Chapter 6
It starts with a schedule.
Not a big one. Not a spreadsheet or color-coded calendar on the fridge. Just a sheet of notebook paper on the kitchen table one morning, Ragon's blocky handwriting across the top: SLEEP ROTATION.
I stand there in my pajama shorts and hoodie, hair a mess, clutching my coffee mug, and stare at it like it's a notice of eviction.
"Subtle."
Drake, who's half-bent into the fridge, straightens up with orange juice in hand. "You saw it."
"Hard to miss." I read it again.
Mon: Vee – Drake; Marie – Ragon/Eli
Tue: Vee – Eli; Marie – Drake/Ragon
Wed: Vee – Ragon/Drake; Marie – Eli
Thu: Vee – Eli/Ragon; Marie – Drake
Fri: Vee – Drake/Eli; Marie – Ragon
Sat/Sun: flexible - at least one alpha with each omega
The letters blur for a second.
"We had a system."
Eli sits at the table, nursing his tea like it's an IV drip. His blond curls are damp from a shower. He doesn't look surprised by the paper.
"We had chaos," Ragon corrects, coming in from the hall. He's in sweatpants and a black t-shirt, dark hair pulled back in that tight man bun that makes his cheekbones look sharper, tattoos visible down his forearms. "This is structure."
"Our old chaos worked. We all piled into my nest, then whoever fell asleep where they were supposed to was the winner. It was like musical chairs but with more snoring."
"It worked when there were four of us and one nest," he says. "There are five now, and two nests. We need to make sure everyone gets what they need."
My grip tightens on my mug. "So you're just... assigning us."
"I'm making sure neither of you feels left out," he says. "Every night, each omega has at least one alpha. No one sleeps alone unless they choose to."
Drake pours juice. "And hopefully," he says, a little too brightly, "we're working toward all of us pack-piling into one nest eventually. Like the good old days but... bigger."
I scoff. "Right. Because that'll happen."
"Could happen," he says, but even he doesn't sound convinced.
Marie walks in then, rubbing at one eye, her dark hair braided over one shoulder. She's wearing leggings and a long t-shirt that falls mid-thigh. Her scent—jasmine and cream—hits me freshly washed and too bright for my current mood.
"What's this?" she asks, peering at the paper.
"Sleep schedule," Drake says, handing her a glass of juice. His fingers brush hers; he smiles. "Project: Everyone Gets Taken Care Of."
She reads the list, cheeks flushing. "Oh. I didn't know we were organizing that."
"It's not a punishment," Eli says gently. "It's so no one gets accidentally neglected."
"So we can be intentional," Ragon adds.
I don't miss the way Marie's eyes flick to me, like she's checking to see if I'm about to explode.
I could.
Instead, I swallow the lump in my throat and stare at the rotation. Monday I get Drake alone while she gets Ragon and Eli. Tuesday I get Eli while she gets Drake and Ragon.
"It's very fair," I say flatly. "Very equitable. Did you use a spreadsheet to calculate who gets what?"
Ragon's jaw tightens. "I made sure neither of you would feel abandoned."
"How thoughtful. I didn't get a vote."
"You get veto power," Ragon says. "If something isn't working, you say so. But we needed something to start from."
My pulse bangs in my ears. "And what if I veto all of it?"
His eyes hold mine. "Then we try something else. But this is fair. Every night, you both have someone. No one is left out."
"Except it's not the same, is it?" I say quietly. "Some nights I get one. Some nights she gets two. It's not actually equal."
"It rotates," Eli says gently. "By the end of the week, it balances."
"Math," I say. "How romantic."
Drake opens his mouth like he wants to joke back, then closes it again.
Ragon's jaw ticks. "Verena."
"Oh, don't pull my full name out. We just woke up."
"This is not a punishment. Do not treat it like one."
"I feel like it is."
His eyes darken. "Feelings are not facts."
"Thanks, therapist. Your bedside manner needs work."
I take my coffee and stalk out of the room before he can turn the tone of his voice into that quiet, heavy dominance that makes my instincts roll over even when I don't want them to.
I hear him exhale behind me. Drake saying something too low for me to catch. Marie's soft murmur. Eli's chair scraping.
I hate the schedule. I hate that part of me recognizes the logic in it. I hate that I hate that.
***
The rotation quickly becomes reality.
Monday night, Drake is in my nest. Just him. His citrus-and-sunshine scent, his easy laugh, his warmth against my back.
It's good. It's familiar. But I can hear them down the hall—Ragon's low rumble, Eli's quieter responses, Marie's soft laugh. Two alphas with her while I get one.
I know it balances out by the end of the week. I know Wednesday I'll have Ragon and Drake both.
The math doesn't make it hurt less.
Wednesday is my night with Ragon and Drake.
We end up in Ragon's room—his space is larger than mine, less nest, more fortress. There's a proper bed, but over time he's adapted—added extra blankets, a soft rug, warmer lighting. My scent lingers from other nights spent here, woven through his like a thread.
Drake is already sprawled on one side of the bed when I arrive, scrolling through his phone. He looks up and grins. "There she is."
Ragon sits on the edge, wearing dark sweatpants and nothing else. The tattoos on his arms seem darker in the low light, the black bands around his biceps like markers of territory. His hair is down for once, falling just past his shoulders, dark brown and slightly wavy.
He looks younger like this. More accessible.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey yourself." Ragon pats the spot between them. "You look grouchy."
"I am grouchy."
"I noticed," Drake says.
I crawl between them, and immediately Drake's arm comes around my waist, pulling me against his chest. His warmth seeps into my back, familiar and easy. Ragon watches us, blue eyes intent.
"Better?" Drake murmurs against my hair.
"Getting there."
We settle like that for a while—Drake warm and solid behind me, Ragon's hand coming to rest on my ankle, thumb stroking slow circles. It's good. It's what I needed after Monday's sharp edges.
But then Drake's phone buzzes. He checks it and sighs. "Shit. Work's calling me in early tomorrow. I need to prep."
My stomach sinks. "You're leaving?"
"Just for a bit." He presses a kiss to my temple. "Ragon's got you. I'll be back before you know it."
He slides off the bed, gives Ragon a meaningful look I can't quite read, and slips out.
The door clicks shut.
Suddenly it's just me and Ragon in the low light, and the air feels different. Heavier.
He reaches up and cups the back of my neck, thumb rubbing slow circles where Drake's hand just was. His scent wraps around me, and my body shudders with relief I didn't want to admit I needed.
"I'm not trying to hurt you with this."
"Intent isn't magic."
"No. It isn't. But I'd still like you to remember that I'm not doing this to punish you."
"Then why?" The question slips out before I can swallow it.
His fingers pause, then resume. "Because if we don't make sure everyone is getting enough of what they need, this will blow up in our faces. If we leave it to instinct, we will always gravitate toward whoever smells newest. Strongest. Scariest to lose."
"Marie."
"Yes."
I inhale sharply. "At least you're honest."
"I told you I would be."
My throat tightens. The sharp, ugly part of me tries to twist that: Not in affection. Not in bonds. Just in uncomfortable truths.
But the softer part knows it matters.
I don't say thank you. But I lean into his hands a little more.
He tips my chin and I let him, the pad of his thumb warm where he's been rubbing.
The kiss he gives me isn't a test; it's a claim.
Slow, sure pressure, his mouth fitting to mine like we've done it a thousand times and still somehow have things to learn.
I make a small sound I don't mean to, and his answer is a low rumble against my lips that slides straight down my spine.
His scent changes—deeper, heavier—and I tip into it because my body is starving for exactly this. He coaxes my mouth open and takes a little more, tongue stroking, fingers tightening at my nape until my toes curl in the blankets.
"Is this on the rotation too? Kisses, neck rub, mandatory morale—"
He huffs a dark laugh, then cuts it off by rolling, dragging me under him in one smooth shift that steals my breath.
The mattress dips with his weight. His hands catch both my wrists and press them to the pillow above my head, big palms bracketing my pulse.
He looks down at me for one long heartbeat, blue eyes steady, alpha settled heavy in the air.
"You want to be a brat, or you want me to take that mouth and put it to better use?"
Heat floods me so fast I almost pant. "Bossy."
"Correct. Tell me to stop if you want it to."
"I don't."
"Good."
The word lands like a stroke down my core.
Clothes become a problem he solves with efficient hands and that stubborn patience he uses when he's building something complicated.
He peels my hoodie up, drags my shorts down, maps bare skin with his palms like he's checking the frame for flaws.
When he bends and puts his mouth on my throat, I break a little, the scrape of his teeth right where my pulse flutters making every muscle go soft.
"Ragon," I whisper, and there's plea in it I can't swallow.
"I've got you. Open for me."
I do. I always do for him, even when I've sworn to myself I won't. He lets my hands go only to urge my knees wider, to bracket my hips with his and slide home on a long, thick push that wrings a sound out of me I'd deny in any other room.