14. Frankie
Chapter 14
Frankie
M y hands won't stop shaking.
I've been in the Kingsley penthouse for exactly six hours and seventeen minutes, and I'm already certain I've made the biggest mistake of my life.
The bedroom they've given me is larger than the entire guard quarters at the Omega House. It has a private bathroom with heated floors, a walk-in closet that would fit my entire wardrobe ten times over, and a bed so soft I'm afraid I might drown in it. It tells me one thing. I don't belong here.
I run my fingers through my hair for what must be the hundredth time, trying to calm myself. The reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger—pale, wide-eyed, terrified. This isn't me. I'm not supposed to be here, in an elite alpha pack, pretending to be something I'm not.
But she's here. Storm. The wild, fierce omega who's occupied my thoughts for four years.
I press my palms against my eyes, my heart racing at just the thought of her. What am I doing here? I can barely look at her without blushing, and now I'm supposed to be her pack beta? I remember the shock on her face when Jonathan brought me in. Was she happy to see me? Worried? Angry? I couldn't tell. Everything’s happened so fast—Reed's territorial circling, Jonathan's cryptic explanations, Storm's unreadable expression.
"You look, but don't touch the omega." Reed's warning echoes in my mind, the threat in his voice unmistakable. He leaned in close as he showed me to my room, his scent like a storm about to break. "Touch her, and I'll tear your throat out myself."
I believe him. The look in his eyes wasn't just alpha posturing. It was a promise that makes my knees weak just remembering it.
A soft knock on my door makes me jump, nearly knocking over the lamp on the bedside table as I scramble to straighten my shirt. My fingers fumble with the buttons, making sure they're all properly aligned before running my hands down the front to smooth non-existent wrinkles. I take a deep breath, then another, before opening the door.
Storm.
She stands there, arms crossed, wild curls framing her face, gray eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter and my words catch in my throat. Her dark chocolate scent washes over me, and I have to grip the doorframe to steady myself, my cheeks instantly heating.
"So," she says, a small smirk playing at the corner of her lips, "you're one of the big, bad alphas now, huh?"
I try to respond, but all that comes out is an awkward chuckle. I clear my throat, looking down at my feet. "I, um, I think the 'big' and 'bad' qualifications are reserved for the actual alphas in this place."
Her smirk widens into something resembling a real smile. "Good answer, beta boy." She glances over her shoulder, then back at me. "Can I come in? Or are you afraid the scary alphas will disapprove?"
My eyes widen, and I glance nervously down the hallway. Reed's warning is still fresh in my mind, but she's already standing in my doorway. What harm could there be in talking? "Y-yeah, of course."
I step back, nearly tripping over my own feet as she enters. She moves past me, her scent filling the small space, making it hard to think straight. I leave the door open—partly to avoid suspicion, mostly because I need the air. My pulse hammers in my ears.
Storm wanders around the room, examining everything with casual curiosity. "Not bad. Better than the guard quarters, I bet."
"Definitely an upgrade," I agree, watching as she runs her fingers along the edge of the desk. I stay rooted near the door, unsure where to place myself, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. Her movements are controlled, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tap restlessly against any surface they touch.
"So," she says, turning back to face me, "want to tell me what the hell you're doing here?"
The bluntness of the question catches me off guard. I stammer, "I—I was going to ask you the same thing. One day you're at the Omega House, the next you're at Jonathan Kingsley penthouse."
Her expression darkens. "I didn't mean this to happen. It was—" She cuts herself off, glancing toward the open door. "It was supposed to be different. I had a plan."
"The address," I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper as I remember our hushed conversation in the library. "427 Crescent Avenue."
Storm's eyes widen slightly, surprise and maybe relief flickering across her face. "You remembered."
"Of course I do." How could I forget? It was the first time she'd ever shared anything real with me, the first glimpse beneath her carefully maintained defiance. I feel my cheeks warm again. "I went there, after... after everything happened."
Her entire body goes still. "You did? When?"
"The next morning." I swallow hard, the memory still raw. I study the carpet, unable to meet her intense gaze. "I thought maybe... I don't know what I thought. That I might find Rook there. That I might be able to help somehow." My voice trails off into a mumble.
"And?" Her voice is barely above a whisper now.
"There was no one there. Just an empty street corner." I don't tell her about the hours I spent waiting, the rain that soaked through my jacket, about the gnawing fear that grew with each passing minute that I would be found out by the Omega House form leaving the guard quarters. "I'm sorry." My shoulders hunch slightly, as though I'm personally responsible for Rook's absence.
Storm turns away, moving to the window. For a moment, she just stares out at the city below, her reflection in the glass showing a vulnerability she'd never allow me to see directly.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she says finally, her voice tight. "I was supposed to meet him. We were supposed to leave together."
I want to go to her, to offer some comfort, but Reed's warning keeps me rooted in place, my fingers twisting nervously together. "What happened?"
"I fucked up." She laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "I thought I was being clever. I figured in the chaos I could slip away." Her hands curl into fists at her sides. "I didn't count on him throwing me over his shoulder like a caveman, and then taking me to this penthouse, which is not close to the theater at all."
The pieces click into place. I knew she was going to rig the lottery with pack Kingsley. The public humiliation. The chaos that followed. It wasn't a political statement or a rebellion like everyone's saying—it was a desperate escape plan gone wrong.
"And now you're stuck here." It's not a question. I shuffle my weight from one foot to the other, uncertain if I should move closer.
She turns back to me, her expression hardening into something more familiar—the Storm I know, fierce and unyielding. "For now."
The determination in her voice sends a chill down my spine. She hasn't given up. Of course she hasn't. "Storm, what are you planning?" I whisper, my voice cracking slightly with anxiety.
Before she can answer, a shadow falls across the doorway. Reed stands there, his stormy blue eyes taking in the scene with dangerous calculation.
"Dinner," he says, his voice deceptively casual as he leans against the doorframe.
I nearly jump out of my skin at his sudden appearance, taking an instinctive step away from Storm.
"Jonathan wants us all at the table."
Storm rolls her eyes but moves toward the door. "Heaven forbid we keep his highness waiting."
Reed's gaze follows her, something I can't quite identify flickering in his eyes before they shift back to me. The message is clear. I'm being watched. I shrink under his scrutiny, dropping my eyes to the floor.
I follow them to the dining room, trailing a few steps behind, my heart still racing from Storm's half-confession. Whatever she's planning, it's going to be dangerous—for her, for me, for everyone involved.
The dining room is all sleek surfaces and modern design, the table large enough to seat ten but set for only four. Jonathan already sits at the head, his expression unreadable as we enter. Reed takes the seat to his right, while Storm deliberately chooses the chair furthest from Jonathan.
That leaves me with the seat to Jonathan's left, directly across from Reed. Perfect.
I hesitate before pulling out the chair, nearly knocking over the water glass as I sit down. An awkward silence falls as we settle in. I stare at the elaborate place settings, my hands trembling slightly as I try to remember which fork to use for what. A beta servant appears from a side door carrying a platter, and I jump slightly at the sudden movement. I hadn't realized there would be staff here. It makes sense—elite alphas don't cook for themselves—but it adds another layer of unreality to this whole situation.
"Alex arrives tomorrow," Jonathan says once the first course has been served. "I expect everyone to make him feel welcome."
Storm stabs a piece of food with her fork, the movement unnecessarily violent. "Is he as much of an asshole as you?"
I nearly choke on my water, coughing into my napkin. Speaking to an alpha like that—especially Jonathan Kingsley—should earn her a sharp lecture at best, an alpha bark at worst. But Jonathan merely raises an eyebrow.
"No," he says, his tone oddly soft. "Alex is nothing like me."
Something in his voice makes me look up, then immediately back down when I accidentally catch his eye. For just a moment, there's an expression on Jonathan's face I can't quite place—almost like longing, or regret. It's gone as quickly as it appeared, his features returning to their usual mask of cold control.
Reed shifts slightly, his gaze moving between Jonathan and Storm. "Alex is the more... approachable twin," he says, the words casual but loaded with meaning.
Jonathan shoots him a look that would make most people cower, but Reed just returns it steadily. There's a history here, a complex dynamic I don't understand.
“You have a twin?” Storm blurts out.
"As I was saying," Jonathan continues, "Alex's return is important. My father’s expect to see a united front at dinner in three days. That means you—" he points his fork at Storm, "—need to at least attempt to act like a proper omega."
Storm's eyes narrow. "Define 'proper.'"
"The basics would be a start. Don't challenge every word I say. Don't insult my family to their faces. Don't act like being in the same room with me is torture."
"But it is torture," she says sweetly, batting her eyelashes in exaggerated innocence.
I hide a smile behind my napkin, then immediately worry that Jonathan noticed. I busy myself with cutting my food into unnecessarily small pieces, trying to be invisible.
"You think this is a game?" Jonathan says, his voice cooling several degrees. "It's not. My fathers are not men to be trifled with. They expect certain standards, certain behaviors. If they find you lacking?—"
"What, they'll send me to my room without dessert?" Storm interrupts.
Jonathan sets down his fork with careful precision. "They'll take matters into their own hands. And trust me, Storm, you do not want that."
Something in his tone makes me shiver involuntarily. I grip my fork tighter to hide the trembling of my hands.
"Fine," Storm says after a moment. "I'll play nice for the daddy’s. But I want something in return."
Jonathan raises an eyebrow. "Which is?"
"Information." She leans forward, her wild curls falling around her face. "I want to know what happened to Rook after Choosing Day. Where he is, what he's doing. Everything."
The tension at the table ratchets up several notches. Reed's scent spikes with something sharp and dangerous, while Jonathan's expression turns to granite. I sink lower in my chair, wishing I could disappear entirely.
"We've been over this," Jonathan says, his voice flat.
"Not good enough," Storm pushes back. "You promised?—"
"I promised he wouldn't be harmed if he stayed away," Jonathan cuts her off. "That's it. I don't owe you any more information than that."
Storm's scent turns bitter with frustration and anger. "If you expect me to play the perfect little omega for your fathers, I need more than vague assurances."
Jonathan studies her for a long moment, his green eyes unreadable. Then he turns to Reed. "Show her."
Reed's eyebrows shoot up.
"Show her," Jonathan repeats, his tone allowing no argument.
Reed's jaw tightens, but he pulls his phone from his pocket, scrolling through it for a moment before sliding it across the table to Storm.
She grabs it, her movements almost desperate. I lean over slightly, then immediately think better of it and straighten up again. Still, I catch a glimpse of what looks like security footage on the screen. Storm's breath catches audibly.
"This is from this morning," Reed says, his voice carefully neutral. "Outside his apartment building."
Storm stares at the screen, her fingers white-knuckled around the phone. I can see the play of emotions across her face—relief, longing, pain.
"He looks... okay," she says finally, her voice small.
"He is okay," Jonathan says. "As long as he doesn't do anything stupid, he'll stay that way."
The threat is implicit. As long as Rook doesn't try to find her, doesn't challenge Pack Kingsley's claim, he'll be allowed to live.
Storm slides the phone back to Reed, her expression composed once more, though her scent still carries notes of distress. "Fine. Three days. I'll be the perfect omega, or whatever passes for one in this hell."
Jonathan nods once, accepting her compliance. "Frankie will help you prepare."
All eyes turn to me, and I feel my face flush crimson under the sudden attention. I nearly drop my fork. "I-I will?"
"Yes," Jonathan says. "You'll teach her the proper protocols, the expected behaviors. Make sure she knows how to address my fathers, how to respond to direct questions, when to speak and when to remain silent."
Becoming Storm's etiquette coach wasn't exactly what I signed up for, but I nod jerkily. "I'll... I'll do my best." My voice comes out higher than normal.
"Good luck with that, beta boy," Storm teases me.
Dinner continues in strained silence after that, the tension thick enough to cut with one of the many forks laid out before us. I keep my head down, focusing intensely on my plate, only occasionally daring quick glances at the others. By the time the meal finally ends, my shoulders ache from being held rigid for so long.
As we rise from the table, Jonathan catches my arm. "A word," he says, nodding toward his study.
My stomach drops. I look at Storm with wide eyes but try to give her what I hope is a reassuring smile, though it feels more like a grimace. "Go ahead. I'll catch up with you later." My voice only shakes a little.
I follow Jonathan into his study, a room that perfectly matches his personality—dominating, precise, every item in its place. He gestures for me to take a seat in one of the leather chairs facing his desk. I perch on the edge, hands clasped tightly in my lap, to hide their trembling.
"You understand your position here," he says once he's settled behind the desk, the statement more command than question.
"I think so." I try to keep my voice steady, but it wavers slightly. "I'm the pack beta. I'm supposed to help Storm adjust, teach her what's expected of her at the dinner with your fathers."
"Yes." Jonathan studies me, his green eyes assessing. I resist the urge to squirm under his gaze. "But there's more to it than that."
I wait, my heart rate picking up again, a bead of sweat forming at my temple.
"Storm trusts you," he continues. "She listens to you, in her way. That makes you valuable."
"To control her, you mean." The words slip out before I can stop them. I immediately bite my lip, horrified at my own boldness.
Jonathan's eyes narrow fractionally. "To keep her safe."
That's not the answer I expected. "Safe from what?" I ask quietly, my voice barely audible.
"From herself." Jonathan leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. "Storm has a tendency to act first and consider consequences later. That sort of behavior might have been merely inconvenient at the Omega House, but here? In my world? It could get her killed."
A chill runs down my spine at the matter-of-fact way he says it. "Your fathers," I whisper, remembering the tension during dinner.
Jonathan nods once. "Among others. The political situation in Crescent City is... delicate right now. Storm's actions at Choosing Day have made things worse. There are those who would use her to further their own agendas, regardless of the cost to her personally."
I process this, turning it over in my mind. Jonathan doesn't strike me as someone who cares about Storm's welfare—not after everything she's told me about him, not after seeing how he reacted when she pulled his name at Choosing Day.
"Why do you care?" I ask, immediately ducking my head, unable to believe I just questioned him so directly.
For a moment, Jonathan's mask slips. Something flashes in his eyes—anger, frustration, maybe even concern. Then it's gone, replaced by his usual cool detachment.
"I don't like loose ends," he says, his voice clipped. "And I don't like complications. Storm is both."
It's not a real answer, but I know better than to push.
"There's one more thing," Jonathan continues. "I know about your... attachment to Storm."
My blood runs cold. I feel the color drain from my face. Has he seen the way I look at her? The way my scent changes when she's near? Of course he has. Jonathan misses nothing. I open my mouth to deny it, but no words come out.
"Sir, I—" I finally manage, my voice a strangled whisper.
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. "I'm not interested in your denials. I'm interested in your understanding of the situation. Storm is my claimed omega. That is how the world sees her, how she must be seen. Any suggestion of impropriety between a pack beta and an omega would be... problematic."
"I understand the rules," I say carefully, staring at my hands, which are white-knuckled in my lap.
"Do you?" Jonathan leans forward, his scent sharpening with alpha dominance. I shrink back into the chair. "Because let me be clear. If there is even a hint of inappropriate behavior between you and Storm, it won't just be you who suffers the consequences. She will too."
The threat lands like a physical blow. I swallow hard, nodding rapidly. "I understand. I would never—I wouldn't—" The words tumble out in a nervous jumble.
"Good." Jonathan sits back, his posture relaxing slightly. "Then we won't need to have this conversation again."
I rise to leave, my legs unsteady beneath me, nearly bumping into the chair in my haste to escape.
"Frankie," Jonathan calls as I reach the door. I turn back, dreading whatever else he might have to say. "Remember—you're here to help her adjust. Not to encourage her worst impulses."
I nod again, unable to find words, and slip out of the study. My heart pounds in my chest as I make my way back to my room, Jonathan's warning echoing in my head.
This was a mistake. I never should have agreed to come here, to be part of this farce, to be so close to Storm when I can't—when we can't?—
I stop short in the hallway, the realization crushing me with its weight. Being this close to Storm without being able to touch her, to hold her, to be anything more than a beta in her presence, it's pure torture. Worse than being separated. At least then I could imagine her, dream of her without the constant reminder of what I can never have.
Every moment I'll see her, smell her, hear her voice... and know that a single touch could mean death. For both of us.
I'm trapped in an beautiful hell of my own making, and there's no way out.