Beneath Our Scars: The Later Years (Always Yours #4)

Chapter 1

Luther

The weight of the world usually hits me before I even open my eyes, a dull pressure at the base of my skull that serves as my internal alarm clock.

But this morning, there is only the slow, rhythmic drag of fingertips against my forearm.

Grayson is awake. I can tell by the way his scent is already humming through the sheets, weaving into my own like a familiar melody.

I keep my eyes closed, savoring the stillness of the nest, the massive bed we built to hold all five of us and the sprawling chaos of our lives.

Except... it’s quiet. Too quiet. No toddlers are currently using my ribs as a personal jungle gym, and nobody is crying about a lost toy or a perceived injustice regarding the color of a cereal bowl. I let myself drift in it for a second, my lungs expanding with the scent of home.

"You're thinking too loud," Grayson murmurs, his voice a gravelly rumble near my ear that sends a sympathetic vibration through the mattress. He shifts, pressing himself against my side, tucking his chin over my shoulder.

I finally crack an eye open, meeting that familiar ocean-gray gaze.

His long brown hair is tangled and wild from a night of sleep, and he looks soft in a way he only allows behind these doors.

After the last five years, building our family together with three rambunctious kids, I still love the quiet moments like these the best.

He leans in, catching my lips in a kiss that tastes of sleep and deep-rooted comfort. I let my hand find the back of his neck, fingers tangling in those dark, messy strands, pulling him closer and anchoring myself to the reality of him.

"It's suspicious," I rumble against his mouth, the words catching on a yawn I can't quite suppress. "The silence. It feels like a trap. Or a distraction while they dismantle the plumbing."

Grayson chuckles, the vibration buzzing in his chest and transferring into my own. "Maybe they finally learned how to sleep in. Or maybe they've formed a tiny, adorable coup and are currently voting on who gets to be the new Alpha. My money is on Rosalie; she's got the glare down."

He moves his hand from my arm to my chest, his palm flat against my skin.

I can feel the callouses on his fingertips, a map of all the physical work he does to keep this house standing, the gardens growing, and the children fed while I'm out dealing with the legal rot and corporate maneuvering of the world.

He's the warmth that makes the armor worth wearing every day.

"If they've formed a coup, Rosalie is definitely leading it," I say, the thought of our daughter in her favorite plastic crown commanding her older brothers bringing a genuine tug of a smile to my face.

"James will have engineered the barricades, and Samuel will be the one launched over the wall as a projectile. He's got the trajectory for it."

Grayson hums, his thumb tracing the edge of one of the tattoos on my collarbone, tracing the ink that marks our history. "At least they're organized. That's more than I can say for us most mornings when we're looking for matching socks."

I reach out, my hand searching for the other side of the oversized bed, expecting to find the familiar curve of a waist or the heat of another body. Instead, my palm hits cold silk. The dip where Blake and Luca should be is empty, the fabric smoothed out as if they've been gone for hours.

Usually, we’re a tangled knot of limbs and scents, a pressurized chamber of Alpha, Delta, Gamma, and Omega that keeps the nightmares of our past at bay. To find half the bed cold at six in the morning is more than just a minor annoyance; it's a glitch in the system I've spent years perfecting.

"They're gone," I say, sitting up. I scan the room, though I know they aren't here.

Grayson remains reclined, though his eyes sharpen, that ocean-gray turning to steel. "Luca probably needed to move. You know how he gets when the nesting itch hits him hard. He can't stay still. And Blake... well, Blake probably hasn't slept at all. I heard him pacing around three."

I growl low in my throat, a sound of frustration.

Blake's work ethic is a weapon he keeps turned on himself.

Between the final crunch for Starlight Falls III and the looming discussion of merging our company or taking it public sitting on his desk, the one he thinks I don't know he's been obsessing over, he's been running on caffeine, adrenaline, and pure, stubborn spite.

Before I can swing my legs out of bed, the door creaks on its hinges.

Maceo is there, already dressed in a charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. He’s grown out his hair over the last few years, the few inches of curls softening his features.

He's holding two mugs of coffee, the steam curling around his steady fingers.

"They're not in the kitchen," Maceo says, his voice a dry, level cadence that acts as an immediate anchor to my spiraling thoughts.

He walks forward, handing a mug to Grayson and setting mine on the nightstand with a quiet click.

"Our mates have been up a while," Maceo continues, leaning against the bedpost and crossing his arms. "I found a trail of blankets leading toward the kids' room.

It looks like a mass migration. Every spare throw in the living room is gone. "

Grayson takes a long sip of his coffee, looking far too relaxed for a man whose house has been reorganized in the middle of the night.

"A mega-nest. I should have known. Luca was scenting the hallways yesterday like he was expecting a blizzard or a siege.

He was fluffing pillows for an hour before dinner. "

"It wasn't a blizzard he was smelling," I say, finally standing and pulling on a pair of sweatpants. I can feel the tension in the air. "It's the merger. Well, it’s the discussion of if that’s the next best step. Blake’s been stressing about it, which means Luca picked up on it and is trying to help. "

I lead the way out of the nest, Grayson and Maceo following behind me.

We move down the hall, the air growing sweeter and more dense the closer we get to the kids' room.

It's the scent of Luca's contentment layered over the sharp, electric tang of Blake's focus, which always smells a bit like ozone and burnt sugar these days.

I hear a muffled purr, followed by hushed sounds.

The kids' room has been completely transformed into a fortress of soft edges and total sanctuary.

Blankets have been stripped from the guest beds and the linen closet piled high in a sprawling topography of fabric.

Pillows are stacked three deep against the walls, creating a soft perimeter that muffles the outside world and makes the room feel like a padded jewelry box.

In the center of the chaos, Blake and Luca are crammed into a single oversized armchair that was never meant for two grown men.

Luca is draped over Blake like a second skin, his chestnut curls tucked under Blake's chin, his legs tangled with Blake's.

He's murmuring something low and melodic, a soft Omega croon that bypasses the ears and goes straight to the soul.

His hand moves in slow, possessive circles over Blake's chest, right over his heart.

Blake looks half-conscious, his round glasses slipping down his nose, held on only by sheer luck.

He has a tablet gripped in one hand, the dim glow of the screen reflecting off the dark circles under his eyes.

Even here, in the heart of the sanctuary he helped build, he's trying to out-build the world's problems with code and spreadsheets.

He looks exhausted, his shoulders slumped even as he tries to maintain his grip on the device.

The children are scattered across the floor-nest, Rosalie, our youngest and fiercest, sprawled across the pillows closest to the chair, her plastic crown lopsided on her head and one hand fisted firmly in a blanket.

She's the boss of this pack, and even in sleep, she looks like she's claiming her territory, her jaw set in a miniature version of my own.

James is tucked on the other side, a small, partially disassembled mechanical toy resting near his cheek.

He's the quiet one, the observer who understands the mechanics of the world better than most adults twice his age.

He probably helped Luca reinforce the structure of this nest. Beside him, Samuel is asleep half upside down, his legs draped over a mountain of pillows as if gravity was a mere suggestion he decided to ignore for the night.

His mouth is open, a faint whistle of a snore escaping him.

A warm smile spreads across my face as I stare at the chaos we built.

I never thought that bringing Luca into our lives would bring us to this slice of heaven, our Omega helping us not only get closer as a pack but also help the Hearthstone Omegas find their own homes.

Five years married to Blake, bonded to all of us, and Luca still sleeps with one hand reaching for whoever's closest, as if part of him can't believe the bed will still be full when he wakes.

I should leave them and let them have this moment of stillness.

But I see the way Blake's jaw is set even in his exhaustion, and I see the elaborate, almost frantic depth of Luca's nest, the sheer volume of fabric required to make him feel safe this morning.

This isn't just a cozy morning; it's a defensive fortification.

"I thought you two were supposed to be sleeping," I say, my voice a low rumble that breaks the silence.