Chapter 7
The jealousy creeps in slowly.
At first it's just little things.
One night, as I'm pacing the length of my room because my body won't settle, I crack my door just a sliver and peer into the hallway.
Marie's door is open a fraction. I can see a slice of her room: soft light, the edge of her new nest, blankets piled like a cloud. Drake is sitting on the floor beside it, back against her bed, legs stretched out. Marie is half-curled toward him in the nest itself, hugging a pillow to her chest.
He says something I can't hear.
She laughs, then reaches out and lightly touches his hair, smoothing a curl back behind his ear. The move is tentative but intimate. Familiar.
He leans his head into her fingers for a second without thinking, like that kind of touch already belongs to her.
My hands curl into fists.
Ragon walks by with a mug of tea. He pauses, glances into Marie's room, assesses, and then nods once, satisfied.
He doesn't glance toward my open door.
He doesn't see me watching.
I shut it quietly before anyone notices.
Later, when Drake comes into the kitchen for water and finds me standing at the sink doing nothing at all, he startles.
"Jesus. You scared me. Why are you lurking in the dark like a Victorian ghost?"
"Practicing."
"For haunting?" He grins, leaning on the counter. "Ten out of ten, very eerie. A+."
I shrug. "Thought I'd give you a preview of what you'll be dealing with next time you forget one of your omegas exists."
His smile falters.
"You were very cozy in there. You and Marie. Nice little scene. Should I start leaving you guys snacks outside the door? Maybe a do-not-disturb sign?"
"Oh, come on." Exasperation and guilt tangle in his scent. "We were talking. She had a nightmare. I was calming her down."
"She had a nightmare, so you sat on the floor and let her pet your hair like a therapy dog."
He drags a hand through his curls. "Can you maybe not turn everything into a weapon, please?"
"Can you maybe not make everything look like I've already been replaced?"
His jaw tightens. "That is not what's happening."
"Feels like it."
"Feelings are not—"
"If you finish that sentence, I swear to god, I'll scream."
He closes his mouth.
Something ugly and sharp pushes up from my chest, and before I can stop it, it spills out.
"I hope you're getting enough practice being needed. So when she's settled, you won't miss me too much when I'm gone."
The hurt that flashes across his face is immediate and raw. His scent spikes—pain, anger, fear.
"Stop it. You don't get to pretend we're going to just drop you off somewhere and drive away. We're not your first pack."
"Maybe you'll get a two-for-one deal," I say, the worst parts of me on autopilot now. "Since you keep collecting omegas."
"Verena."
Ragon's voice comes from the doorway like a shot.
I flinch. Drake stiffens.
Ragon steps into the dim light, forearms crossed over his chest, every inch the unamused head of the household. The tattoos on his arms look more intense in the shadow, dark ink stark against skin.
"What did we say about weaponizing your fear?" Too calm.
"That it's entertaining?"
He crosses the kitchen in three strides.
"Look at me."
My body obeys even as my brain scrambles for a cutting remark.
His hand comes up, fingers closing around my jaw—not painful, but firm enough that my mouth is trapped. His thumb rests along my cheekbone, his palm warm against my skin.
He tilts my face up.
"Stop it."
The words carry weight. Not just sound. It presses against my nerves, slides under my skin.
My heart kicks. My omega instincts, already rattled and frayed, seize on the command like a lifeline and a collar all at once.
Heat prickles behind my eyes. "He—" I try to argue around his hand. It comes out garbled.
"Drake can defend himself. This is about you. You do not get to talk like that. Not to him. Not about yourself. Not in this house."
I swallow. My throat works against his fingers.
His gaze doesn't waver. "Do you understand me?"
Shame and relief twist together in my gut. Being stopped hurts. Not being stopped would hurt more.
"Yes."
His grip tightens a fraction. "Try again."
"Yes, Alpha."
He studies me for another heartbeat. Then his hand eases, sliding away from my face. His fingers brush my jaw once, softer, before falling to his side.
"Good girl."
I feel about three inches tall and a thousand pounds heavy.
Drake shifts his weight. "Ragon, it's my fault. I shouldn't have—"
"This isn't about blame. It's about patterns. We are not going to set a precedent where every time she feels scared, she throws the worst-case scenario into the room and waits to see who bleeds."
The words sting because they're true.
He looks back at me. "If you need reassurance, ask for it. Don't try to create proof that you're right to be abandoned."
My throat closes. A tear spills over before I can swipe it away.
"I—" My voice cracks. "Okay."
His expression softens, but he doesn't step forward again. Doesn't pull me in. He's careful with the line between correction and comfort.
"Go to your nest. We'll talk in the morning."
Dismissed.
The little omega inside me bristles at being sent away. The rest of me is too tired to fight.
I go.
In the dark of my room, curled in my nest, the humiliation burns hot. The worst part isn't that he corrected me.
It's that some part of me likes that he did.
Likes that he saw the spiral and not only named it but stopped it. That he didn't let me hurt Drake more than I already had. That he refused to let me keep painting myself as disposable.
"I hate you," I whisper into my pillow, meaning myself more than any of them.
The pillow smells like Eli and sugar.
I cry until the scent is damp.
***
If it was just me, maybe we could stabilize.
But it's not just me.
Marie watches all of this. Feels all of this. Her instincts have their own opinions about attention and hierarchy.
I see it a few days later.
It's Friday. Official card night.
Before Marie, Fridays were sacred. The guys rotated hosting a small crowd from work—fellow nurses, other ER docs, a random paramedic or two. Sometimes poker. Sometimes some arcane tabletop game Eli and his nerdy friends dragged in.
The constant was me in the kitchen, apron tied around my waist, oven humming, counters dusted with flour. Baking was my lane. My ritual. My coping mechanism when the week scraped me raw.
I used to joke that card night was an excuse to try new recipes on a captive audience of hungry medical professionals.
Drake called it "Vee Night." I pretended not to care how my chest swelled every time he said it.
Now, when Friday rolls around, I wake up early without an alarm. My body knows the rhythm. I pull my blonde hair into a messy bun, dig out my favorite scratched-up mixing bowl, and start pulling ingredients from cupboards.
Sugar. Butter. Flour. Chocolate chips. Vanilla. Cinnamon.
The textures and smells soothe me. Whisking eases the restless energy in my hands. The sound of the mixer drowns out the echoes in my head.
By the time the coffee machine finishes its first pot, I've got cookie dough chilling in the fridge and brownies in the oven. The kitchen smells like sugar and chocolate and home.
Eli wanders in, rubbing his eyes. "Smells like a bakery."
"Card night prep."
His gaze softens. "Ahh, first one in a while. I missed this."
"Me too."
He comes behind me and rests his chin briefly on my shoulder, arms loosely around my waist. His scent wraps around mine, and for a moment, I almost feel like the old version of myself—the one whose place in this house was unquestioned.
Then Marie's scent wafts in from the hall, and the moment shatters.
She steps into the kitchen, looking from me to the mixing bowl to the oven.
"Wow. You're making a lot."
"It goes fast. ER people eat like they're preparing for hibernation."
Her smile is small. "I didn't know we did this."
"We used to." The words slip out sharper than I mean.
Eli touches my shoulder, a small warning.
Marie fiddles with the hem of her shirt. "Do you want help? I'm not a great baker, but I can read directions."
The kitchen is my space. My territory. The one place I haven't had to share.
My instinct is to say no.
My other instinct sees the hopeful look on her face and feels like a monster.
"You can measure sugar. Two cups. Level."
Her eyes light up like I've handed her a piece of the sun. "Okay."
We fall into a rhythm. I handle the mixer, the oven, the finicky parts. She measures, brings me ingredients, washes a few dishes. It's not terrible.
We don't talk much. The clatter of utensils and the hum of the oven fill the silence.
At some point, Ragon's heavy tread enters the room. He leans against the doorway, watching us both.
"Smells good."
I preen a little. "Obviously."
Marie smiles, shy. "She's a machine. I'm just opening bags and pretending to help."
Ragon's gaze lingers on me, and something hot and proud flares in my chest.
Then Drake shows up with his usual explosions of energy, and the rest of the day tumbles forward.
People start arriving early evening. The house fills with extra scents—betas mostly, one or two alphas who nod to Ragon with that wary respect other alphas always give him.
I flit between kitchen and living room, refilling bowls, handing out cookies, laughing at bad jokes. For a while, it feels almost normal.
Marie stays close to the edges. She perches on the arm of the couch, a little overwhelmed by the noise, but relaxed enough that her scent doesn't scream terror.
Drake keeps checking on her between hands of cards.
Eli brings her a plate of snacks and makes a point of explaining people so she doesn't feel like a stranger.
"I can handle my own introductions," I murmur to him as I pass with another tray.
"I know. But you shouldn't have to handle hers too."
Fair.
It's in the middle of this comfortable chaos that the death blow arrives.