Chapter twelve
Lily
Today is the first morning the alphas all leave at the same time since my arrival. It feels like being in the ocean and watching the last lifeboat pull away, knowing you’re going to have to tread water until someone comes back or you sink. I’m not sure how long I can stay afloat.
Gabriel is first out. He stands in the hallway, coat already on, keys in hand, his whole body tense like he’s bracing for a hit. He’s doing that overthinking thing he does, eyes darting, probably rehearsing all the disasters that could happen.
“Miles has agreed to keep things civil. I’ve spoken to him. He understands,” Gabriel says.
Civil… right. That word is doing a lot of the heavy lifting. I nod anyway.
“We’ll be back by six. Garrett and Cyrus have meetings they can’t reschedule. I have a lot of work to catch up on.” Another pause. He almost says more, doesn’t. Then: “If anything happens—anything at all—you call Garrett. He’ll come home.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m planning to stay in my room.”
He nods, but his face says he doesn’t buy it. He hovers there, like he wants to say something else, but then he turns and leaves. He already knows what’s going to happen and he’s choosing to walk away anyway.
Garrett’s worse. He lingers at the front door, looking back at me like he’s waiting for the moment everything explodes and he can’t stop it.
“I left snacks in the fridge,” he says. “Top shelf. And there’s coffee in the pot, should still be hot.”
“Thank you.”
“And my phone is on. Loud. I’ll hear it even if I’m in a meeting. Just text and I’ll—“
“Garrett. Go. I’ll survive.”
He smiles, sort of, but it’s got cracks in it. Then he’s out, and his truck engine roars down the driveway.
Cyrus doesn’t say anything at all. He stops in front of me, holds my gaze for three full seconds, and squeezes my good shoulder. Then he’s gone. No explanation but I don’t need one.
So the door closes. The house goes quiet. And I’m alone with Miles.
Not alone-alone. He’s here, somewhere, because his scent is everywhere.
Burnt sugar and iron, curling under my bedroom door, seeping into the walls.
Without the alphas’ scents to overpower, it grows steadily stronger.
My omega doesn’t know what to do with it.
He’s not an alpha. He isn’t supposed to register.
But my body reacts anyway—a low, vibrating awareness.
I guess my instincts are so broken they don’t know the difference anymore.
I hide out in my room until ten. I read. I reorganize my nightstand. I look at the wilted daisy Garrett brought me days ago. I can’t throw it away even though it’s mostly-dead. My stomach growls, echoing off the perfect ceiling.
Food. There are snacks in the fridge. The fridge is in the kitchen, and the kitchen is Miles’s territory, especially in the mornings when nobody’s running interference. But it’s the in between time and he’s not likely to be there right now anyway.
I can do this. I’m not a child. I can walk into a kitchen, grab a snack, and get out. Ghost protocol.
I crack open my door and listen. TV’s on somewhere, low and droning. A news anchor. Living room, then. The kitchen should be clear.
I pad down the hall in socks, careful not to make a sound. Turn the corner into the kitchen and—it’s empty. His mug’s on the counter, coffee dregs at the bottom, but he’s not here.
I open the fridge. Garrett left me a plastic container of fruit, a yogurt, and a sandwich wrapped with a sticky note: “Eat all of it. – G.” It almost makes me cry. Embarrassing, but everything makes me almost cry these days. I grab the fruit and yogurt and shut the fridge.
The counter’s a mess. Not just any mess; Miles’s mess. Coffee mug, plate with toast crumbs, knife with butter left out, a bowl with cereal stuck to the sides. He left it all like a flag planted in the ground. His kitchen.
I should walk away. Should take my stuff and go.
But my hands move on their own. I set my food down and start cleaning.
I don’t think about it. I rinse the mug.
Load the plate in the dishwasher. Wipe the counter.
Scrub the bowl, which takes forever because whatever he was eating has chemically bonded to the ceramic.
I clean the knife, dry it, put it back. Wipe again. Then fold the dish towel.
It’s not for him. It’s for me. I need something to do and if I’m stuck here all day, I might as well keep busy.
“Did I ask you to do that?”
I jump. Miles is in the doorway, arms folded, leaning like he’s been there all along. He’s in sweats and a big t-shirt, glasses a little crooked, hair wild. He looks like he just rolled off the couch. Which he did.
“No,” I say. “But the kitchen was dirty.”
“The kitchen was fine.”
“There was cereal cement in your bowl.”
His eyes narrow. “So now you’re my maid? That’s the angle? Clean up after me like a good little omega so when the alphas get home they see how domestic you are? How helpful, how perfect?”
“I cleaned up because it was gross. That’s it.”
“Sure.” He pushes off the doorframe, crosses to the counter, inspecting everything for a flaw. Opens the dishwasher, checks the plate, closes it. Looks at the knife block. Runs a finger along the counter.
“You missed a spot,” he says, pointing at a place I know I cleaned.
I ignore it. Grab my fruit and yogurt.
“When’s your next pack meeting?” he asks, casual in that way that isn’t casual at all. “Gabriel mentioned the Carr pack. Or the Forbes twins. I lose track.”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t told me.”
“You should ask. The sooner you’re out of here, the sooner we can stop pretending this is normal.” He pours himself more coffee from the pot Garrett made, using Garrett’s mug this time. Definitely on purpose. “How many packs has he sent your file to now? Nine? Ten?”
“I don’t keep count.”
“I do. Twelve, as of last night. Twelve packs, and not a single one has come back with a yes. Except the one you turned down because of your impossible standards.” He sips his coffee. “Ever think maybe it’s not the packs? Maybe the product just isn’t moving.”
It lands right where he means it to. My hands tighten on the yogurt but I don’t react. Ghosts don’t feel things.
“I’m going back to my room,” I say.
“That’s where you belong, Stray.”
I walk out. Don’t let him see my face. I make it to my room, sit on the bed, and eat the fruit one grape at a time while my eyes burn and my chest aches.
Twelve packs. I hadn’t known the number. Wish I still didn’t.
***
The headache comes back around two.
I’m on the bed, staring at the ceiling, when the pain creeps in.
Temples, then behind my eyes, then straight to the base of my skull—a full attack, the kind that’s going to flatten me.
I try to breathe through it, but within twenty minutes it’s pounding, my stomach is churning and the daylight stings.
I need water. Dr. Turner said to keep hydrated. I have to get up, walk to the kitchen, fill a glass and walk back. Nothing else. A basic thing anybody should be able to do.
I sit up and the room tilts. I grip the nightstand and wait for the spinning to slow. Eventually it does, enough that I can stand. I move through the hall with one hand on the wall, shuffling, head down because looking up makes it worse.
I make it to the kitchen. Fill a glass and try to drink.
The pain spikes, like a nail driven into my temple. I gasp, almost drop the glass, have to set it down and brace against the counter before my knees buckle. Vision goes gray at the edges. My heart’s beating too fast, too loud.
I press my forehead to the cold stone counter and breathe. In. Out. Wait for it to pass.
“Oh, come on.”
Of course. Miles.
“You serious right now?” He sounds disgusted. “The second they leave, you fall apart? That’s convenient.”
“I’m not—“ but talking makes the pain worse, so I stop.
“You know exactly what you’re doing.” He’s closer now; burnt sugar in the air.
“This is the play, right? Be so sick and pathetic that when they come home, they’ll fuss over you.
Garrett will want to hold you, Cyrus will check your bandages, Gabriel will feel so guilty he’ll bend the rules. That’s what you want.”
“I’m not after anything,” I manage. Still pressed to the counter, eyes closed. “I have a headache.”
“You always have a headache. It’s your favorite accessory.”
“Miles, please—“
“Please what? Please feel sorry for you? Please call Garrett so he can come running? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Garrett dropping everything to take care of poor, sick Lily while I sit here and watch—“
“I needed water.” My voice sounds so small. I hate it. “That’s all I came out here for.”
He goes quiet. Maybe he’ll leave and I’ll get to be miserable without an audience.
He says, “The more you lean on them, the harder it’s going to be when you leave. You get that, right? Every time Garrett brings you soup or Cyrus touches your shoulder or Gabriel looks at you that way, you’re making it worse. You’re building something you can’t keep.”
I lift my head. The kitchen spins, but I see him at the island, drink in hand, watching me. It’s more of a warning on his face than cruelty.
“I know,” I say. That’s the problem. I do know. But I can’t help it.
“Do you? Because from here, it looks like you’re digging in. Getting comfortable. Making yourself harder to remove.” He sips. “That’s what omegas do. We nest. We settle. We attach. And then when they rip us out, it destroys us.” His jaw flexes. “I should know.”
And for one second, I see it. The thing behind his words. He’s not just being mean. He’s telling me what happened to him, wrapped in barbed wire so it doesn’t look like a confession.
For a second, I understand him. That might be worse than hating him. But the worst part is, I can’t hate him. Even though I want to. He’s cruel but he’s only defending what’s his. I’m the intruder here. The threat to his happiness. The unwanted guest.
The pain flares. I close my eyes. When I open them, he’s gone. There’s a fresh glass of water next to mine.
I drink both.
***