Chapter twenty-six
Miles
It’s mid-afternoon and the house is empty except for me and Stray. I like it this way. No alphas filling the air with their pheromones and the constant hum of “we’re in charge, you’re not.” There’s only silence. Me. The ghosts that don’t get bored.
The only sound is the scrape of pencil on paper.
The sketchbook is new. Garrett got it for me last week, said I was running out of pages.
(He didn’t say it out loud, but I could hear the “I love that you’re drawing again” behind the words.) I’m not actually drawing anything, though.
Just lines and shapes, the same thing I’ve done since I was a kid—fill a page, black out a section, then start again, until there’s nothing left but smudges. It’s all I’m in the mood for.
I’m supposed to be “letting myself rest,” which is code for “don’t fuck anything up while we’re gone.” It’s Monday. The alphas are all at work, even Gabriel, who said he’d go in late but left anyway, because being alone with the two omegas isn’t something he wants to do today. Fine by me.
But I can’t get my head into the page. It keeps drifting back to the last few days. To the weird truce that’s developed between me and Lily. Or maybe not a truce. Maybe something sicker, stickier, more like a mutual hostage situation than peace.
She’s losing it, that’s for sure. She covers it better than most, but I see her.
The shake when she thinks nobody’s looking.
How small and quiet she keeps. The way she takes every hit like she was expecting it.
I know that look. I lived it. I should want to see her break, and I do, but it’s not enough.
I keep thinking about how she clung to me in the shower. She let me wash her hair and didn’t even flinch. She hugged me after, arms tight, not letting go until I did. I want to say it disgusted me. I want to say it made my skin crawl. It didn’t.
She needed me and I loved that she needed me. I loved being the one to give it to her.
It made me feel like I could actually do something to help her. Something different from alpha help… the crap with purring and “it’ll be okay, omega,” and all that condescending bullshit. Real help that’s blunt, a little mean, and honest about how the world works.
I don’t know why I have the urge to help her. I shouldn’t. She’s my replacement, my threat, the reason I don’t sleep at night. But when she’s sitting on the couch, curled up around herself, staring at nothing, I ache to take her apart and put her back together the right way.
Maybe because nobody ever did that for me.
I press hard, snap the pencil tip, and curse. My scent tightens, hot and burnt, too much like my old self. That edge I get before a meltdown. But I don’t want to melt down today. I want to see what happens if I let it burn.
The bedroom door clicks.
She’s finally coming out.
I hear her move down the hall, then down the stairs.
I glance over at her. She’s wearing her “safe” clothes now—the leggings and t-shirt she puts on when she thinks nobody will see her.
When I forced her to come out for breakfast she was fully dressed like she planned on going out.
Ha. Like omegas can just… go out on a whim.
I count the seconds in my head. Fifty-seven before I hear her footsteps closer to where I am. She’s making more noise than usual, so she must be out of it. Or maybe she wants to be caught.
She stands in the kitchen doorway, fingers wrapped around a mug, staring at the floor.
I don’t look up. “You want something?”
She shakes her head. “Just thirsty.”
“Is that coffee?”
She nods.
“You’re not supposed to have caffeine. Omega chemistry and all that.”
“Neither are you,” she snaps back. Then she realizes she snapped and looks down, clutching the mug tighter.
I smirk. “Nice. You’re getting mouthy. Keep it up and I’ll tell Gabriel you called him an asshole.”
She almost laughs, but it comes out more like a cough. She glances at me, then at the floor again. I watch her eyes track every move I make. Her shoulders are slumped. Her toes are pointed in like she’s bracing for an impact.
A wild thought pops into my head, and before I can stop it, I say: “Sit.”
She freezes. Her brain is running in circles, trying to figure out if it’s a trap. I wait. She does it, finally. She puts her coffee down, walks over, and sits at my feet, knees together, hands folded in her lap. No hesitation. I didn’t even say the floor. But it’s like she knew.
My heart pounds. I don’t know why I did that. I don’t know why she listened. I stare at the top of her head, the brown hair falling loose, the faint red mark on her neck from where I nipped her before. It’s faded, but I see it.
She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t say a word.
I push the sketchbook off my lap. “You know you don’t have to listen to me.”
She shrugs, not meeting my eyes.
“I’m not your alpha,” I say, a little too loud.
She shakes her head, but she doesn’t move.
“Why’d you do it, then?”
Nothing.
I have the urge to hurt her, just a little, to see if she’ll fight back. “You like being told what to do, don’t you?”
Still nothing.
So I lean down, get in her space, and whisper it: “You want someone to control you.”
She shivers. I smell the change in her scent—sweet, spiked with bitter, but it’s not fear. Not really.
“Fuck,” I mutter, sitting back. “You’re more broken than I am.”
That gets a reaction. She looks up, cheeks pink, mouth open like she might say something. I see the spark in her, the tiny little fire that wants to burn bright but keeps getting stomped out. It’s pathetic. I should hate her for it.
But the part of me that spent years fighting to survive wants to break it open and see what’s inside.
I decide to test it.
“Go get me a coffee,” I say, casual. “Black. Two sugars. And don’t fuck it up.”
She nods and stands.
In the kitchen she puts a mug on the counter and starts the drip machine. I watch her from my seat. She moves like she’s on autopilot. Every step is careful, every motion rehearsed, like she’s done it a hundred times for someone else. Maybe she has.
When it’s done, she brings the cup back, gives it to me. I take it and sip. It’s perfect.
I look at her, standing there, waiting for the next command.
“Sit,” I say again.
She does, this time even faster, like her body was waiting for it.
The rush hits me all at once—a spike of power settling in my gut and then lower. I get why alphas are addicted to this. I get why they want to own something so completely. I hate myself for liking it, it’s against how omegas are built. But that doesn’t stop me.
She’s staring at the floor, waiting. I let the silence stretch out. I want to see how long she’ll wait before she cracks.
It’s a long time. I feel my own scent go bitter, the iron edge coming back. I know she can smell it, too. I watch how she breathes, the way her chest rises and falls, her thighs tensing under the leggings.
I want to push her further. I want to see what it’ll take to make her beg.
But instead, I say, “You can go now.”
She stands, quick and quiet, and goes back to her room.
I sit there, alone again, coffee in hand, and wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.
And what the fuck is wrong with her? I’m not a goddamn alpha and we both know it. And besides that, none of my alphas have ever asked me to sit on the floor at their feet. Have I done it? Sure. But they never commanded it.
But I know I’ll do it again. And again. Until one of us breaks for good.
The air is thick with scent now—mine, hers, the echo of what happened.
I sip the coffee, fingers shaking, and think about what’ll happen if the alphas ever find out.
I hope they do. I need them to see it. I want them to know they brought her into this house, and now they don’t get to be mad that they’ve shared me with her.
I get to win for once. Even if it means losing everything.
***
The rest of the day is a game of chicken, and I’m the only one who knows we’re playing.
I wait. I make myself wait. I know she’s upstairs, lying in bed or pretending to nap, but mostly she’s probably waiting for the next bad thing to happen.
I remember what it was like, back with my old pack.
I learned to keep every muscle tight, so when the hit came I wouldn’t have to scramble to lock down. I could just ride it out.
I hate that I know exactly how she feels. Emotional violence can hit like physical.
At two-thirty she reappears. She moves quieter this time, checks each room before she enters like she’s scanning for threats. I’m in the living room, sprawled on the couch, sketchbook on my stomach, doing a lot of nothing. She tries to slip past without saying anything.
“Hey,” I say.
She jumps. Not a lot, but enough for me to see the muscles twitch in her neck.
“Get me a soda,” I tell her, pointing at the kitchen. “And one of the good ones, not the store brand.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Okay.”
“Okay what?” I snap.
She looks at me, confused.
“Say ‘yes, Miles.’ Say it like you mean it.”
She swallows. “Yes, Miles.”
My chest lights up, a single bright flare. This is bad. I’m not supposed to like this. I’m not supposed to want to break her in half and see if she’ll just… let me.
She brings the soda, passes it to me. I pop the tab and take a sip, never breaking eye contact.
“Sit,” I say.
She sits, exactly where she did before, cross-legged on the rug. She stares at the wall, not at me.
“Give me my pencil bag.”
She finds it.
“Open it. Find the red pencil.”
She does. I take it, draw a long slash across the paper. My hands are shaking now.
She’s so close. If I leaned forward I could touch the top of her head.
“Move over here,” I tell her, pointing to a spot right next to the couch, next to my leg. “No, closer.”
She moves. She’s within arm’s reach now. I want to touch her. I need to see if she’ll let me.
I keep drawing, but I can’t focus on the lines. All I can see is her. She’s breathing a little fast. There’s a little tremor in her hands. She’s gone dead still, like if she moves she’ll be punished.
“Put your hand on my knee,” I say, just to see.