Chapter Forty-One
Frankie
I wake up in a tangle of limbs and blankets, Theo’s arm slung over my waist and Finn’s head tucked against my shoulder, one of his legs looped around mine.
It should feel chaotic, but it doesn’t.
I lie there for a moment, watching the early light filter through the curtains, soft and golden and indifferent to the quiet storm in my chest.
Theo stirs beside me, his breath warm against my neck, but he doesn’t wake. Finn lets out a soft sigh, face relaxed and peaceful, and something about that—about them, the way they trust me enough to sleep so close, so open—makes it harder to move.
I have to, though; so I shift carefully, easing out from between them without waking either. My body misses them immediately, but the bonds hum, soft and steady, a reminder that I’m never really without them anymore.
I shower, dress, and try to find a version of myself that looks put together in the mirror.
When I pass Rory’s room, the door is open. He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, headphones in, watching something on his phone. He looks up as I hover in the doorway, and our eyes meet as he pulls his headphones off.
“Leaving now?”
I nod. “Didn’t want to make a big thing of it.”
He stands, stretching once, then crosses to me. He kisses my forehead and then my mouth.
“You’ve got this,” he says. “We’re all with you.”
I nod, and this time I really feel it—each tether humming under my skin like a heartbeat; a pack-shaped rhythm that moves with me.
I move down the stairs, out of the door and into the car. I don’t turn on the radio, don’t bother putting on one of my playlists, not even an audiobook or the news. I just drive, with only the quiet hum of the engine and the low, steady murmur of my own breath to join me.
I haven’t been back here in months. Not since everything changed. Not since I became… me . This version of me.
The roads are still the same—winding lanes and clean-cut hedgerows, identical picket-fence houses; but it all feels smaller now. As though the town I once bent myself to fit no longer fits me.
I messaged my mother last night to say I’d be calling by this morning, though I didn’t give a reason why I was coming. She didn’t ask, either.
When I turn onto her street, I see it immediately: Nigel’s car . Still that same pretentious silver SUV with the vanity plates and the smug aura. It’s parked outside his mother’s home like it owns the curb, and the sight of it punches something low in my stomach.
I park at the top of the drive. My hands linger on the steering wheel a second too long, and for a moment, I consider just… not going in. I could drive away, go back to Alderbridge, crawl into bed, and pretend this part of my life doesn’t exist.
But I can feel them through the bond; all four of them with me.
And so I step out of the car.
The front door opens before I even make it up the steps. She’s smiling—too wide, too bright.
“Frankie, sweetheart!” she says, pulling me in for a hug.
I stop on the doormat that reads Home Is Where the Heart Is, and try not to visibly flinch as her arms wrap around me. If she notices, she doesn’t show it. She just beams, then steps back and waves me inside.
The entryway still smells the same—rose air freshener and floor polish. A scent that screams report cards and passive-aggressive compliments.
“Come on in! Sit down, sit down,” she calls, already heading toward the kitchen. “I’ve got lemon cake and those oatmeal cookies you used to love. Nigel’s been here most of the week—he’s been helping with the yard! You should’ve seen it, completely overgrown. We were thinking of hiring someone, but Nigel said he’d handle it himself. So capable.”
I blink.
No how’s work, no how’s the new job, no are you happy. Just cookies and Nigel.
She gestures toward the living room, already setting the cake out on the coffee table like this is a casual visit and not the slow unraveling of an entire relationship. I sit stiffly on the couch, hands clasped in my lap, and glance at the same old photos on the wall. School portraits. Holiday shots. Cousins I haven’t spoken to in years. Me, at fourteen, with braces and a haircut that should’ve triggered legal action.
“You’ve lost weight,” she announces suddenly, narrowing her eyes. “Are you still taking those horrible suppressant things?”
“No,” I lie easily.
“Oh, good.” She pours sweet tea and nods like that settles a debate. “I always thought they made you look a little… drawn. You’re so much prettier when you’re just being yourself, you know.”
I say nothing.
“I ran into Mrs. Gleeson at Trader Joe’s last week. Remember her? Her daughter’s a junior associate at some law firm downtown. Isn’t that great? And she just got engaged to a lovely Beta—just one, of course. None of this… pack business. He’s in finance, I think. Or consulting. Something stable, at least.”
And there it is.
I sip the tea. It’s too sweet. It tastes like judgment and every time she ever said I’m just worried about your future, when what she really meant was I don’t approve of your choices.
She doesn’t ask how I’m doing. She doesn’t ask about Alderbridge. About Theo or Finn or Jax or Rory. About the job I love. About the life I’ve made.
She just keeps talking. About Nigel, mostly. How successful he is. His new car. His promotion. How he’s thinking of buying a condo just outside the city.
“He still asks after you, you know. Such a sweet boy. Very devoted.”
I place my glass down a little too harshly, and her eyes flick to mine, surprised by the sound.
“Everything alright, dear?”
“Did you do it?”
She blinks. “Do what ?”
“The comments,” I say, my voice steady. “The accounts. The messages. You knew I was being targeted. You saw it. And you said nothing.”
She waves a hand like I’ve just asked if the sky is green. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” My voice sharpens. “Was it you? Or was it Nigel?”
The silence stretches just a second too long. She fidgets with the napkin in her lap. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I—”
“Because I didn’t do what you wanted,” I interrupt. “Because I didn’t pick your perfect little beta prince, and I didn’t stay in this picture-perfect neighborhood, and I didn’t shrink myself into something palatable.”
Her chin lifts, defensive as she finally gives up on the act. “You think this is about Nigel?”
“No,” I snap. “I think this is about control . About image. About what people like Mrs. Gleeson whisper at brunch.”
“You’re blowing this way out of proportion,” she hisses through her teeth. “You’ve always had a flair for dramatics, Frankie.”
“You know what’s dramatic?” I bite. “Hundreds of strangers telling me I’m a whore . That I should be locked up. That I’m ruining the game, ruining men, ruining myself . That’s dramatic.”
“That wasn’t me—”
“But it came from your house !” I shout. “From your damn router. From the network you pay for every month. From burner accounts using photos and stories and private things only someone who knows me would know!”
She falters, and that pause is all the confirmation I need.
“I read every comment,” I say, voice shaking now. “Every disgusting word. About my scent. My body. How I must be sleeping with all of them for money. That I’m a pack pet, an omega for hire. That maybe my father was right to leave us, because at least he wasn’t raising me into this .”
Her face twists. “I didn’t write that.”
“No?” I spit. “Then what about the one that said ‘I bet they all take turns. Must be nice for a broke girl to find a way to eat ’?”
Her hand flies to her mouth.
I shake my head. “Don’t act shocked. Don’t you dare .”
Tears well in her eyes now. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far—”
“But you meant to start it,” I say coldly. “You meant to light the match and watch it burn as long as it stayed quiet and convenient.”
“I was trying to protect you!”
“Protect me?!” I scoff. “Are you kidding me right now? You were trying to humiliate me . You couldn’t stand that I was happy without your help, that I built a life that didn’t revolve around your outdated fantasy of what an omega should be.”
“Oh, please. What do you think people are saying, Frankie?” Her face goes pale. “Have you ever once thought about how embarrassing this has been for me? How it must feel for me to know that everyone in this town can see you hanging off the arms of four brooding alphas like you’re advertising some kind of…”
I stare at her. “Say it.”
“Like you’re for sale ,” she spits. “Like you’re not even trying to have dignity anymore.”
It hits like a slap; and still, she keeps going.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. What else are people supposed to think when you’re flaunting yourself around online? When you’re dressed like that , with them touching you like that? Don’t tell me it’s just a job. Don’t tell me it’s journalism—”
“It’s not journalism,” I snap. “It’s media . It’s marketing . It’s a career , not a goddamn hobby, and I love it. And the people I work with? The people I live with? The pack I’ve bonded to? They love me. I have more safety and support with them than I’ve ever had in this house.”
“Because you didn’t give Nigel a chance.”
“A chance ?!” I blink; then I laugh—loud, sharp, and slightly stunned. “What, you mean the beta who used to call me ‘mouthy’ every time I disagreed with him?”
Her lips thin. “He was raised right. Comes from a good home. His mother—”
“His mother is your best friend,” I cut in. “And you think that makes him husband material.”
“He’s a nice boy,” she insists. “Stable. Normal. Devoted.”
“He’s a coward ,” I sneer right back. “And a creep. And apparently also the guy who’s been helping you run burner accounts online to humiliate me.”
She freezes, and I watch the color literally drain from her face. “That’s not—”
“He called me a slut.” My voice wobbles, but I push through it. “He literally posted that under a photo of me doing my job. He said I was probably sleeping with the whole team to boost engagement. And that’s who you wanted me to bond with?”
“You don’t know that he wrote that,” she argues.
“Yes, I do. One of Theo’s dad’s tech guys looked into it. Did a full trace. Not just IP addresses—email addresses. Burner accounts, usernames, comment history. And you know what? You two were so stupid you didn’t even bother to hide it. You used your real names and actual emails on at least half of them. Even the ones where you didn’t were still linked right here.”
I laugh, but it’s completely humorless.
“I know which ones were you, and which were him. The emails were right there . He used your Wi-Fi and signed into three accounts at once. The tech literally mapped the timestamps across devices.” I swallow thickly and shake my head as it plays out behind my eyelids. “I can’t quite believe it. You two were sitting next to each other while you tore me down in public. My own mother. ”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. And then—quietly, almost hopelessly —she says, “I didn’t write anything that cruel.”
“If you didn’t, then you let him ,” I snap. “You knew it was happening, how it would make me feel and how it could ruin my life; and you never once told him to stop.”
“I was scared,” she says. “You were throwing everything away.”
“No, you were trying to package me,” I hiss. “Dress me up in church clothes and pin me to the arm of some socially acceptable beta so you could parade me around the next charity bake sale and say look, see, my daughter turned out just fine. One omega, one partner, and everything in beige. ”
“That’s not fair.”
“That’s the truth. ”
And when she looks away, I see it. The guilt. The embarrassment. The refusal to admit it.
But that’s it. I’m done. I’ve said everything I want to say, and I have no more reason to stay.
I take a breath and step toward the door.
“We’re done.”
“Frankie—”
“No.” My voice cracks. “You don’t get to call yourself my mother and try to break me in the same breath. You don’t get to whisper behind my back and smile to my face.”
She’s crying now, but I don’t care.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive this,” I say. “And I know I’ll never forget it. So here’s what’s going to happen. You leave me alone. You stay away from my life, my pack, and my job. Or I’ll file a restraining order so fast your head will spin. And Nigel?” I open the door. “If I even see his name—or one of his burner accounts —on my feed or the club’s pages again, I’ll personally make sure his boss sees everything he’s posted.”
I don’t wait for a reply.
The door slams shut behind me, and when I get in the car, I feel it again—those four bonds thrumming under my skin.
I drive away, and this time, I press the radio on.
My home isn’t here anymore.
It never was.