Chapter 3 #2
Where we’ll find the time, I have no idea.
I make it to the sunroom just as the delivery truck pulls into the side drive.
It’s a routine occurrence, supplies for the kitchen, linens, medical kits, but for someone new, routine doesn't exist yet. Everything is a threat, a potential catalyst for a flashback. I see her then: a young Omega named Maya, who arrived only three days ago. She’s by the window, her body gone rigid, her scent spiking into a sharp, acrid note of cedar-fire and panic that cuts through the lavender in the air.
The Alpha driver climbs out of the truck, his scent, something heavy and spicy like cinnamon, wafting toward the porch even through the glass.
Maya's breath hitches, a small, wounded sound in the back of her throat.
Her hands grip the windowsill so hard her knuckles are white, and she looks ready to bolt, or to curl into a ball and wait for a blow.
She must still be trapped in the past, her brain telling her that an Alpha arrival means only one thing: pain.
I know that feeling, the way the world suddenly narrows until all you can see is the predator, all you can hear is the roar of your own blood, and every shadow is a hand reaching for you.
I move into the room slowly, keeping my footsteps light and stop six feet away, giving her plenty of space to breathe, making sure I’m not blocking her path to the door.
"Maya," I say, my voice low and steady. "It's just the linens. He's staying on the porch. He's not allowed inside. He's just here to drop off the boxes and leave."
She doesn't look at me. Her eyes stay fixed on the man outside as he unloads boxes of towels. "He's an Alpha," she whispers, her voice trembling, her words barely audible over the sound of the truck's idling engine. "He smells like... he smells like him. The same spice. The same heavy weight."
The comparison hits me. I know exactly which him she means.
I remember the scent of Hudson Carter, the cold, metallic smell of a cage, the way fear used to be my only constant companion.
I sit down on the floor, several feet away from her, making myself even smaller than I already am.
I fold my hands in my lap and wait, showing her that I’m not going to force her into anything.
"Take a breath with me, Maya," I say, inhaling slowly and deeply, letting my own scent, the calm, stable heart of the pack, wash over the room.
I project as much peace as I can, trying to drown out the cinnamon scent from outside.
"In through your nose. Out through your mouth.
Just the air. Feel the floor beneath you. It's solid. It's not moving."
She follows me, her chest heaving as she fights to regain control.
It takes several minutes before her grip on the windowsill loosens.
She slides down the wall, sinking onto the floor opposite me, her head bowed.
The driver outside finishes his delivery, signs his clipboard, and drives away.
The engine noise fades into the distance, leaving only the quiet hum of the house and the ticking of the clock on the wall behind us.
"I'm sorry," she chokes out, a single tear tracking through the dust on her cheek. "I should be... I should be better at this by now. I've been here three days. I'm wasting your time."
"There is no should," I tell her softly.
I reach out, resting my hand on the floor between us, palm up, an invitation she can ignore if she needs to.
"Healing isn't a straight line, Maya. It's a messy, looping path. Some days the world is just too loud, and your brain remembers things your heart wants to forget.” A smile forms on my lips.
“It took me a long while to stop thinking that this... that my pack was going to leave me behind.”
Her brows furrow. “You? The Keller pack? You guys are all so... disgustingly in love.” She lets out a little gasp.
“Look at the porch, Maya. It's empty now. The threat is gone."
She looks up, her blue eyes red-rimmed and hollow, reflecting a depth of exhaustion I recognize all too well.
"How do you do it? Everyone says you... you survived something worse.
That you were held for years before your pack.
But you don't look afraid. You look like you belong here.
You look like you own the air you breathe. "
I look at my hands, remembering the way they used to shake when Luther or Grayson first tried to touch me, how even a gentle hand on my shoulder would make me drop to my knees.
I remember the darkness of the room where I’d been kept, the weight of a bond I hadn't chosen, the absolute silence of my own voice.
Then I think of the nest, of Blake's messy curls and Maceo's steady, silent presence, and the way Luther once sat on a floor just like this one, for hours, waiting for me to decide I was ready to live.
"I learned that my body belongs to me," I say, using the words Luther gave me when I was still too broken to speak them myself.
"I still question it sometimes. I married a man who would burn himself to ash trying to make sure I never feel afraid again, and some days I have to remind him that I didn't marry him so he could carry the whole world.
I married him because he was the first person who ever asked what I wanted instead of deciding for me.
But they're all right there, every day, reminding me of who I am and who I have.
You're safe here, Maya. Nobody gets to decide what happens to your body here.
Not ever again. Not an Alpha, not a Beta, not anyone.
You get to choose every touch. You get to choose when you walk through that door and when you stay inside.
You are the architect of your own space now. "
She looks at my open palm for a long time. Then, tentatively, she reaches out and brushes her fingertips against mine. It’s a fleeting contact, dry and trembling, but it’s a choice. A small, monumental choice that signals she is ready to start coming back.
"Thank you, Luca," she whispers, her voice finally losing that sharp edge of terror.
I stay with her until the panic fully recedes, talking about the garden and the way the kids are currently trying to extort cookies from Maceo. I tell her about the frogs Samuel is always looking for, and how Rosalie probably has the kitchen staff in a state of high alert.
When she finally smiles, a small, fragile thing that doesn't quite reach her eyes but is a start, I feel a surge of something fierce and protective in my chest.
I stay in the sunroom for a few minutes after Maya leaves, letting the quiet settle back into the walls.
My phone buzzes in my pocket before I make it back to my office, Luther’s name lighting the screen. The first sound I hear when I answer is his low voice saying, “Hi, sweetheart,” and it pulls something in me tight enough that I have to lean against the sunroom doorway.
He asks if I’m alright like he already knows the shape of the answer.
I give him a brief rundown, Luther going quiet as he listens, the silence edged with a growl he doesn’t let fully loose.
I reassure him before he can offer to make a call.
It wasn’t the driver. It was the past. Some days that’s worse, because there’s no one in front of you to blame.
“And you? How are you?” he asks, because Luther never stops at the first answer.
“I’m okay,” I admit.
The screen flashes before I can say anything else, shifting into a video call.
I huff at him, but then his face fills the screen and the complaint dies somewhere in my throat.
He’s in his office, not behind his desk but on the couch, dark hair slightly mussed and hazel-green eyes fixed on me with the kind of attention that always makes the world feel quieter.
Blake is curled in his lap like he got dragged there against his will and decided to pretend he hates it, round glasses crooked, one hand tucked possessively in Luther’s shirt. Seeing them loosens the hard knot under my ribs.
Blake lifts his head enough to look at the camera, immediately worried because he can never help himself when it comes to me. “How are you, Cupcake? I miss you. Our Alphas are bullying me.”
I snort. “You saw me this morning and I’m fine. Did you eat anything other than fries and the little sandwiches? What about the protein bar Maceo packed you?”
His face scrunches up just as Grayson speaks up offscreen. “He had two bites of a protein bar before an animation rig personally attacked him.”
Blake turns just enough to glare in his direction. “It was broken,” he mutters, as if that explains everything.
Luther’s hand settles over the back of Blake’s neck, thumb moving in a slow stroke that turns Blake’s glare into something softer despite his best effort.
There’s a plate balanced on the couch beside them, sandwich and fruit and something with melted cheese that has Grayson’s fingerprints all over it.
Blake reaches for a grape with the tragic dignity of a man being bullied by nutrition, then looks directly into the camera while he eats it, like I should be impressed.
I am, a little. Mostly because he did it.
His wedding ring catches the light from the office window when he lifts his hand, and something in my chest loosens at the sight of it.
He never takes it off. Not to code, not to sleep, not to argue with cardiologists.
I used to tease him about how the band was going to outlast his actual finger. He told me that was the point.
Grayson comes into frame behind the couch, his hair loose around his shoulders, eyes soft when they land on me. “How’s Ember House looking? The last time I was there, it had grown so much from that little sanctuary.”
I open my mouth to say something just as Blossom passes me, handing me a small box of her sweets. I almost tell her ‘no thank you’ but then she just glares at me. Whoever her pack ends up being, she’s definitely going to be the boss.