39. Harlan #4
Control is my first instinct. Making sure everyone is cared for is the reason I indulge it.
At least where my pack is concerned, anyway.
All week, I’ve chosen not to interfere. I know the pressure they’re under, Cassidy and Harlan most of all.
But if this is what they’ve been surrounded by every day, restraint may have been the wrong choice.
Everyone moves too quickly, with their heads down and their eyes carefully averted from anyone that could have a problem with them.
Conversations die whenever somebody senior passes.
Understandable? Perhaps.
Healthy? Not remotely.
Shit.
I knew things were bad. I’ve seen the evidence in Harlan and Cassidy. I hadn’t realised the damage had already spread this far.
Whatever this week is doing to them, being surrounded by this negative energy all day will only magnify it.
Cassidy is an omega surrounded by the distress of more alphas than I can immediately count. Even on her best day, this would be too much.
Fuck knows what it’s doing to her instincts.
Smothering, suffocating… killing.
Harlan will be absorbing every scrap of tension around him and returning it twice as sharp.
Fucking cunt that he can be.
My gaze sweeps the floor, locating them both with ease.
Harlan is at one of the central tables with several senior stylists I recognise only by face.
Cassidy is two tables away, alone, with her head bowed over a document.
Neither of them notices me. That concerns me more than it should. The bond ought to register my presence, even if the chaos has buried my scent.
Nobody’s thinking anymore. They’re reacting.
And somehow they’ve ended up furthest from the one thing that should be grounding them.
Our pack.
Nobody here is making decisions from a place of reason anymore. They’re creative people at their core and trying to fix a problem with strategy and logic.
An entire department making decisions this exhausted?
Fucking dangerous.
Add frightened alpha egos, and it’s a miracle nobody has drawn blood.
I make my way towards Cassidy, navigating tables crowded with fabric books, coffee cups, and precariously balanced samples.
Harlan snaps at someone asking about an orange fabric, his voice sharp enough to cut across the room. His exhaustion presses through the bond, heavy and abrasive.
He’s running on fumes. The surprise isn’t that he’s losing patience. It’s that he had any left to lose.
Cassidy keeps her head bowed over a document, highlighting entire sections before crossing them out again.
I can’t tell whether she’s focused or simply staring hard enough to make it look that way.
I didn’t come here to interfere. I came to collect Cassidy, assess Harlan, and leave them to handle their shitstorm.
My alpha is already straining against the decision to stay out of it, though.
Neither of them has asked me to intervene, and Cassidy has been doing very well lately with voicing her needs.
Until that changes, I can watch and support. Or until they cross a line that forces an intervention.
I’m not going to be an alpha who ignores the cries for help from his pack because they’ve not explicitly asked for a rescue.
Not when I’m dealing with people who would rather burn themselves out than acknowledge they need help.
Cassidy looks up as I reach the edge of her table. At first, nothing happens. She looks at me blankly, as if her brain physically can’t process that I’m here.
But then she blinks, and she gives me a small smile, right as she drops whatever internal hold she’s had on our bond.
It completely disintegrates, and I stumble as I’m hit with her feelings.
Every emotion she’s been holding back crashes into me at once so violently that I rub at my chest to try and erase this ache.
Exhaustion.
Fear.
Dread.
Sadness so heavy it presses against my lungs.
She’s empty. Scraping together whatever she has left because everyone around her needs more.
Fuck.
My alpha surges so hard beneath my skin that my teeth ache. How the fuck is Harlan standing this?
How is he so ignorant to the pressure Cassidy is under? The pain she’s enduring?
Cassidy’s lips part, but no sound comes out. Her eyes shine almost immediately, and I know she hadn’t meant to show me any of it.
She’d simply seen me and stopped holding on, relieved that someone is here for her.
The trust in that fucking kills me. She should’ve had this same trust with Harlan.
But she hasn’t.
Fuck, I want to bring her in, hug her, smooth out the wrinkles in her face, and drag her to her nest for a weekend of relaxation.
The state she’s in makes me want to put someone else into the fucking grave.
“Hello, little moonlight,” I say quietly, crouching down next to her table.
I don’t speak any louder, not wanting my voice to carry around the bull pen.
I couldn’t give a fuck if they hear me talking to my mate, but she’ll panic, and I refuse to cause any other problems for her right now.
“Si.” Her voice catches around my name. She tries to give me another smile, but it barely forms. “What are you doing here?”
“Coming to take you home.”
It wasn’t the original plan, but am I fuck leaving this room without my mate.
Her gaze flickers towards the document in front of her, her shoulder dropping even lower, if that’s possible. “I’m not finished yet.”
“I can see that.”
She glances at the highlighted pages as though she can somehow figure out a way to call it done so she can leave with me.
Or maybe she’s thinking about something else.
I don’t care.
The document is chaotic, and so is this floor. She’s not staying here for another fucking second.
I don’t care what Harlan has to say about it.
“Pack your things,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen, then, immediately, she looks towards Harlan.
The movement is small. Instinctive, even.
But the flash of fear that hits me through the bond, the slight souring of her already frayed scent, isn’t instinctive.
No, that’s something that should be fucking impossible.
Something cold and vicious settles inside my chest.
Harlan would never hurt her, and even Cassidy knows that. But what my little mate is fearing is him being angry at her.
And that should not be a concern she ever has.
We’ve spent so fucking long working on building her confidence, on teaching her that taking care of herself, of meeting her own needs is not selfish.
That she’s not unworthy or unloveable because she’s not actively killing herself for another person.
And yet, in a matter of a few days, this campaign shit has her so worried she’s going to disappoint Harlan that she’d rather wither away than look after herself.
Absolutely fucking not.
I won’t allow it.
Cassidy should never have to look at any of us that way. She should never have to ask permission to stop drowning.
Least of all the man who is in the best possible position to take care of that at work.
“Silas?” Harlan’s voice cuts across the floor.
Good fucking timing, Brother.
I turn my head, keeping one hand braced on the edge of Cassidy’s table so she knows I’m here.
That I’m not abandoning her to this mega cunt.
Harlan’s staring at me now, irritation sharpening his expression. His scent is bitter with anger and fatigue, and when I push past my lovely mate to access him, I grit my teeth.
The bond is tight with frustration. Even Harlan’s scent, bitter with fatigue and anger, seems caught beneath my skin.
How is Cassidy surviving this? She’s dealing with her own panic and Harlan’s.
“What do you need?” he asks, the annoyance clear in the snap.
“A conversation, apparently.”
His jaw flexes. “If it’s not urgent, I’m busy.”
“I noticed.”
One of the stylists beside him abruptly becomes fascinated by a stack of fabric samples.
Harlan’s eyes narrow. “Then, why are you disturbing one of my staff?”
My alpha presses forward again. I keep it contained.
Barely.
I straighten, meeting my brother’s stare without moving away from Cassidy.
“She’s done for the day. I’m just getting her things so I can take her home.”
Silence falls around us. Not across the entire floor, but close enough. Conversations falter. Somebody stops typing, as they all listen in to this discussion.
Nosy cunts.
Behind me, Cassidy makes a tiny sound of surprise, and I don’t need a bond with her to notice her anxiety creeping higher.
Harlan stares at me as though I’ve started speaking another language. “Excuse me?”
“Cassidy is going home.”
His scent spikes, a flush coating his face. “You don’t have the authority to send my staff home.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Then, fuck off and let us get back to work.”
His words are clipped, each one carrying the edge of a command.
I feel Cassidy shrink beside me, and she adjusts her chair away from me ever so slightly.
Oh, my little moon.
Harlan gestures towards the papers scattered across her desk. “We’re in the middle of rebuilding an entire fucking campaign. She has work to do.”
I raise a brow at him. “She’s worked enough.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I do when you’re forcing her to work twenty hours a day,” I hiss.
Cassidy immediately shakes her head, standing to get in the middle of Harlan and I.
She’s unsteady on her feet, her face paling even more than it was.
She gives me the smallest shake of her head. “Honestly… I’m fine.”
Even as she says it, her scent turns sharper with anxiety.
Harlan barely looks at her.
Another mark against the prick.
His attention remains fixed on me, exhaustion turning what should be concern into another problem he thinks he has to defeat.
“She’s my trainee,” he says. “I know what she can handle.”
Do you?
The question almost leaves me. I swallow it because this isn’t the place to humiliate him, and I’m not interested in winning a fight.
I’m interested in getting my pack out of here intact.
Him included.
“Harlan,” I warn.
“No.” He points towards Cassidy’s chair without taking his eyes off me. “You came to collect her. Fine. You can wait until she’s finished.”
His gaze finally moves to her, and she flinches when he does. “Cassidy, get back to work.”
She moves immediately without a single argument, dropping back down into her seat.