Chapter 13 #2
"You did so well. You survived something you never should've had to. I'm proud of you. I'm so fucking sorry. I've missed you. Your stupid jokes. Your stupid tea questions. All of it."
His hand rubs slow circles at the small of my back, grounding.
"You're allowed to need this. You're allowed to want more. You are not difficult. You're not broken. You're not second-hand."
The words strike deep.
I shudder.
His arms tighten. "Hey. Hey. Look at me."
I do, reluctantly.
"Whatever she said, and whatever anyone implied after she said it—you are not a used toy someone should be ashamed to keep. You're ours. That didn't stop being true because you were hurting."
"Ragon—"
"Is not the sole authority on your worth," Eli cuts in, sharp for once. "He is a strong alpha. He is not a god."
The words shake me.
We lie there for a long time, nest around us, his scent soaking into every fabric.
By the time my tears dry, the room smells different. Heavier. Real.
Like us.
He kisses my cheek, then the corner of my mouth, chaste and reverent. "Better?"
"Addicted."
His smile is rueful. "We'll work on a manageable dosage."
"Good luck. You cut me off again and I'm stealing your laptop and signing you up for seventeen knitting newsletters."
He huffs a laugh and pulls me back into his chest. "There she is."
For the first time in a long time, I fall asleep in my nest with an alpha wrapped around me.
For the first time in a long time, the empty spaces in my body feel a little less hollow.
***
The next few days, I'm bad.
From an etiquette standpoint.
From a survival standpoint? My instincts would argue I'm finally doing something right.
I wake up with my face mashed into Eli's neck, his scent thick in my nose, and every cell in my body screams mine.
I follow him.
Not on purpose at first.
He goes to make tea; I wander into the kitchen five minutes later like a magnet. He sits at the table with his tablet; I end up on the floor at his feet, shoulder pressed to his knee, fingers playing with the hem of his sweatpants.
"Vee," he says at one point, amusement in his voice, "you're orbiting."
"Shut up. I'm recalibrating."
He indulges it.
Of course he does.
His hand finds my hair whenever I'm within reach. My scent—once flattened and bitter—starts to warm again, layers of comfort threading through all the old fear.
Drake tries, once or twice.
He'll come into the room, see me perched on the arm of Eli's chair like a nervous bird, and his mouth will twist with guilt. He'll pat his lap, beckoning.
"Come here, Vee. Let me spoil you a little. Eli's going to get a cramp."
His scent is tangled now, though.
Where it used to reach for me without hesitation, it curls toward Marie by default. She's often nearby—leaning on the counter, flipping through her planner, or sliding onto his lap a second after he invites me.
I try to go to him anyway.
My body hesitates.
I step into the circle of his arms and his hand lands on my hip.
Warm, familiar, comforting.
For about three seconds.
Then Marie laughs from the doorway and calls, "Drake, you promised you'd help me with the new recipe," and his attention slices away without meaning harm.
"Two seconds, sweetheart," he says over my shoulder, then to me, "You don't mind, right? We'll finish this later."
It's not cruel.
It's not intentional.
It still feels like someone pulled a blanket away just when I'd started to relax.
I pull back, forcing a smile. "Go. She'll burn your precious pans."
"Hey." He squeezes my shoulder. "You matter too, okay?"
"Sure."
He smells like apology and confusion and arousal for someone who isn't me as he leaves the room.
I stand there for a heartbeat, empty hands curled into fists, then turn and beeline back to Eli.
Ragon notices.
He always does.
He watches the way I angle my body toward Eli in any shared space, the way my shoulders tense when he enters, how I instinctively give him more room than anyone else.
He tries.
One evening, he finds me in the kitchen, rinsing lettuce for dinner. The house is relatively quiet—Drake and Marie in the den, Jasper on a call, Eli grabbing a quick shower.
Ragon comes in from outside, hair tied back, shirt sleeves rolled, smelling like sawdust and cold air.
My heart stutters.
"Verena."
"Alpha."
He walks past me to the sink, washes his hands. Our arms almost brush. I step sideways like I've touched a hot stove.
He notices.
His jaw flexes.
"I won't punish you for existing near me."
"I know."
It's half true.
He reaches for a towel, dries his hands. Then he leans back against the counter, folding his arms, looking at me.
"How are you sleeping?"
"With Eli in my nest? Better."
A flicker of something crosses his face—guilt, maybe. Or just calculation. "Good. That's good."
He hesitates.
Then he opens his arms.
It's small. Barely there. Just enough of a shift in his posture that I know what he's offering.
A hug.
Contact.
For a second, my whole body surges toward him.
Alpha.
History.
The man who took me out of a bad place and built a life with me.
The same man who told me to kneel until my knees went numb and then sent me to my nest alone.
My feet stay planted.
"I'm still scared," I admit, voice so low I'm not sure he hears it.
His eyes darken.
"Of me?"
"Yes."
There's a pause, heavy as stone.
He drops his arms, fists curling at his sides. "I wouldn't hurt you if you didn't force my hand."
I'm not sure if that was supposed to be comforting, but it is not.
My instincts spike, then veer hard away.
"Okay."
I turn back to the lettuce.
He stands there for a moment, breathing slow and controlled. Then he walks out without another word.
The sound of his footsteps makes my stomach knot.
I finish making dinner with shaky hands and go find Eli the second I'm done.
Later, when I ask about going next door, I fully expect Ragon to say no.
I catch him at the kitchen island, going over invoices on his tablet.
"Alpha?"
He doesn't look up right away. "Mm?"
"Alex and his pack invited me over. To bake. Remember?"
That gets his eyes.
He searches my face, the counter, the doorway, like he's checking for an angle. "Today?"
"Yeah. Finn texted. They finished unpacking the kitchen."
"Who gave Finn your number?"
"Drake."
Ragon exhales through his nose. "You want to go."
It's not a question.
I pick at a loose thread on the dish towel. "It would be nice. Their kitchen is big. Finn told me."
"You're still part of this pack. You understand that."
"I'm not asking to move in. Just to make cookies. It’ll keep me out of Marie’s way."
He studies me for a long moment.
I don't look away this time.
"Fine. Go. Be back before dinner. Let me know if anything feels off. I’m not entirely comfortable with you being around other alphas without protection. But they can’t be too much of a threat if they bonded in a beta."
Warmth flares in my chest. Permission. Actual permission. I let the insult about beta-bonded alphas slide off my back like water.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me for letting you have friends. Just be smart."
I grab my recipe notebook like a lifeline and leave before he can change his mind.
***
The neighbors' house smells like paint and cardboard and that flat, faint registry-clean that clings to people on blockers.
And underneath, very faintly, something my instincts love.
But it stops there. Like a path that dead-ends. No real read, no full picture. Just almost and then static.
Alex opens the door.
He's in a worn T-shirt and sweatpants, bare feet, hair messy. "Hey. Vee, right? Come in. We've been threatening Finn with store-bought cookies all morning."
Finn appears behind him, scandalized. "They have not. I would never."
Malcolm pokes his head around the corner. "I bought Oreos."
Finn gasps. "Monster."
I laugh.
The house is bright. Boxes still stacked in corners, pictures leaning against walls. The furniture is mismatched but cozy—couches that look sat-on, throw blankets, a stack of board games.
It feels lived-in already.
"Kitchen's this way," Finn says. "Prepare yourself. It's chaos."
It's not.
It's cluttered, yes. A few open boxes, dishes spread out. But the appliances are gleaming. There's a huge window over the sink. The island is big enough to land a plane on.
"Oh," I breathe. "Okay. I see why you needed me. This oven needs respect."
"We have no idea what we're doing," Malcolm says, leaning against the counter with a mug. "The last place had a stove older than we are."
Alex hops up on the stool at the far end. "Whatever you want to make. We are not picky. Finn is, but he'll eat anything if you call it experimental."
"Lies. Slander."
I set my notebook on the island and start pulling ingredients. Flour. Sugar. Butter. They've got the basics. Malcolm fetches things when I ask; Finn peppers me with questions; Alex just watches.
In a nice way.
"What do you want to start with?" Finn asks.
"Chocolate chip cookies are the law. Then we can get weird."
Finn beams. "Oh, we are absolutely getting weird. I bought cardamom."
"Cardamom is not weird. Cardamom is holy."
"Marry me." He catches himself. "Uh. Platonically. Packronically. I'm very attached to not dying."
Alex rolls his eyes, fond. "You're safe. From me, anyway. Malcolm might kill you if you steal his coffee."
Malcolm raises his mug. "I would consider it."
It's easy.
We measure and mix. Finn helps cream butter and sugar, tongue sticking out in concentration. Malcolm cracks eggs like a pro. Alex takes over dish duty.
Their scents stay mild and weirdly blank, but their energy is warm. No edge. No eggshells.
"Okay," Finn says after the first tray goes into the oven. "I have questions."
"Of course you do," Malcolm says.
"How does someone like you, with this level of baking skill, end up banned from her own kitchen?"
I freeze.
Alex's gaze sharpens.
"You don't have to—" he starts.
"It's fine."
"It's not," Finn says. "You avoid our questions like we're the registry."
He's not wrong.