Chapter Twenty-Six
Juliet
Two months later.
I love Sundays.
Everyone works the bakery on Sundays.
Vitaly, Orion, and Elliot rule the kitchen like it’s a war zone made of butter.
Noah pulls lattes with little hearts in the foam and helps me man the counter.
Callum busses tables with Reid.
Those two are always five seconds from a food fight.
“Reid’s having another fucking snack break,” Callum groans as he pulls me in for a kiss.
“Vitaly made fresh apple shit again,” Reid says, unapologetic.
Honestly?
Fair.
“Sharlotka,” Elliot calls, correcting him.
“Apple cake,” Reid fires back with zero remorse.
“It’s apple cake, lis,” Vitaly teases.
“Damn, sexy talk before the church crowd?” Orion slides behind me and pops a bite of ptichye moloko between my lips.
I moan.
He smirks like he invented sugar.
“You gonna feed me, big guy?” Callum leans over the counter and opens his mouth. “My kartoshka done?”
I laugh, because not even a whole damn commercial kitchen could keep up with their appetites.
And then the bell rings.
We all pretend we’re not a single breath away from turning the pastries into foreplay.
But I’m not laughing anymore.
Because I see him.
Peter.
The boy I used to fantasize would look at me.
The boy I once thought I loved.
Quietly. Invisibly. Painfully.
There’s a woman on his arm. Not the sweet ex he used to bring around.
This one’s stiff, academic. The librarian, I think. She gives me a glare that says lower your voice, trash, like it’s a habit.
Noah shifts beside me.
Peter’s gaze flicks over the room. Lingers a beat too long on Reid.
“Officer Calloway,” he says.
Reid nods, polite but unreadable.
Then Peter glances at the specials board.
His eyes hit mine.
And slide right off.
Nothing.
No flicker of recognition.
No oh, you’re that girl.
Not even a weren’t you…?
Just blank.
Like I’m a stranger.
Like I was never the girl who changed herself for a boy who never looked back.
“Two vatrushka. No raisins. And a sourdough spelt baton,” he says.
He touches the woman’s waist like that’s the whole conversation.
She has no voice.
“To go?” I ask.
My voice isn’t small.
I don’t do small anymore.
“Yes.”
Noah bags it in silence.
When the bell rings again and they’re gone, I’m already bracing for it.
And still, I’m not ready for the way they close in.
“Who was that?” Noah asks. “Do we need another notebook?”
“We’ll need a wing,” Elliot says.
“Madness? Really?” Callum leans in. “That man gives off real ‘comes too early and apologizes by ghosting’ energy.”
“No shit. I’m not gonna deny you a whim, babe,” Orion adds, teeth brushing my ear. “But… ew.”
“I second that,” Vitaly says. “Gadkiy.”
Then Reid’s voice cuts through, quieter. Sharper. “He hurt you.”
The others freeze.
Callum’s already moving toward the door.
“Stop.” My voice cracks the air.
Callum halts. “The motherfucker hurt you?”
“No,” I say. “Not today.”
Orion’s by the door now. “The fuck does that mean?”
“Easy, boys,” Elliot says, but there’s tension in his jaw. “Baby doll?”
Noah’s arms are already around me.
Reid doesn’t move. Just watches.
Sharp cop eyes. Heart breaking behind them.
“What did he do?”
“Nothing,” I say. “He’s never seen me. That’s the worst of it. He never saw me. And a long, long time ago… that was enough to destroy me.”
They’re silent. Listening.
“I gave him the power to make me smaller,” I whisper. “I let him shrink me. Let the idea of him write over me. And it hurt.”
Reid steps in close. Cups my chin. Makes sure I’m looking at him when I say it. “And now?”
“No one has that power now,” I breathe.
He nods once. “Damn right.”
Then he kisses me.
And the others follow.
Lips on cheeks.
Mouths on skin.
Arms wrapping around me.
They don’t try to fix me.
They don’t ask me to be sweet.
They love the madness.
They feed it.
And that version of me I used to water down?
Yeah. She’s dead.
No pink bat. No funeral. No loss.
I pull back from their embrace just enough to see them all.
Orion’s possessive grip. Callum’s feral grin. Noah’s soft devotion. Elliot’s steady certainty. Reid’s sharp, protective focus. Vitaly’s reverent warmth.
This is my pack. This is my home.
This is the version of me that required six men to love and one woman to fully claim.
I don’t apologize for any of it.
“Love you, assholes,” I say.
“Love you, madness,” they echo back.
And then the Sunday rush starts.
The coffee pulls. The pastries fly. The bakery hums.
Peter might come back.
Because we’re the best goddamn bakery in the state.
But I won’t notice.
I’ll be too busy being everything he couldn’t see.
And everything they can’t look away from.
Living.
Loud.
Loved.
Perfect.