Chapter Fifteen – How Can This Be Wrong?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
How Can This Be Wrong?
J o has been avoiding her parents’ calls ever since she met us, and been evasive the few times she actually talks to them. I see the tension build in her face every time they ring or text, getting worse with each passing week.
We don’t bring it up much. She already has enough to deal with at work, and the last thing we want is for her to worry about family troubles too. And there’s guilt, because we’re the reason for the rift. On top of that, we just don’t know how to help. None of us has any experience with parents.
On Saturday, she has the day off, so we spend it together.
It’s calm, fun, easy. We sleep in until ten.
We’ve finally learned how to make French toast for her, and she eats so many at breakfast she can’t even manage lunch.
In the afternoon, we finally convince her to watch one of our favorite movies.
She’s curled up in my lap, laughing at the dumbest scenes, when her phone rings.
Her smile fades in an instant, replaced by that familiar worry, but this time, she stands up quietly and goes upstairs to take the call. My brothers and I stay where we are, anxious, but trying not to smother her. We give her space.
She’s gone for over two hours, and the longer she’s upstairs, the sharper her scent gets, acidic and sour, hanging heavy in the air.
When she finally comes back down, her eyes are red and swollen. Again.
I stand to hug her, but when I reach out, she steps back.
It’s the first time she’s ever rejected my touch.
I freeze, then back off. But she changes her mind and collapses into me, breaking down in my arms. The low hum rises in my chest before I even think about it. Jay and Shane picking up quickly.
Just like all the other times, we don’t talk. We don’t try to stop the tears. We just hum, hold her, and let her cry.
She doesn’t say a word for the rest of the day, and goes to lie down in the nest before the sun even sets. We let her rest. At least she’s sleeping.
The next morning, over breakfast, she finally tells us what happened. “The second I said ‘Matching Center,’ my father started screaming,” she says.
Her eyes are dry, but her voice is tight and strained.
“My mother ended up taking the phone, and she was dead silent the whole time I told her about us. And when I finished, I thought she would scream too, but she didn’t.
She just kept saying that my father would be so disappointed, again and again and again.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said I was sorry… I know I shouldn’t have said that.”
She pauses to take a sip of her orange juice, the glass shaking a little as she lifts it to her mouth.
“I heard her telling my father I had been bitten by an entire pack, and I think he threw something or punched a wall. I don’t know.
But the sound was really scary. He’s usually so calm; before that, I couldn’t even imagine him doing something like that.
Then he took the phone and said I’m not the person he thought I was, and that I’m not his daughter. ”
She’s so hurt I can feel it in my chest, pressing down until I can barely breathe.
I want to fix it. Say something. Do something. But I don’t know how.
Jay rests his forearms on the table, his eyes on her. After a long silence, he finally speaks. “Maybe this just means you’re finally the person you want to be, instead of the version he tried to shape you into.”
“That’s not something to be ashamed of,” he adds. “That’s something to be proud of.”
I hate her parents without even knowing them.
That night, when we go to the nest, she cries.
We hold her and hum for her again while she sobs.
None of us speaks for over an hour. When she finally does, her voice cracks.
“You know what the worst part is?” she whispers.
“I feel guilty, like they’re right. Like our life is something wrong.
Something dirty. And sooner or later, I’ll be punished for it. ”
It stings, but I understand.
From what she’s told us about her family, her father always wanted her to pretend she was human.
Growing up like that, it was never easy for her to accept who she really is.
The fact that she embraced our bond the moment she saw us proves she’s strong; she had to overcome everything she believed for most of her life to do it.
Shane gently takes her from Jay’s arms and turns her to face him.
“How can this be wrong, Jo?” he asks softly. “Our love for you makes us happy. Makes us whole. And I think it makes you happy and whole too.”
It’s the first time any of us says love out loud. I think it startles her, her breath catching a little and her dark eyes going wide. “You’re right,” she says, burying her face in his neck. “How can it be wrong if we were meant to be together?”
She doesn’t mention her parents for the rest of the week, and we don’t push. She tries to act normal, but there’s a shadow behind her eyes and a permanent lemon note in her scent.
On Thursday, over dinner, she brings up the barbecue: she’s decided to do it this Sunday. She tries so hard to smile, to keep going, but we can all see how broken she is.
Friday morning, I can’t focus on the briefing. All I can think about is her. She’s already carrying so much; I know she’s close to her breaking point. I just keep hoping no one at the hospital pushes her any further, because one more thing might be too much.
I shake my head, trying to keep my mind on Sergeant Wilsbone. My brothers must sense my agitation, because the air shifts, filled with soothing pheromones.
I breathe them in and let the edge soften.
Wilsbone keeps talking, tapping a laser pointer against a satellite image projected on the wall. A small single-story house on the corner of a residential block, with a chain-link fence and a patchy yard.
“Target’s name is Malcom Greenes. Felon out on parole.
Suspected in at least two recent gun transfers.
The last warrant was for possession with intent to distribute.
He’s been off the radar for weeks, but a neighbor called in last night.
Said she saw lights flickering, heard yelling, maybe a gunshot.
The house has a standard three-room layout. No second floor. No basement.”
It sounds routine.
Fontes leads Entry Team One with Jay, Suttas, and Krieger. Shane and I are with Entry Two at the rear, along with Beckett and Rivas. The perimeter team is already on site, staged around the block to cut off escape routes.
“Comms stay open,” Fontes says. “Don’t break formation. We go in quiet, standard pincer. No cowboys.”
We roll out in two black Tahoes. Half an hour later, we park two blocks away from the target address, behind an overgrown lot. The rest we do on foot.
The place comes into view: small, with paint peeling from the siding. Entry One move up along the left side, cutting across a neighbor’s yard to reach the front. Shane and I follow Rivas through a narrow alley toward the back, Beckett on our heels.
Jay’s voice crackles through the comm. “Team One in position.”
We move slower now, with guns up. Patchy grass overgrows the cramped backyard. There’s a rusted grill near the steps and a broken folding chair tipped on its side. The rear door is wooden, painted green, cracked and splintered around the lock, like it’s been forced open more than once.
Rivas raises a hand, and we stop.
Then it starts.
First, it’s just a low growl. Then a bark. But it builds fast, coming from the other side of the house. I can hear the dog’s claws scrambling against the floor, hurling itself toward the front door like it wants to take it down, barking like crazy.
In the middle of it, I hear another movement. I don’t know if the humans can hear it, but it is definitely the sound of human steps, rushed and fast.
Jay’s voice comes through the comms again: “Target’s moving. Surprise is gone.”
Fontes responds quickly. “Front and rear units, fall back to cover. Perimeter, hold your positions and cover all exits. We’re switching to containment.”
We back off the rear steps, and I catch sight of Jay’s team doing the same up front, moving laterally along the fence line.
But it’s too late.
A window by the porch explodes open, gunfire ripping through the air. Short, fast bursts aimed low and tight, right where Jay had been seconds ago.
I hear shouting on the comms, someone yelling, “Shooter! Window right!”
Jay’s team scrambles for cover, ducking low behind a trash bin and the corner of the porch.
I can’t see him clearly, just motion, flashes, the glint of his rifle.
My pulse spikes, like it always does when one of us is in the line of fire, but this isn't our first time, and Jay’s fast and smart, so Shane and I stay focused on getting to cover.
We move toward the neighbor’s yard, aiming for the low cinderblock wall along the property line. It’s enough to shield us while keeping eyes on the house.
But then, another window lights up. On the opposite side of the house, a second shooter opens fire from a side room. Wood splinters fly and bullets tear into the siding.
Fuck.
The intel was wrong. There’s more than one motherfucker inside.
We keep moving toward the neighboring yard, but then I see Jay. He’s crouched behind a porch post, completely pinned down. With gunfire coming from both sides of the house, he has nowhere to run, no good cover, nothing but timing and luck keeping him alive.
Fontes is right beside him, saying something on the comms, but I don’t care about orders or what else he’s trying to say. The second I see my brother that close to taking a bullet, my mind blanks.
I lock eyes with Shane, just for one second, then we move.
Rivas tries to grab my arm but misses. Beckett says something, but it doesn’t matter.