Chapter thirty-three
Lily
Iwake up feeling like I’ve been hollowed out and wrung dry overnight.
My stomach’s already sour, twisting with a dull ache.
When I sit up, the room does this lazy, off-kilter spin.
Not the worst—it’s been a hell of a lot worse—but enough to remind me that the last two days of normal didn’t fix anything. They just bought time.
That’s how it is now. The symptoms come and go. Some days my body works. Some days it reminds me exactly how broken it still is. Today is one of those reminders.
The house is quiet. The alphas are gone—I heard the sound of trucks and doors and crunch of gravel about an hour ago.
Miles is somewhere inside, probably his drawing studio.
I can feel him, in that strange way I’ve started to feel all of them.
It’s this weird awareness, like I just know where everyone is without seeing or scenting them.
I linger outside the door to the studio. My stomach cramps hard and I press my hand into it, breathing through the wave. I’d rather not ask Miles for help. I don’t want him to think I only come around when I’m miserable. I just… don’t feel like being alone this morning.
Miles opens the door before I even knock. He’s got a pencil tucked behind his ear and his glasses pushed up into messy hair.
“I can hear you breathing out here,” he says, just like that. “Come in.”
So I do. The room smells like Miles, graphite, and that faint tang from his fixative spray. His latest canvas is up on the easel, partly finished already. It’s a city, all scaffolding and bridges. He’s building a whole world out of nothing but charcoal and time.
He points at the chair next to him. “Sit.”
I sit. I don’t mention that my head is spinning or my stomach’s threatening to mutiny. He doesn’t ask. We’re just near each other and it’s nice. His pencil scrapes the paper, and I watch.
I get lost in his hands. I’ve seen him draw before, but never on a canvas this large.
I love the way his fingers move, so quick and sure, like the pencil is another part of his body.
Lines appear easily. Bridges, rooftops, hints of water, the shadows where buildings meet sky.
A city that doesn’t exist, except in his head and now on this page.
“Where did you learn to paint?” he asks, still focused on the paper.
“My mom,” I say. “She paints. Watercolors mostly, sometimes acrylics. I used to sit at the kitchen table and try to copy what she was doing.”
“Where is she now?”
“Still in the same house. Same town, about forty minutes from here.”
“How’s she doing?”
I have to think about that. “She’s tough. Tired, but tough. She’s had a lot to handle.”
“Your dad?”
“He died. Years ago.”
Miles’s hand pauses above the paper, then goes back to work. “Sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“What about your other fathers? Her pack?”
“There weren’t any. Only him. Just the two of them.”
That gets his attention. He actually stops drawing and looks at me, eyebrows up. “Your mother’s alone? As an omega?”
“She’s older now. Past heats. My sister and I came later in her life.
She doesn’t need alphas the way younger omegas do.
And she just… didn’t want anyone else after my dad.
They were scent matched. They never felt the need to expand the pack.
It’s rare, but it worked. When he died, she decided she was done.
She let herself fade instead of looking for someone new. ”
Miles stares at me like he’s trying to make the pieces fit. “Didn’t think that was possible.”
“Most people don’t. But she’s done it and she’s okay.”
He nods. “Good for her. She stuck to what she wanted, not what everyone expected. Proved biology isn’t everything.”
He holds my gaze for a beat. Lets it linger. I don’t push for more.
He keeps drawing. Over the next hour, I watch the city grow, details multiplying, shadows deepening. When he finally sets the pencil down and leans back, it’s a real place, vivid and alive. I think I could walk straight into it.
“Could you paint this?” he asks.
I study it, looking at the shapes, how the light’s supposed to fall. “Yeah. I could do it.”
“Then get your paints.”
I freeze. The pause stretches.
“They’re gone,” someone says behind us.
We both jump. Cyrus is in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. I have no idea how long he’s been standing there. He doesn’t apologize for sneaking up. Cyrus never apologizes.
“Her paints are gone,” he says again. I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what happened to them. He’s the one who handles trash duty. But he’s never brought it up before now.
Miles looks at me. “What happened to your paints?”
I stare at the floor. My cheeks go hot. “They’re gone. I don’t have them anymore.”
He waits for more, but I’m not saying anything else.
Miles turns to Cyrus. “Why are you home?”
“No more meetings. Left early.” Cyrus pushes away from the doorframe. “We should go get her new ones.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say fast. “You don’t need to spend money on me.”
Cyrus gives me a look. No words, only that dark stare that means the conversation is over. “Get ready.”
“I’m already dressed.”
“Then let’s go.”
We lock up the house and pile into Cyrus’s truck. It’s huge and dark, the cab flooded with his scent. The headache that’s been gnawing at me all morning backs off and it gets easier to breathe.
Miles takes shotgun. I’m in the back, watching through the space between the seats as Cyrus reaches over and laces his fingers with Miles’s on the console.
It’s such a small thing, but my chest aches.
It reminds me of Jeremy, holding my hand on the way to the bonfire.
Except this is Cyrus, who barely talks, and Miles, who’s letting himself be held.
The art supply store is bigger than I thought it would be. Bright, easy to navigate, rows and rows of colorful products. Miles leads the way, like he’s done this a hundred times. He probably has.
First stop is drawing supplies. He grabs a set of pencils, flips it over to check the label.
“Graphite, H through B. H is hard, lighter marks. B is softer, darker. You need both.” Into the basket it goes.
Next, sketchbooks. Two sizes, different weights.
“This one’s for practice. This one’s for finished pieces. ”
He’s focused like I’ve only seen when he’s lost in his drawing.
Different from the controlling Miles. This is new to me.
He’s teaching, sharing what he loves, and for some reason it matters to him that I get it right.
His hand finds my elbow as we move down the aisle.
He bumps my shoulder reaching for a shelf.
Casual, like he’s not even thinking about it.
I see Cyrus texting as we walk. He hangs back a little, but he’s watching us constantly. He doesn’t touch me, but he stays close enough that his presence fills the space around me, and when the air shifts, his scent moves in.
Then we’re in the paint aisle. Miles picks up tubes, inspects them, sometimes swaps them for another. When I reach for cadmium yellow, he takes it from my hand, looks at the label, and quietly trades it for a different brand.
“Better pigment,” he says. “Trust me.”
Cyrus picks some colors too. I watch him pick them, and then it hits me—he’s choosing colors from the skyline painting. Cerulean blue, burnt sienna, titanium white, the soft orange of sunset. Not an exact match, but close enough I know what he’s doing.
I catch his eye and he flashes me a crooked grin. Just for a second. He saw the painting and he wants it back.
My eyes sting and I have to look away before I embarrass myself.
When we check out, the total makes me wince, but Miles brushes it off. “Gabriel owns a company. He’s loaded, don’t worry about it.”
We walk out together. Cyrus has the bag in one hand, Miles’s hand in the other. Miles grabs mine with his free hand. It’s a chain, the three of us, moving through the parking lot together.
I don’t let myself think about how long it’ll last. I just hold on and walk.
Back at the house, Miles steers me straight to the studio. He sets me up at the table next to his easel, arranges everything, props up his drawing so I can see it.
“Paint,” he says.
I open the tubes, squeeze out color, and pick up a brush.
It’s a complicated piece. Sharp angles and odd shapes, hours of work if I want to do it justice. I start at the sky, top down, the way I prefer sometimes. The new paints are good. Better than the ones Jeremy sent, honestly—the colors richer, the blends smoother.
Miles watches me. He doesn’t hover, but checks every so often, comparing what I’m doing to the image in his own head. Then he starts something new, but his eyes keep drifting my way.
Cyrus settles into the armchair in the corner.
Miles ends up there after a while, curled up in Cyrus’s lap, tucked in against his chest. Cyrus’s arms fold around him automatically.
Muscle memory. I might forget they’re there if not for their scents twining together in the air.
It’s warm and layered, and it eases every ache I woke up with.
My stomach stops twisting. My head clears. I paint.
I’m halfway through when I hear the front door. Gabriel and Garrett, voices low as they come in.
“In here,” Miles calls from his spot in Cyrus’s lap.
They come to the doorway: Gabriel first, then Garrett. They take in the scene. Miles curled up with Cyrus, me at the table painting, the room full of color and scent and this soft, happy quiet.
Gabriel’s scent shifts, deepens. The cedar goes golden and warm. He’s pleased—genuinely—to see this: his pack, and whatever I am, together, making something that looks like home.
I lean toward him without thinking. My body pulls that way, the omega part of me reaching for her match. It never really stops wanting.
Garrett stands in the doorway, watching me. There’s so much warmth in his face it almost hurts. “You’ve got paint on your cheek,” he says, gentle. “You look cute.”
He goes pale. His eyes dart to Miles, panic flooding his face. He complimented me in front of the omega who’s been guarding his pack like a junkyard dog. The room goes still. Even Cyrus tenses.
Miles just stares at Garrett.
Then he slides off Cyrus’s lap and comes over to me. He looks at the paint on my cheek and wipes at it with his thumb. From the grin on his face, I know he’s only making it worse.
“Yeah,” he says. “She does look cute like that.”
Then he kisses me. Hard. Tongue and teeth, his hand tangled in my hair, holding me still. It goes deep, and my whole body answers, heat flooding through me. I don’t hesitate. I want.
The pack is watching. Gabriel in the doorway, pupils blown. Garrett’s lips parted beside him. Cyrus hasn’t moved from the chair, but his eyes are locked on us. The air goes heavy. Alpha pheromones, their scents deepening.
Miles doesn’t stop. His mouth is on me, and I moan into the kiss. My scent spikes, and slick pools instantly. He answers with his own: burnt sugar going dark, the iron edge melting with every stroke of his tongue.
When he finally breaks the kiss, he’s breathing hard. He looks at me, then at Gabriel. His brows furrow.
I wait. His lips meet mine one more time.
Then he crosses the room.
He kisses Gabriel. I can see the effect. Gabriel’s eyes go wide. His hands grip Miles’s waist, pulling him close. He’s tasting me through Miles, the first taste of his scent match. Gabriel groans, deep and needy, and it shudders through the whole room.
I’m drenched. I want them. All of them. I want to be part of whatever this is.
I shouldn’t need this as much as I do. It can only end in heartbreak. But I can’t stop myself. I can’t stop the wanting.
Miles makes a sound—a high, desperate whine. He’s gone, past thinking. Gabriel responds instantly, lifting him so Miles wraps his legs around his waist.
“You need me, baby?” Gabriel murmurs.
Miles nods, flushed and honest. “Please, Alpha.”
“I’ll take care of you.”
They disappear down the hall, into the pack room. The door closes, but the sounds start right away: shuffling, the clink of a belt, Gabriel’s voice deep and urgent.
Now it’s just me, Cyrus, and Garrett in the studio, surrounded by pheromones so thick you could scrape them off the walls. Every nerve in my body is buzzing.
I almost whine. The need rises, omega and helpless, and I bite it back. Hard.
Cyrus and Garrett both look at me. I see the struggle—they want to touch, to come closer—but they belong to Miles first.
“Garrett.” Miles’s voice, rough from the pack room, cuts through everything. “Cyrus come.”
The order is clear. Garrett gives me one last look, full of apology and longing, then heads down the hall. Cyrus pauses at my shoulder. His hand hovers, almost lowering. His fist clenches and he pulls back. Then he’s gone, too.
I’m alone. I think I was almost part of it. But almost never came.
The noise from the pack room is anything but subtle. Groans, the thump of bodies, and over all of it, Miles’s voice, high and then breaking. Gabriel’s orders, Garrett’s softer encouragements, the creak of the bed under the nest.
I go to my room and shut the door. It doesn’t help—the sounds bleed through the walls, and the scent of their sex follows, thick as honey, pressing in from every side, wrapping around me until I can barely breathe.
I lie on my bed. My hand moves between my legs before I can even think to stop it. My body doesn’t care about rules. It heard Miles cry out and wants to be the reason he does it again.
I touch myself to the rhythm of them. Eyes closed. Miles above me, inside me. Gabriel’s mouth on my neck, finally. Garrett steadying my hips. Cyrus behind me, solid and safe.
I come when Miles does. His scream tears through the house and mine follows, muffled in the pillow, loud enough to bleed through.
After, there’s quiet.
I turn to face the wall.
I want what Miles has. Not just the sex, but the after—how they hold him afterward like he belongs there.
Jeremy would give me that. The tenderness, the laughter, the purring, the comfort. He’d make me feel loved, no question.
It should be enough. It should fill the ache.
But when I try to picture it, all I see is Miles. Looking at me through steam and shadows, wanting me. His eyes locking on mine when he’s deep inside me. The almost-glimpse of all of him before he closes off again.
The thought of the Carrs goes nowhere. I can’t hold on to it.
I don’t know what that means.
I don’t know what I want.
I close my eyes and listen to the house settle. I try not to want what’s on the other side of the wall.
I fail.