Chapter 14
The new (natural, not on paper) sleep schedule doesn't have a pattern so much as a constant: Marie's nest is never empty.
My body keeps track even when my brain pretends it doesn't.
I wake up with Eli's chest at my back, his arm banded around my waist, his scent soaked into my pillow. That part is new, and good, and my omega instincts cling to it like it's their last chance. But even with him wrapped around me, some reflex in my head runs a roll call every night.
Marie's room: occupied. Always. Drake: almost always with her. Ragon: there about every other night, whether Drake is there or not. Jasper: ghosting around his own space. Me: Eli. Only Eli.
You'd think that would be enough.
Sometimes it almost is.
Eli's weight in my nest, the way he tucks his chin on top of my head, the low hum in his chest when I press my cold feet between his calves—all of it says mine and safe in ways my nerves are still relearning.
But underneath, another part of me—older, bruised and twitchy—keeps a quiet tally of who is choosing where, and how often.
I try to ignore it.
It's easier when I'm busy.
So I'm in the kitchen in the late afternoon, doing what I do best: chopping and stirring and pretending cooking is a love language that everyone is still speaking.
The pot on the stove is full of simmering stew, steam fogging the window.
Bread dough rests in a bowl on the counter, a tea towel over it like a little blanket.
The oven preheats. My hands move on autopilot—carrot, onion, celery, precise cuts—and the rhythm calms the part of my brain that's always waiting for something to go wrong.
Voices filter down the hallway.
At first, I think it's just normal noise. Background static.
Then a tone changes.
Sharp. High.
"—not the point, Eli."
Marie.
My shoulders tense.
I keep chopping, quieter.
"I'm saying," she continues, voice tighter, "that you're neglecting me."
The knife pauses halfway through a carrot.
Neglect.
The word hangs in the air like a thrown plate.
Eli answers, low and even, but he's closer to the kitchen, so his words come through clearer. "I'm not neglecting you. I've been with you three nights out of the last week, Marie."
"And the other four? In Vee's nest."
My chest constricts.
I set the knife down because my fingers feel suddenly unreliable.
"She needs someone, too."
He doesn't say more than you. He's careful. Always careful.
But I hear the ghost of it anyway.
"She has three alphas, Eli. Three. I have one and a half. Drake is spread thin and Ragon is… Ragon. You're my scent match. You're supposed to be with me more than her, not the other way around."
Scent match.
The phrase scrapes across my skin like sandpaper.
I feel watched even though I'm alone in the kitchen with vegetables.
"We're not talking about supposed to. We're talking about what's happening. Vee has one alpha who's actually in her bed right now. You want me to leave her alone so you can have more of what you already have?"
"I want my scent match. Every night. That's what this is supposed to be. You're supposed to prioritize me."
My heart does a complicated, ugly thing.
Of course she thinks that.
Of course she says it out loud.
She's not wrong, on paper. Registry pamphlets go on at length about scent matches. Primary bonds. Priority. All the things I'm not.
I'm halfway to moving toward the hall when another voice slides in.
Ragon.
"What's going on?"
He doesn't sound angry yet.
Yet.
Marie takes a breath like she's been waiting for him. "Eli is neglecting his duties. He's in Vee's nest almost every night, and I barely see him. He's my scent match. That should mean something."
There it is again.
Scent match. Rank. Order.
I press my palms against the cool countertop, grounding myself.
"That is not neglect. And you are not being deprived. You have Drake practically living in your nest. Ragon divides his time. Vee has me. That's it."
"So give her less," Marie says.
For a second, my ears ring.
Then, unexpectedly, Ragon cuts in.
"Enough."
His voice has that particular weight that makes my omega instincts want to lie down and show my throat even from here.
"Being a scent match does not give you priority over Verena."
I forget to breathe.
"I didn't say—" Marie starts.
"You absolutely did. And I'm correcting. Her bond may be different, but her place here is not secondary to yours."
My throat tightens around something hot and painful.
He goes on before I can process the weird little surge of gratitude.
"That said," he adds, and I should have known there would be a that said, "Eli, you need to be mindful, too."
"Of what," Eli says, guarded.
"Of balance. You can't give all your attention to Vee just because she's extra needy right now."
Extra needy stings, even though it's not wrong.
"She went weeks without being allowed to be touched. She is not 'extra needy.' She's catching up."
Ragon exhales. "Her needs don't outweigh everyone else's. Marie is right about one thing: she shouldn't have to feel like an afterthought because you've overcorrected."
I stare at the wall in front of me.
There's a little grease splatter by the stove I never noticed before.
My vision blurs around it.
"Overcorrected? I am staying with Vee at night. That's it. I still spend time with Marie. I still cover shifts. I'm not handcuffing myself to her nest."
"You're pulled thin. I'm asking you to look at the pattern. You spend almost all your off-duty hours either in Vee's nest or at the hospital. That's not sustainable."
"And Drake?"
There's a pause.
"What about Drake?"
"He spends almost all his off-duty hours in Marie's nest. Even when she isn't needy. Even when Vee is. He's allowed to 'overcorrect'? He barely even looks at Vee anymore."
Footsteps. A shift in scent.
Drake.
Great.
"What am I walking in on?"
"You are being used as a benchmark for fairness."
"That sounds bad."
"Eli is accusing you of neglect," Marie says.
"I am pointing out that you have devoted yourself entirely to Marie for weeks and nobody is giving you a lecture about balance."
"I love both of them," Drake says immediately, defensive. "Equally."
The words punch a hole right through my chest.
It's not that I didn't know.
He's not shy about how much he cares for her. The way he looks at her, laughs with her, curls around her in the nest like they're perfectly made pieces.
Hearing him say it out loud, though—I love both of them—with her name implicit in the second half, does something awful inside me.
My fingers curl into the dish towel so hard the fabric creaks.
"I'm not ignoring Vee. I've just been helping Marie adjust. It's a lot. New pack, new house, new dynamics. I barely get enough time with her as it is."
"You barely get enough time with her," Eli repeats, incredulous. "She's had you in her bed almost every night. How long has it been since you've slept in Vee's?"
"Hey. I came when Vee called. I just… she wasn't calling as much. She seemed like she wanted space."
I choke on a sound.
Wanted space.
Right.
Is that what kneeling on hardwood until midnight looks like from across the room?
Does backing away from Ragon's shadow read as not needing anyone?
Ragon clears his throat, the verbal equivalent of slamming a folder shut.
"This isn't productive. We're not putting each other on trial. The point is that we need balance. No one should be favored. Not Vee, not Marie. We should split our time more evenly. Omegas do not pit us against each other."
"I didn't—" Marie starts.
"You did. Instinct is loud. You let it talk for you. Don't."
Silence hangs.
Then Ragon, voice gentler, "We'll adjust. Eli, spend a little more time with Marie. Drake, be mindful of Vee. Make sure she knows you're still hers. Marie, dial back the territorial claims. Scent match or not, that language won't help anyone."
No one says especially not her.
No one says my name at all.
I stir the stew because if I don't move, I'll crack.
***
Ragon announces the grocery run later that afternoon like nothing happened.
"We're low on staples. Flour, sugar, coffee, fruit. I'm driving to the big market. Drake, Marie, Vee—you're coming."
"Why me?" I ask before I can stop myself.
"You do a lot of the cooking. You know what we need."
The praise is so technical it barely counts.
"Eli's on nights this week. He won't be home in time."
I nod. "Okay. I'll make a list."
I make two.
One is practical: milk, eggs, meat, carrots, the brand of coffee Drake likes, the tea Eli pretends isn't his favorite.
The other is invisible: Do not cry in aisle four. Do not snap in front of Ragon. Do not let Marie see how much she can get under your skin.
We pile into the car like a real pack on a normal errand. Ragon driving, hands at ten and two. Drake in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio. Marie and I side by side in the back.
She smells like vanilla and soft floral. I smell like whatever's left of my own scent after weeks of trying to flatten it and Eli's stubborn work bringing it back.
No one speaks much on the way there.
I count streetlights.
At the supermarket, Ragon takes the cart like it's a tactical assignment. "We're doing this efficiently. No wandering off."
"Bossy," Drake mutters.
Marie laughs and threads her arm through his. I walk a half-step behind them, list in hand—just close enough to grab things, just far enough that I'm not in anyone's way.
We hit produce first.
"Apples," I say, reaching for the ones I know Eli prefers—crisp, tart, green-red. I pick up a bag and toss it lightly into the cart.
Marie frowns. "Those bruise too easily. Ragon hates mushy fruit."
"That's why you eat them fast. We go through a bag in two days."
She ignores that, putting the bag back and choosing a different kind—shinier, waxy, all lined up in a pretty row. "These keep longer. And taste better."
"For you."
She gives me a quick, patient smile. "For everyone. You've just been buying the same thing so long you forgot how to experiment."