Chapter twelve #2
They come home at six, like Gabriel promised. I hear the trucks, the doors, the voices. The house fills with their scents and I instantly feel a little better for it. My body wants them all, desperate and greedy.
My headache’s down to a dull throb, but it’s still there. I spent the whole afternoon in my room, lying in the dark. Too tired to read, too wired to sleep.
Garrett knocks at seven-thirty. “Dinner’s ready. Gabriel wants everyone at the table.”
Dinner is roasted chicken and vegetables. It’s good. I eat because I have to, because Garrett is watching me every time I push food around. I’m pretty sure he’s counting mouthfuls.
After dinner, everyone drifts to the living room.
It’s the new routine: the hour or two after eating where the pack settles.
Garrett turns on the TV to a nature documentary about the ocean, but nobody’s really watching.
Gabriel takes his usual chair, the big leather one by the fireplace.
Cyrus sprawls on the floor with his back against the wall, which looks uncomfortable but he likes it.
Miles curls up on the other end of the couch from me, closer to Gabriel’s chair. He’s got a blanket, his glasses on, and the lamplight makes him look soft, almost gentle. Almost enough to forget what he said about the twelve packs.
But I don’t.
Garrett sits beside me. He’s close enough that I can feel his body heat, smell the honey and sage, sense the steady alpha presence my cells are screaming for. But not touching. Because rules are rules, and I told him his touch didn’t matter, and he believed me.
The gap between us is six inches. Might as well be a canyon.
The TV narrator talks about whale migration. Thousands of miles to breeding grounds, blah blah blah. I’m not listening. All I’m focused on is not leaning toward Garrett or closing the space. On not letting my body do what it wants. Every muscle is tense from staying upright and separate.
My head pounds. The TV light makes it worse, but I say nothing. Drawing attention means questions, and questions mean more lies.
Miles shifts. He unfolds from his blanket and pads over to Gabriel’s chair. Gabriel opens his arm without looking, automatic, practiced; years of routine in one gesture. Miles fits into the curve of Gabriel’s side, legs tucked up, face in Gabriel’s neck.
I watch from six feet away and feel myself just… fracture.
Gabriel’s hand settles on the back of Miles’s neck—the same spot Cyrus touched on me this morning, the spot that made everything better. Gabriel’s thumb circles Miles’s skin. Miles makes a sound, soft and content, that fills the room.
Miles has this. He has the touch, the comfort, the easy closeness of an alpha who holds him like he was made for it. Three years of muscle memory, nights curled up together, hands that know all his edges. He has the certainty: they are his, he is theirs.
I have six inches of empty couch and a lie burning a hole in my mouth.
Gabriel starts purring. Quiet, low, a rumble you feel from a distance.
Not for me—for Miles, wrapped tight in his arms. Doesn’t matter.
The sound reaches me anyway. My omega wants it, reaches for it like air after drowning.
The headache eases. The relief almost makes it worse.
Knowing what helps and not being allowed to have it.
But it isn’t enough. A purr from across the room, meant for someone else, filtered through six feet of air—it’s like standing outside a warm house in the dead of winter. You can see the heat, almost feel it, but it isn’t yours.
Garrett is stone-still next to me. I don’t look at him, but I feel the tension, the effort it takes not to move.
His hands are clenched in his lap. He knows what I need.
I can tell by his breathing, his scent turns, the sweet edge gone bitter.
He wants to touch me. His instincts are screaming to touch me, but he won’t, because I told him it doesn’t matter, and he trusts me.
Because Gabriel told him not to. Because it will hurt Miles if he does.
On the TV, whales are singing to each other across the ocean.
Miles lifts his head from Gabriel’s neck and looks at me.
I don’t know what he sees. He doesn’t flinch or look away. He holds my gaze, then he turns to Gabriel and kisses him.
There’s nothing casual about it. He kisses Gabriel like he’s making a point.
Slow, deliberate. One hand comes up to Gabriel’s jaw, angling his face down.
Gabriel makes a sound, quiet but hungry, and his arm tightens around Miles, pulling him even closer.
Miles deepens the kiss, confident. He knows exactly where he belongs.
Message received. Loud and clear.
He pulls back enough to look at me again, lips still near Gabriel’s, and his eyes don’t say sorry.
This is mine. This will never be yours. Watch.
I get up. Too fast. My head screams, but I don’t care.
“I’m going to bed,” I say. My words don’t shake. I’m proud of that because it’s all I have. “Goodnight.”
“Already?” Garrett looks at me, like he’s disappointed. “It’s only eight.”
“I’m tired. Long day.”
I don’t look at Miles. Don’t look at Gabriel. I walk.
“Goodnight, Lily,” Garrett says, soft.
Behind me, Gabriel’s purr is still going. Deep and true for the omega in his arms. Not for me.
Never for me.
I keep walking.