Chapter 25 #2
"Well, she's changed since our pack found me. I'm their scent match. She's jealous because our alphas like me more."
The silence that follows is absolute.
It presses in on all sides, thick and suffocating. I feel myself shrink without meaning to, shoulders drawing in, spine curling as if I can make myself smaller.
My fingers clamp down on my cards too tightly. The edges bite into my skin. Heat floods my face, rushing up my neck and into my ears.
I can't speak.
My throat locks around nothing, every thought scattering. I want to say that's not what happened or she's lying or please don't look at me like that—
But the words won't come.
Across the table, someone shifts uncomfortably. Another clears their throat.
Then Ragon stands.
His chair scrapes back against the floor with a harsh sound that makes me flinch. I barely have time to look up before he's already moving.
He doesn't say a word.
He reaches Marie, grips her by the back of her neck, and hauls her up out of her chair like she weighs nothing.
It's the same way he grabbed me at the zoo.
The same motion. The same efficiency. The same complete lack of hesitation.
Marie makes a startled sound, then a sharp, broken cry as he drags her from the room. Her protests blur into muffled sobs as they disappear down the hall.
The living room stays frozen.
No one speaks. No one moves. The cards sit abandoned. The chips gleam under the lights.
My hands are still clenched around my cards. I force my fingers to loosen, one by one.
I don't know where to look.
Part of me expects Drake to jump up immediately, to follow them. To do what he always does—smooth things over, comfort, mediate.
He doesn't.
Instead, he motions to Jasper to switch with him and settles in next to me. Close enough that his knee brushes mine.
The contact startles me.
"Well," he says lightly, like the room hasn't just been split open, "that's one way to kill the vibe."
A few people blink at him. Someone lets out a weak, surprised snort.
"Drama queens," Drake adds, stacking the cards back into a neat pile. "Ruining perfectly good poker hands."
There's a beat of hesitation.
Then, slowly, someone reaches for their chips again.
"I was winning," one of the hospital guys mutters.
"You were losing," Drake corrects cheerfully. "Let's not rewrite history."
A few tentative chuckles ripple around the table. Not loud. Not easy. But enough to loosen the air just a fraction.
The game resumes in fits and starts—cards shuffled, chips pushed forward, conversation carefully rerouted. Drake keeps talking, filling silences before they can harden.
I sit there, stunned.
Confused.
Drake stayed.
He chose the chair beside me instead of the hallway. Chose the table. Chose me—at least in this moment—over following after Marie.
I don't know what to do with that.
My heart is still racing, my skin still hot with embarrassment, but the weight of his presence at my side anchors me just enough that I can breathe again.
I glance at him, searching his face for something—regret, doubt, second thoughts.
He catches my look and gives me a quick, easy grin, like everything is fine. Like he hasn't just made a choice that feels heavier than he realizes.
I look back down at my cards, pulse still thudding in my ears, and try to follow the game.
But nothing feels the same anymore.
Not the table. Not the room. Not the pack I thought I understood.
Ragon comes back alone.
I feel him before I see him—the shift in the air, the weight settling back into the room. His face is composed, expression carefully neutral, but his scent tells a different story. Anger still coils under the surface, sharp and restrained.
The game stutters but doesn't stop. Cards pause mid-shuffle. Tyler and James glance up, then away again.
Ragon doesn't look at me.
He clears his throat once and addresses the table. "Sorry about that."
His voice is even. Controlled. Alpha-calm dialed in precisely.
"Marie is going through a phase. She's hormonal. Her heat is coming."
The words surprise me.
Her heat?
I blink, my attention snapping fully back. Heat means timelines. It means logistics. It means priorities shifting.
For a brief, shameful second, relief flares in my chest.
The alphas will be distracted.
Focused elsewhere. Busy. Managing Marie. The pressure that's been hovering over me might ease, even if only temporarily.
Then the rest of the thought follows close behind.
Heat means disruption. It means schedules change. It means space gets rearranged again.
I swallow.
Someone at the table murmurs something sympathetic. Someone else nods like this explains everything. The tension loosens just enough to let conversation breathe again.
Ragon gives a short nod and takes his seat.
Drake slides the deck back toward the center. "Alright. Let's pretend we're all emotionally well-adjusted adults and continue."
A couple of weak laughs ripple around the table.
The game resumes.
Cards shuffle. Chips clack. Someone sighs dramatically when they fold.
I force myself to follow along, my hands moving automatically, my mind already skipping ahead.
Marie's heat.
In what? Days? A week? Two, maybe?
I start calculating without meaning to.
Finn's house would be quieter. Safer. He wouldn't ask questions I don't want to answer. I could stay there during the worst of it—give my pack space, give myself distance.
But then—
The gym.
My class schedule flickers through my head. Tuesday and Thursday evenings. I don't have a car.
I'd need a ride.
They'll be stuck in the rut.
My fingers tighten briefly around my chips.
Maybe I could walk part of it. Or take the bus. Or—
Chase.
The thought slips in sideways, uninvited.
His muscled arms flash into my mind, forearms flexing as he spots someone at the bench press. The easy, encouraging smile he gives me after I emerge from class. The way sweat darkens his t-shirt, clinging to his chest, fabric stretched just enough to make my eyes linger longer than they should.
Heat creeps into my cheeks—not embarrassment this time, but something warmer. Something dangerous.
I shove the thought down hard.
Across the table, Eli glances at me.
Not sharply. Not accusingly. Just a soft, instinctive check-in, like he's felt a shift he can't quite name.
I straighten immediately, schooling my expression, forcing my attention back to the cards in my hand. Neutral. Calm. Present.
Nothing to see here.
Eli's gaze lingers for half a second longer, then he nods once and looks back at the table.
My pulse takes too long to settle.
The game carries on around me, voices overlapping, laughter returning in cautious layers. But my focus keeps slipping—back to logistics, to exits, to ways to make myself smaller in the coming chaos.
Marie's heat is coming.
And I realize, with quiet certainty, that I'm already planning how to not be here when it does.