41
Kage
We were all gathered in the living room. The fireplace crackled softly in the background, but it did little to soothe the unease that had settled over the pack. Phoenix wasn’t with us—she was still upstairs with the counselor and psychologist. I didn’t know what was happening in that room, but I could imagine. The thought of her struggling alone in her own head, fighting off demons we’d helped put there, gnawed at me.
Zeph sat on one end of the couch, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a somber silence. Parker was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his face lined with exhaustion. He hadn’t left Phoenix’s side since we brought her home, barely letting anyone else touch her. Not that I blamed him. He was as wrecked as the rest of us, maybe even more so. None of us knew what the hell we were doing.
The sound of footsteps descending the stairs drew our attention. Callie, Phoenix’s counselor, and Dr. Lyra, the Omega-specialized psychologist, approached us. It was like they could feel the weight of the room too, the unspoken guilt and regret swirling around us.
“We’ll be back tomorrow,”
Callie said, her tone measured as she looked at each of us. “She’s still processing a lot. These next few days are going to be rough for her. You need to tread carefully.”
Her words hit hard, and I felt Parker tense beside me. We’d already known this was going to be difficult, but hearing it out loud made it real in a way I wasn’t ready for.
“We’re here to help her through it,”
Dr. Lyra added. “But you need to take her lead. Don’t push. If she wants to talk about what happened, then let her. But this time isn’t about any of you. It’s about Phoenix.”
I nodded, understanding the implication. We’d hurt her—badly. And while the instinct to apologize, to grovel at her feet for forgiveness was strong, it wasn’t what she needed right now. Our need to feel better about ourselves couldn’t come at the cost of her healing.
Dr. Lyra continued, “An apology when she isn’t ready to hear it will only cause more harm. It might ease your guilt, but it won’t do anything for her. Let her come to you when she’s ready. Right now, your focus should be on supporting her, not trying to repair the relationship. That can come later, after her main needs are cared for. Or if she initiates it.”
Her words were hard to come to terms with. We were used to being Alphas, used to taking control and making things right. But this… this was different. We couldn’t fix this by sheer force of will. We had to step back and let Phoenix lead the way, something that felt foreign and uncomfortable.
“We understand,”
Zeph said. “We’ll be careful.”
Callie gave a small nod, her gaze softening. “Good. She needs time, but she also needs to know you’re here for her, even if she doesn’t ask for it. Just being present can make all the difference.”
With that, they both gave us a final look of reassurance before heading toward the door. Parker rose from his seat to see them out, and I followed behind, my thoughts still swirling. When the door clicked shut behind them, the silence that followed felt like a slap.
Parker turned back to face us, his expression tight with determination. “We need to work on ourselves too,”
he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Phoenix isn’t the only one who needs help. If we’re going to be the Alphas she deserves, we need to be better.”
I glanced at Zeph, who was already nodding in agreement.
“I’m going to find a counselor,”
Parker continued. “I need to get help for my drinking. I can’t keep putting that burden on her—or on any of you. I owe it to her to get my shit together.”
I couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride at his words. It wasn’t easy for Parker to admit weakness, but this… this was him stepping up. Taking responsibility. It was what we all needed to do.
“I’ll work on myself too,”
Zeph added, his voice firm. “I’ve been avoiding my own issues for too long. It’s time to face them head-on.”
I nodded, my jaw clenched. “Same. We can’t be there for Phoenix if we’re still battling our own demons. We have to be strong for her.”
Parker let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “She’s been through so much already. We owe it to her to be better. To give her the support she deserves.”
The room fell silent again, but this time it wasn’t the suffocating silence of guilt. It was the quiet determination that came with resolve. We knew what we had to do, and we were ready to face it.
Phoenix was still upstairs, fighting her own battles. But down here, in the living room, we were finally ready to start fighting ours.
“We’ve got each other,”
Zeph said quietly, his gaze flicking between Parker and me. “And we’ve got her. That’s all that matters.”
I nodded. This pack, this family—we were stronger together. And no matter what it took, we were going to help Phoenix through this. We were going to make things right, not just for her, but for all of us.
“We’ll get through this,”
I said, my voice steady with conviction. “Together.”
◆◆◆
Watching Phoenix struggle through withdrawal was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to witness. I thought I’d seen pain before—brutal pack fights, battles for dominance, even watching one of my own packmates break down emotionally—but none of that compared to seeing her like this.
Curled up in bed, her body trembling and wracked with the symptoms of withdrawal, Phoenix looked so small, so fragile. This was not the fierce, defiant woman I had come to know. No, this was someone who had been beaten down by her own demons, and we were here to try and help her fight them off, one agonizing hour at a time.
The days blurred together as we took on the role of caregivers. Each of us was determined to be there for her in whatever way we could. Parker took the lead in staying with her through the worst of it, rarely leaving her side. He’d bring her water when she was too weak to move, hold her when the shakes got too bad, whispering words of comfort as she drifted in and out of restless sleep. Zeph made sure she was never alone, hovering nearby but giving her space, always watching, waiting to step in if she needed anything.
But I took it upon myself to make sure she was eating properly, staying hydrated—doing all the basic things she needed to keep her body from breaking down any further. I wasn’t the most expressive of the three of us, but that didn’t mean I didn’t care. I just had a different way of showing it, and with Phoenix, I knew she didn’t need grand gestures. She needed consistency. She needed someone to quietly take care of her while she dealt with the storm raging inside her.
The first few days were the worst. The nausea hit her hard, and I spent more time holding her hair back as she retched into a bucket than I did doing anything else. Her body was purging the poison she’d been using to numb the pain, and the toll it took on her was brutal.
She had sessions with both the doctor and the alcohol counselor each day, struggling through them. She wasn’t one to easily open up, and I could see how much it took out of her to even stay in those sessions. But she showed up, and that meant something. Every step, no matter how small, was still progress.
On the third day, I brought her a bowl of soup. Simple, nothing fancy—just some broth and vegetables, light enough that I hoped she could keep it down. She hadn’t eaten much in the past two days, and I was worried about her. She was already too thin, and if she didn’t start eating soon, her body wouldn’t have the strength to heal.
I entered her room quietly, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over her. She was lying in bed, eyes closed, but I knew she wasn’t asleep. She hadn’t really slept in days, not properly. Her body was too restless, too tense.
“Doll,”
I said softly, setting the tray on the nightstand beside her bed. “I brought you some soup.”
She didn’t respond at first, her eyes remaining closed, but after a few moments, she shifted slightly, turning her head toward me. Her face was pale, her lips dry and cracked, but there was a flicker of awareness in her eyes.
“I don’t want it,”
she mumbled.
I sat on the edge of the bed, not too close, but close enough that she could feel my presence. “You need to eat,”
I said, keeping my tone gentle but firm. “Just a few bites. It’ll help.”
She turned her head away, burying her face in the pillow. “I’m not hungry.”
I sighed softly, running a hand through my hair. I didn’t want to push her, but I couldn’t let her starve herself either. “I know you don’t feel like eating right now, but your body needs it.”
There was a long pause, and I thought she was going to ignore me again, but then she let out a shaky breath. “I hate this,”
she whispered, her voice cracking. “I hate feeling like this.”
My chest tightened at the vulnerability in her voice. This was the first time she’d spoken about how she was feeling, and I didn’t want to push her too hard, but I also didn’t want to let the moment pass without acknowledging her pain.
“I know,”
I said quietly. “I wish I could take it away from you. But all we can do is help you get through it. One day at a time.”
“Okay,”
she whispered. “I’ll try.”
I nodded and handed her the bowl and spoon, watching as she hesitantly took a mouthful. She winced slightly, but she didn’t stop.
I didn’t say anything else, didn’t crowd her with more words or reassurances. Instead, I just sat there, silently watching her eat.
When she finished about half the bowl, she set the spoon down and leaned back against the pillows, her eyes half-closed. “That’s all I can do,”
she murmured, her voice weak but steady.
“That’s enough,”
I said softly, taking the bowl from her and setting it back on the tray. “You did good.”
As I stood to leave, I glanced back at her, watching as she curled up under the blankets, her breathing steady. There was still a long road ahead, but for now, I’d take this small moment of calm. I’d take anything that meant she was still fighting. And as long as she kept fighting, we’d be here, right beside her, every step of the way.