Chapter 4
Consciousness comes slowly, carrying with it the sweet ache of being thoroughly wanted.
Not hurt. Not damaged. Just that deep, everywhere soreness that says someone reminded me exactly how much they needed me. Twice, if memory serves—Eli's knot locking us together in the dark while I shook apart in his arms.
For a few precious seconds, I exist in that hazy space between sleep and waking where nothing else matters. No Marie down the hall. No reshuffled future. No scent match waiting to eclipse me.
Just warmth at my back and an arm around my waist, breath slow and even against my neck.
I let myself float.
His scent wraps around me—tea and linen and that quiet sweetness that's always meant safety. My body, traitorous thing, melts into him the way it always does, muscles unknotting despite the pleasant ache in my thighs.
We didn't plan what happened last night. Or maybe we did. Maybe we were already halfway there the moment he climbed into my nest to hold me while I fell apart.
It wasn't gentle, what we did. But it wasn't rough either. Desperate, maybe. A wordless argument against the idea that I'm already half-replaced. Stubborn, physical proof that someone here still wants me badly enough to forget how to breathe.
I'm not naive enough to read promises into sex. Not anymore. But I'm petty enough to cling to the fact that when everything felt like it was crumbling, Eli chose my bed.
He's warm. Heavy. Real.
I shift slightly and a muscle protests. "Ow."
"Sorry," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. His arm tightens briefly before loosening. "Did I squish you?"
"Just reminding me I have thighs."
A soft laugh tickles my neck. "I like your thighs."
Heat floods my cheeks. My instincts preen, rolling in the praise like cats in sunshine.
I roll enough to see his face. His blond hair is a disaster, flattened on one side where he slept on it. His eyes are puffy, the lines at the corners softened.
He looks younger like this. Less composed doctor, more the man who once tripped over his own feet trying to carry every grocery bag at once just because I mentioned not wanting to make two trips.
"You stayed."
"I said I would."
Alphas don't always do what they say. I know that too well. It still means something when one of mine does.
"Thank you," I murmur. "For last night."
His gaze searches my face. "For the moral support, the cuddling, or the other thing?"
"All of the above."
He brushes knuckles along my jaw. "You're not regretting it?"
"No." Maybe too quick. "No, I needed to feel like I still mattered. Like I wasn't charity."
"Hey." His hand cups my cheek now, warm and solid. "You are never charity. I didn't climb into this nest out of pity."
"What did you climb in for, then?"
His eyes shutter for a heartbeat. "Because I love you. And you were hurting. And I wanted you, and I wanted to be wanted by you. That's not complicated in my head. The rest of it is."
My throat tightens. "You can't say things like that when you're setting up someone else's room down the hall."
His mouth twists. "I can't stop loving you just because the universe threw a new variable at us."
The words land somewhere deep and fragile. I want to believe them. I do. But belief has sharp edges now.
"Come on," he says, dropping his hand. "If we don't get up, Drake will eat cereal for breakfast and claim he 'forgot' there's food in the house."
"I should cook. Before she tries to take over the kitchen."
His brows lift. "She doesn't cook."
"She will," I mutter. "They always do."
He sighs but doesn't argue.
I throw the blanket back and the cool air hits bare skin, making me shiver. "Turn around."
He obliges without protest, scooting to the nest's edge while I pull on leggings and an oversized shirt.
Everything feels simultaneously too big and too small.
When I catch myself in the mirror—tangled blonde hair, swollen lips, faint marks decorating my neck and chest—a petty surge of satisfaction warms my belly.
I look claimed, even if I'm not on paper.
Even if the ink is being saved for someone else.
I hope she sees.
The house is quieter than expected when we emerge. No clanking dishes, no laughter, no soft newcomer voice.
We pass her door on the way out of my room. Closed. The faintest hint of that sweet, floral scent seeps through—sugar and jasmine pressed against wood.
My own scent flares, staking what territory it can.
In the kitchen, the counters are mostly clear except for an abandoned cereal box on the island, bowl and spoon sitting uselessly beside it.
"Called it," Eli says under his breath.
I roll my eyes but my hands are already moving—stove on, eggs out, bacon unwrapped, bread for toast. Cooking grounds me. Steps, measurements, predictable transformations from raw to finished. Follow instructions and something good happens. Unlike everything else in my life.
By the time bacon starts sizzling, the smell fills the house like a summons.
Drake appears first, hair damp from a quick shower, t-shirt half-tucked into jeans. He stops in the doorway, inhaling dramatically.
"Is that bacon?"
"No, it's performance art. Very avant-garde."
He grins, tension easing from his shoulders. "You're my favorite person."
"That's because I feed you."
"It's at least sixty percent of the reason."
Eli moves around me like always, grabbing plates, slipping into our usual rhythm. Me at the stove, him at the counter, Drake hovering uselessly until we shoo him to the table.
For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Then Ragon walks in.
His presence changes the air like it always does—today there's an extra charge under it, crackling like live wire.
"Smells good."
"Thanks," I mumble.
His gaze flicks over me in that assessing way—Are you okay? Breaking again? About to bite someone?—then moves on. "I'll get Marie."
My stomach clenches. "She can smell food. If she's hungry, she'll come."
Eli makes a soft warning sound in his throat.
Ragon's blue eyes meet mine. Not hard, not soft. Measuring. "We invited her. We meet our guests at the door."
"She's more than a guest."
"I'm aware. I still have manners."
He leaves before I can craft a retort sharp enough to satisfy the gnawing inside me.
Drake fiddles with the salt shaker. I cut him off before he can start. "Don't. Just don't."
He sighs and sits.
By the time the last toast pops up, I hear footsteps. Two sets. Ragon's heavy, measured stride and a lighter one, hesitant.
Marie enters the kitchen like she's stepping into sacred space.
Her dark hair falls in glossy waves over her shoulders today. She's wearing a soft sweater and jeans, clothes that look new but not expensive. Her hands twist together as she hesitates in the doorway.
That scent hits me again—sweet, creamy, edged with nervousness.
"Morning."
Her eyes do a circuit of the room like she's taking inventory. Ragon near the door. Drake at the table. Eli at the counter. Then me at the stove.
Her gaze lingers on me a beat longer than the others before sliding away.
"Morning," Drake chirps, over-bright. "Breakfast. You're in for a treat."
"Oh. That's nice."
I can't tell if she means it.
Ragon pulls out a chair for her—next to Drake, across from his usual spot. Eli and I plate everything up: eggs, bacon, toast, a little bowl of fruit.
I set her plate down maybe harder than necessary. "There. Basic pack breakfast. We can add a halo later if it's not up to miracle standards."
Eli's hand brushes my back in silent warning. Drake's mouth tightens. Marie blinks, clearly unsure if I'm joking.
"I'm not a miracle."
"Give it time."
Ragon's voice drops to that low warning register as he murmurs something unintelligible .
I swallow the next comment and retreat to my chair, dropping into it with more force than needed.
Eli sits close enough our shoulders touch.
Ragon takes the head of the table, Drake on his right, Marie on his left.
The seating chart of a new world I don't recognize.
"Eat," Ragon says, like we need instruction.
I dig into eggs mostly to occupy my hands. The food tastes fine—it always does. My stomach is too knotted to care.
Across from me, Marie picks up her fork delicately. She prods the eggs, takes a small bite, reaches for toast. Nibbles the corner, chews, swallows.
Then puts it down and reaches for fruit instead.
"You don't like it?" Drake tries to keep his tone light.
She flushes. "It's not that. I'm just not used to this kind of breakfast."
"'This kind'?" I echo.
She glances at me, then back at her plate. "We usually had something simpler. Oatmeal. Maybe toast with jam. This is rich."
Rich. Like indulgent. Like too much.
My hackles rise. "Sorry my cooking is too complicated for your delicate system."
"That's not what she meant," Eli murmurs.
She shakes her head quickly. "No, I just— It's really good. I'm just not hungry after everything yesterday. New place, new people, long drive..."
"You mean new alphas," I say. "Say it. We're all thinking it."
Her shoulders tense. "I was trying to be polite."
"Oh, I wouldn't want to interfere with your politeness. By all means, pick at the food I spent an hour making."
Drake winces but doesn't get a word out before Marie speaks.
"It's not about the food. I'm just nervous."
"Right. So is everyone else. You think being the old news omega in this situation is a spa day?"
Ragon's tone drops dangerously. "Enough."
"Hey, you're the one who wanted us all to bond. This is me bonding."
He gives me a look that promises consequences later. The threat skitters across my nerves, making my instincts jitter.
"Thank you for cooking," Marie says quietly. "Truly. It smells wonderful. I just might need a few days to eat normally."
Reasonable explanation. Does nothing to soothe the sting.
I stab my bacon. "Do whatever you want."
The rest of the meal is stilted small talk punctuated by my seething silence.