Chapter 3 #2
The unfairness crashes over me so hard I actually sway.
"That's—" My voice breaks. "That's not— You can't—"
"I can," he says. "I just did."
Tears sting my eyes. The restrictions feel like a cage slamming shut. No walks to the bakery with Ragon. No slipping out to the corner store with Eli when the walls close in. No venting to Drake in the kitchen at midnight where the others can't hear.
Eli's voice comes from the doorway, careful and diplomatic: "Ragon, that may be—"
"She needs structure," Ragon says, not looking at him, blue eyes still locked on me. "Her instincts are flailing. You know I'm right."
He is right. That's the worst part. My instincts latch onto the boundaries even as my brain screams. Contained. Defined. Protected.
Owned.
It makes me want to bite him.
"You're punishing me for being hurt," I say, voice shaking. "You're punishing me for not swallowing it down and being grateful you're not dropping me at the registry doorstep tonight."
His scent softens a fraction. "I'm correcting behavior that will hurt this pack. That includes you. You don't get to rip everything apart just because you're terrified we'll do the same."
Tears spill down my cheeks. I hate that he can see them.
"This is bullshit," I whisper.
Drake takes a step forward from the hallway, his athletic frame filling the doorway. "Ragon, maybe we can just—"
"Drake," Ragon says sharply. "Stand down."
Drake stops like he hit an invisible wall.
The alpha order in Ragon's tone is so strong it makes my knees go weak.
My throat makes a sound I don't intend—a high, soft, miserable keen that feels ripped from somewhere deep in my chest.
An omega sound.
All three alphas freeze.
Shame floods me so fast I choke on it. I clap a hand over my mouth, trying to swallow it back.
I hate that I made that noise. Hate that my body betrayed me. Hate that every instinct I have still wants to curl into the very people who are making me feel like this.
Ragon's expression flickers. Something in those blue eyes aches. For a heartbeat, his hand lifts, like he's going to touch me, soothe me, rub the back of my neck the way he does when I'm sick.
He drops it again.
"This isn't about hurting you," he says, his voice gentler now, but the steel's still there. "It's about stopping you from hurting yourself by sabotaging everything."
"Don't spin this like you're doing me a favor," I croak.
Eli steps closer, hands open and placating. "Vee, let's take a break, okay? Go get some water. Breathe."
"I don't want water," I snap.
"What do you want?" Eli asks, green eyes searching my face behind his glasses.
I want my old life back. I want to wake up and find out today is some nightmare my instincts conjured up to punish me for being happy. I want the version of this conversation where they said we choose you anyway and meant it.
"I want not this," I whisper.
Eli’s lip turn down even further.
Ragon drags a hand down his face. "You can hate me. Plenty of people do. But you will follow pack rules."
I bare my teeth in a humorless smile. "Yes, Alpha."
The word comes out dripping with sarcasm, not respect.
His eyes flash. There's a beat where I think he might actually roar. Then he exhales through his nose, short and sharp, like he's forcing himself to swallow back pure dominance.
"We're done here," Ragon says. "Drake, Eli—finish the room. Vee, go to your nest. Cool down."
"I'm not five," I mutter.
"Then stop acting like it," he replies.
The words slice clean.
Fine. If they want me out of the way, I'll get out.
I spin on my heel and stalk down the hall, vision blurring. Once I'm in my room, I slam the door harder than necessary, even though the house doesn't deserve it.
My nest smells like fresh fabric and lingering tears from last night. I throw myself into it and bury my face in the new rose-colored blanket, letting the sobs I fought back in the other room finally break free.
The sorrowful omega sound happens again, that soft, keening whine that feels like surrender and grief mixed together.
I hate it. I can't stop it.
It takes a long time for the shaking to stop.
***
I don't know how much time passes before there's a soft knock at my door.
"Vee?" Eli's voice, calm and steady. "Can I come in?"
I'm tempted to say no. To tell him to go away, that I'm busy being punished and sulking. But my throat is raw and my head hurts and his scent is already bleeding under the door, calming.
"Yeah," I mumble.
He slips in, closing the door quietly behind him.
He's shed his hoodie and his button-down sleeves are rolled precisely to his elbows, exposing those large forearms. His short blond hair falls in that deliberate way it always does, not a strand out of place even after the work he's been doing.
Green eyes track my every movement behind his glasses.
There's a faint smudge of dust on his forearm—evidence he's been working in that room.
Marie's room.
"How are you feeling?" Eli asks, sitting on the edge of the nest with careful precision.
"Like I'm grounded," I say bitterly. "How are you?"
"Tired," he admits. "And worried."
"About her?" I can't keep the bite out of my tone.
"About you," Eli says firmly.
I look away.
He sighs. "Ragon shouldn't have dropped those restrictions on you in the middle of everything."
"Oh, but you agree with them," I say.
He hesitates. "I agree you needed some boundaries. I don't love the timing or the delivery."
"That's very diplomatic of you."
"I didn't come in here to defend him," Eli says. "I came to check on you. And to ask if you might consider helping anyway."
I stare at him. "With what?"
"The room," he says. "Just a little. You don't have to like her to make sure she has a decent blanket and a lamp that won't give her a headache."
"Wow," I say. "Appealing to my better nature. Bold move, doctor."
His lips twitch. "It's in there somewhere. Under all the justified rage."
I scowl at the blanket. "I don't want to make her comfortable. I want her to be so uncomfortable that she leaves."
"I know," Eli says. "But you'd want someone to do it for you, if you were walking into a new pack house scared out of your mind."
He's right. That's what makes me angrier.
"Stop being reasonable," I grumble.
"I can't. It's in the contract."
I let out a choked laugh despite myself.
Eli takes advantage of the tiny crack. "Come with me. Just for a few minutes. Pick a pillow. Or a mug. You don't even have to stay in the room. Just participate."
I groan into the blanket. "If I say no, what happens? Does Ragon add another day to my sentence?"
"He doesn't know I'm in here," Eli says. "This is between you and me."
I peek up at him. "Is this you helping me be a good omega?"
"This is me helping you not regret the things you do while you're hurt," he says.
Annoyingly fair.
"Fine," I mutter, throwing the blanket off. "But if I see one thing in there that looks like a spa brochure, I'm leaving."
Eli smiles, small and genuine. "Deal."
I follow him down the hall, every step heavier than it should be. The door to the spare room is open now. The mattress is on a simple frame, dressed in basic sheets. The dresser's been wiped down. The window's open a crack, letting in the faint scent of cut grass and passing cars.
There are boxes on the floor—one with folded blankets, one with bathroom stuff, one with random things Drake clearly thought "looked omega-ish."
"I thought you were only coming in here with supervision," Drake says from the corner, where he's trying to hang a curtain rod and failing spectacularly. His voice is wary, but his scent brightens just a little when he sees me, hazel eyes hopeful.
"Eli is supervising," I say. "Apparently he's my emotional parole officer."
Drake snorts. "Makes sense."
Ragon is there too, of course. He's standing by the closet, adjusting the shelves inside with that same controlled precision. His eyes flick to me briefly, then back to his task.
"Welcome back," Ragon says. Neutral. Careful.
I bite back three different sharp responses. "Eli said there were pillows."
"In the box by the bed," Eli says, nudging it with his foot.
I kneel beside it and flip the flaps open. Inside are a mix of things we bought earlier in the week—before Ragon announced my punishment—plus a few that must have been added since.
There's a pale blue throw pillow with stitched stars, a soft gray one, a ridiculous fuzzy heart-shaped one I know Drake picked.
"What do you think?" Eli asks.
"I think she's going to suffocate under all of these," I mutter, but my hands are already sifting through them, testing texture, weight, give.
Instinct is instinct. Another omega is coming into this space, whether I want her or not. If her nest is wrong, if her things are harsh or scratchy or cold, my own body rebels at the idea.
"Not this one," I say, tossing aside a pillow with sequins. "That's a crime against skin."
Drake makes a wounded noise. "I thought it was pretty."
"You also thought flamingos are the alpha of birds," I say. "Your taste is suspect."
Drake looks relieved anyway, that easy smile breaking through. "Nice to have you back, sassy edition."
Ragon watches us from the closet, saying nothing. His scent has eased a little. Not soft, exactly, but less razor-edged.
I choose a simple combination: the blue pillow for visual comfort, the gray for actual head support, the fuzzy heart against the wall where it's less likely to annoy anyone's face.
Eli nods approval like we're doing rounds on a patient. "Looks good."
"Stop grading my nesting choices," I say, but there's no real heat in it.
Drake finally gives up on the curtain rod and calls over his shoulder: "Ragon, can you help with this? I think I'm doing it backwards."
Ragon crosses the room in a few long strides. They bicker quietly about brackets and studs and measuring twice, Drake's athletic frame dwarfed slightly by Ragon's muscular build.
I stand back and look at the room, arms crossed.
It's nice.