming at me to move, to run, to hide. Instead, somehow, I walk calmly to the bathroom, feeling…disconnected. Like I’m floating just a few inches above my own skin.
In the mirror, I can see where he touched me. The shape of his hand already blooming ugly and purple against my throat. And I burst into tears because of how much this is going to hurt Cass. Quinn. JP.
I don’t want to be the reason for that look I know I’ll see in their eyes. I look down at my arm, and sure enough, there’s another bruise there—big and dark and glaringly obvious. I press my palm over it, like maybe I can erase it if I try hard enough.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Do I call the police? Would they even believe me?
Would they believe some Omega over an Alpha? They wouldn’t if I was back home.
I sink down on the cold tile floor, my back sliding down the wall until I’m curled up, shivering even though the bathroom isn’t cold.
I sit there, waiting for the shivers to stop, unable to admit that I’m scared. I stay in the bathroom until the smoke alarm blares from the kitchen and jolts my brain back to reality.
Shit. Dinner…My sauce. The boys…
I bolt up, splashing water on my face and quickly wiping it with a hand towel…trying to bring myself back to normal, but my hands won’t stop shaking. The smoke alarm is blaring.
I sprint to the kitchen—and tears sting my eyes all over again when I see the mess.
The sauce is scorched, the pan is ruined, and the kitchen is hazy with smoke. This night really landed dead center into fuck no territory.
I can’t let them see me like this. I need five minutes… A minute. Something to try and pull myself together.
Frantic, I grab my phone with fumbling fingers, ready to text them anything that will stall them, when the front door bursts open. I was so focused on hiding the evidence of the kitchen meltdown that I missed the sound of their truck pulling in.