Chapter 22
Saint
The Jeep rumbles into the garage, echoing off the concrete walls before I cut the engine. I don’t move. My hands stay on the wheel, fingers flexing once before going still. Then I see it.
It wasn’t here this morning. Silas must have had someone bring it over. He’s been with his sister all day, and I know Graham didn’t leave her long enough to go get it. He’s completely whipped. He acted like she hung the fucking moon on day one.
My jaw tightens. I lean back against the seat, staring up at the garage ceiling. My shoulder is sore as hell. I had PT this morning. Three hours of controlled torture disguised as “rehabilitation.”
My therapist said she thinks I’ll be back on the truck soon. I don’t feel ready. My arm is still tender. But anything is better than riding a desk. That’s fucking brutal. There’s only so many reports a man can write before he starts to go a little crazy. Desk jockey is not a job I want. Never will.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. As much as the desk pisses me off, it’s not what’s got me sitting here. No. The pretty little omega is to blame for that.
This morning was a mistake. She walked into that kitchen like she belonged there. My alpha lost his damned mind. He’s as pathetic as Graham.
I close my eyes briefly. My alpha might be worse than Graham. All day, the bastard has pushed back at me. Growling. Insisting I come back here. Touch her. Kiss her. Knot her.
As if.
He would make me lay like a dog by her feet if I so much as gave him an inch. I clear the thought quick. Not happening.
Having an omega is too fucking dangerous. I'd rather walk into a thousand fires than do that. At least fires I understand. At least fires follow rules. They take oxygen, they follow airflow, they don't look at you like you're the only solid thing in the room.
She looked at me like that. Once. For half a second in that clinic room before everything went sideways.
Coward. You won’t even walk into your own house.
I roll my eyes and get out of the car. “Are you happy now?” I grumble under my breath.
The house is quiet when I walk in. Silas is usually in the kitchen by now, chopping vegetables and scowling at me for sneaking peppers and carrots. The kitchen is empty. But the house smells different. Her salty caramel scent. Subtle, but still there
I pause just inside the doorway, listening. Nothing. For a second, I consider heading upstairs to my room. But that puts me one floor closer to the nest.
My alpha perks up at the thought. I shut that down immediately.
“Nope,” I mutter under my breath.
Instead, I turn and head toward the shop. Silas is there. Bent over a workbench, sanding the leg of a table, arms moving back and forth in an angry rhythm that can’t be sustainable. Sweat drips from his temple and leaves a pool on the concrete floor.
He gets into his work. Likes to do things the old-fashioned way as much as possible. For him it’s art, and the prices his stuff fetches prove that others feel the same.
Every piece of furniture we had growing up was second hand.
I doubt my mom paid more than fifty bucks for anything.
It took a while for me to understand how people could justify dropping a hundred thousand on a table and chairs.
I still don’t get it. But I like the house we live in and the fancy Jeep I drive to work, so yeah, a big thanks to the fuck-you money some people spend on Silas’ work.
Silas grunts as he drags the sanding block back and forth over the table’s leg. Yeah. Something’s up.
“There are machines for that,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look at me. “Lines are too delicate to trust with a machine,” he says. “Besides, I like this part.”
I watch him for a second. He doesn’t slow his movements. Doesn’t bother looking at me. He’s worked up about something. I could ask, but, nah. Where’s the fun in that?
“We having supper?” I ask instead.
His jaw tightens but the sanding doesn’t stop. “I haven’t started anything.”
I push off the doorframe, stepping fully into the shop. “I’ll order something,” I say.
He nods once. I let the silence stretch for a second. “I’ll message when it gets here.”
He grunts.
“Don’t be late,” I continue, already turning toward the door. Then, because I’m a dick, and because he would absolutely do this to me, I add, “We eat as a pack.”
I don’t wait for a response. Just walk out, shoulders loose, a satisfied grin pulling at my mouth. Because I know exactly what’s eating at him. And for once, it’s not just me.
I order too much food. Not a little too much. A ridiculous amount.
Taste of India pops up in my recent orders, and I don’t even think about it, I just start adding things.
Two types of naan. Lamb biryani. Chana masala and palak paneer because I have no idea if she’s anti-meat.
Chicken tikka masala because people who don’t know Indian food always think that’s the best dish.
Pakoras. Samosas. Tandoori chicken. I pause, look at the total, and add another order of naan just to be safe.
The food gets here fast. Before I can second-guess the whole thing and eat it alone in my room, I carry the bags in and set everything out across the island. Containers stack up until it looks like I’m feeding a small army.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I use the fancy house monitor system to call everyone into the kitchen. “House,” I say, “announce dinner is ready.”
There’s a soft click. Then a voice echoes through the house, carried from room to room.
I step back, bracing my hands on the counter.
This was a mistake. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.
Like I’m going to sit here and have a normal meal with her across the table.
Like I’m not going to notice every little thing she does.
Like my alpha isn’t already pacing just at the thought of her walking into this room.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. I look up. Graham appears first. Lark is right behind him. They both look rumpled.
I smell it before they even make it halfway across the room. Her caramel and salt, thick in the air, layered with Graham's dark chocolate and hazelnut.
My alpha howls. The sound tears through me.
And me? I’m fucking jealous. Which makes no damn sense. I don’t even want her here. I don’t move. Don’t even say a word. Just watch them walk in like nothing’s wrong.
Silas comes in a second later. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, a few dark strands falling forward again as he scrubs a hand over his beard. He smells better, so he must have showered in the shop bath.
He takes in the spread on the counter, eyes widening just a fraction. Then his gaze flicks toward Graham and Lark. And away. Yeah. He smells it too.
Good.
At least it’s not just me.
We settle around the island. Food gets passed. Plates filled. No one talks. And I’m sitting here wondering why the hell I thought this was a good idea. I can’t relax enough to eat something. How am I going to say anything worth hearing with her sitting three feet away smelling like that?
It’s her that breaks the silence. “I know how you all met,” she says, glancing between us. “Graham told me earlier. But I don’t really know much about… your history.” Her voice is light and curious. Like this is normal. Like we’re normal.
Graham nods once, already halfway through his food. “She knows about me,” he says. “Knows that my parents are… difficult.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I mutter.
Lark smiles a little. “You said they were alpha-holes.”
He shrugs. “Accurate.”
She tilts her head. “Do you see them often?”
“No.” He doesn’t hesitate. “They retired to Italy a few years ago. Signed over my trust when I turned twenty-five and that was effectively the end of it. I hear from them on birthdays. Occasionally Christmas.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He says it like it doesn’t bother him. Maybe it doesn’t. Or maybe he's decided it doesn't matter. Graham has the ability to care about the things that are important to him and forget the rest.
Silas sets his fork down. “You met my pops,” he says, looking at her.
She brightens. “I did. I liked him.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Most people do.” He leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders. “My mom’s Karen.”
Lark’s lips twitch. “Karen Caron?”
Silas groans. “Yeah. I know.”
I huff a laugh. Can’t help it.
She glances at me. I look away.
“My sister Lucy’s living at home right now,” Silas continues. “Just until she’s back to full health.”
Lark’s smile softens immediately. “How was she today?”
He shrugs. “It was a rough day, but she’s tough.”
Then, as though just remembering something: “I have two more fathers. Al, I call him dad, owns a construction company and is the one who taught me to make furniture.” He pauses, a small smirk pulling at his mouth. “And then there’s Daniel. We all just call him by his name.”
“Why?” Lark asks.
“If you meet him,” Silas says, “you’ll understand.”
Yeah, she will. Unless it’s with his omega, Daniel Caron is not the warm, fuzzy type.
“Do they live nearby?” she asks.
“Yeah,” Silas says. “Just down the road. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll take you.” He hesitates for half a second. “I just thought it would be best to wait until…”
He doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t have to.
Bonded.
The word drops into my gut and stays.
I focus on my food. Trying to forget I ever thought that word. To pretend like I’m not here. It doesn’t work.
“I know a little about your family,” she says gently.
My grip tightens around my fork. Here we go.
“But… what was she like?” she asks softly. “Your mom, I mean.”
Something snags in my throat. Fuck. I’m not going to cry around the kitchen island.
I cough. Buying myself a second. “She was my mom,” I say, shrugging like it doesn’t matter. “Not much else to say.”
That’s not true. There’s a lot to say. She worked doubles so I could play sports. She learned to cook every cuisine because I got bored of the same meals. She drove four hours round trip to every away game until I told her it was too far.
She went anyway.
I keep my eyes on my plate. “I didn’t have it like these two,” I add, nodding toward Graham and Silas. “Money was tight. School had to waive my sports fees half the time.”
No trust fund. No safety net. No backup plan. Just me and her.
I keep my eyes on my plate. “Worked out fine.”
I can feel her watching me. She wants to ask more. She doesn’t, though.
Good.
Graham shifts the attention away before it lingers too long. “What about your family?” he asks her.
She brightens again. “My parents had a smaller pack than Silas’s,” she says. “My mom, Vivian, was the omega. They were scent-sensitive, like us. Moved in together the first day they met.”
Silas huffs a quiet laugh. “That tracks.”
“My dad and Mama G, Gisele, were both alphas. They ran a shrimp import business.”
“Shrimp?” Graham makes a gagging face. He hates them so much that Silas and I had to promise to never eat them when he was around.
Lark chuckles. “Not my favorite either. I ate so many as a kid, I can hardly stand them now.”
Graham nods like that was the only acceptable response she could have made.
“But they were good to you?” Silas prods.
“The best,” she replies simply. “I had the perfect childhood.”
I’m envious of the warmth in her voice.
Silas leans forward slightly. “How did they pass?”
The warmth shifts. “Car accident,” she says. “They came to visit me for parent’s weekend when I was in college. On their way home…”
Her scent changes. It’s all burned sugar now. My alpha bristles immediately. He doesn’t like that she’s hurting. Neither do I.
She wipes at her eye quickly, like she doesn’t want to make it a thing. I stare at my plate. This is why I didn’t want to do this.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She’s smiling awkwardly at each of us. Tears still filling her eyes. “It took a while, but I can usually talk about them with happiness instead of getting all emo. It’s just—”
Graham takes her hand in his. “Just what, beautiful?”
She smiles at him. A real one this time. Then she looks back at Silas and then me.
“It’s just that they would have loved this for me. For us. To know that I found my scent-sensitive pack just like they did.”
Her eyes linger on mine. Daring me to deny it.
My jaw tightens. I don’t look away. And that’s my mistake. Because something in my chest shifts when I stare into her golden, hazel eyes, and my alpha leans into it like she’s his fucking lifeline. Like she’s his.
Like she’s mine.
I shut that down hard and drop my eyes back to my plate.
People don’t stay. That’s the truth of it. No matter how right something feels. On the other side of it, someone’s always left hurting and hollow. I’ve seen it too many times.