Chapter 23
Vee
"You're cheating."
"I'm not cheating."
"You are absolutely cheating."
Finn throws his cards down on the table. "There is no possible way you drew three matching cards in one turn without cheating."
Malcolm grins and leans back in his chair. "I'm just lucky."
"Lucky my ass."
I bite back a laugh.
We're playing some card game Alex pulled out of a closet. Something with matching sets and strategy I don't fully understand yet. But watching Finn lose his mind over it is worth the confusion.
"Maybe you're just bad at this," Alex says mildly. He's studying his own cards with the kind of focus that suggests he's three moves ahead of everyone else.
"I'm not bad at this. He's cheating."
"I literally shuffled the deck," I point out.
Finn turns his glare on me. "You're in on it."
"I barely know you people."
"Conspiracy starts fast."
Rhys draws a card, sets it down, then draws another. He sets that down too, then lays his entire hand on the table in neat, organized rows.
We all stare at him.
"That's—" Finn counts. "That's everything. You laid down everything."
Rhys looks at him.
"On your first turn," Finn says.
Rhys picks up his milk and takes a drink.
"How," Finn says flatly.
"Matched them."
"I can see that. How did you match them all on your first turn?"
Rhys looks at him again. The expression that lives on his face most of the time—the one that sits somewhere between watchful and completely unreadable—doesn't change.
"I sorted them," he says.
"You sorted them."
"While you were arguing."
The table goes quiet for a second.
Then Malcolm laughs. Full and genuine, his head tipping back. Alex's mouth curves into something that takes effort to contain.
"He sorted them while you were arguing," Malcolm repeats.
"I hate this game," Finn announces. "I hate everyone at this table."
"You love us," I say.
"I'm reconsidering."
I look at Rhys. He's not smiling exactly, but the corner of his mouth has that tension that I've learned means he's pleased with something and doing a moderate job of not showing it.
I catch his eye.
He looks away first.
The corner of his mouth stays.
Malcolm is definitely not wearing a shirt as usual. Just jeans low on his hips. Every time he moves I catch the flex of muscle across his shoulders, down his arms, the defined lines of his abs.
I'm trying very hard not to stare.
And failing miserably.
He catches me looking and smirks but doesn't say anything. Just lets me look.
Heat creeps up my neck.
"Your turn, Vee," Alex says.
I drag my eyes away from Malcolm's chest and look at my cards.
I draw one from the pile.
It matches two I already have.
"Ha!" I lay them down. "Three of a kind."
"See?" Finn gestures at me. "It's too easy. Someone rigged the deck."
"Or you're bad at this," Malcolm repeats.
Finn's glare could melt steel.
Alex plays his turn. Smooth and efficient. Then lays down four matching cards without comment.
"Oh, come on!" Finn says.
I glance toward the living room.
Drake is on the couch, eyes open this time, not pretending to sleep.
He's watching the table. Watching us. His gaze moves from Finn's theatrical frustration to Malcolm's grin to Rhys sitting at the end with his empty space where his cards used to be.
Then it lands on me.
I look back at my hand.
Malcolm follows my gaze toward the couch. His expression flattens briefly.
"Your turn," he says, redirecting.
I play my turn and discard.
Finn draws then makes a sound of vindication and lays down three cards.
"Finally," he says. "Some justice in this world."
"Congratulations on doing the bare minimum," Malcolm says.
Finn makes an obscene hand gesture.
Rhys draws a card and adds it to the small stack he's rebuilt since going out. His second hand is already forming with the same efficiency as his first.
None of us comment on this. We've collectively decided to pretend it isn't happening.
"Your turn, Vee," Alex says.
I draw, get a match and lay them down.
Malcolm nods. "Good."
Something about how he says it makes me suspicious.
"Did you just let me win that?"
"No."
"You did. You had a match and you didn't play it."
"I played what I wanted to play."
"Malcolm."
He grins, unrepentant. "Maybe I like watching you win."
"That's cheating."
"That's strategy."
"That's patronizing."
"That's affection."
The word hangs in the air.
Finn snorts. "Smooth, Malcolm. Real smooth."
Malcolm shrugs. "I'm not taking it back."
My face is burning. "I don't need you to let me win."
"I know you don't but I'm going to anyway."
"That defeats the purpose of playing."
"The purpose of playing is having fun. Are you having fun?"
I open my mouth. Close it.
"That's what I thought," Malcolm says.
Rhys lays down four cards. Goes out again.
Finn stares at him. "You did it again."
Rhys picks up his milk.
"You went out again… on your second hand."
"Yes."
"How long does it take you to sort?"
Rhys considers this. "Less time than it takes you to argue."
Malcolm makes a sound that's definitely a laugh disguised very poorly as a cough.
"I genuinely don't know how to feel about you," Finn tells Rhys.
Rhys looks at him, dry and patient.
"You'll figure it out," he says.
Finn blinks.
Then he laughs, surprised by it. A real laugh. Rhys's almost-smile appears. Briefly but just enough.
I look at him across the table. At this enormous, scarred, mostly-silent man who just made Finn laugh with four words after winning two hands without breaking a sweat. The alpha that keeps bringing me things I don't need or ask for just because it makes him feel good to take care of me.
On the couch, Drake shifts. The sound is small but I notice it.
Alex plays his turn. Four more cards. "I win."
We all turn to stare at him.
"What?" He sets his remaining cards down. All matches. "I said I win."
"How?" Finn demands.
"By playing well."
"You—" Finn stops, takes a breath. "I hate this game."
"You're just a sore loser," I say.
"I am an excellent loser. I lose with grace and dignity."
"You called Rhys a cheater three times in the last ten minutes."
"Because he was cheating."
"He wasn't," Malcolm says.
"Prove it."
"How am I supposed to prove a negative?"
I laugh. Can't help it.
They all turn to look at me.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." Finn's expression softens. "You just don't laugh enough."
The comment catches me off guard.
"I laugh plenty. You're just usually the one making me stop."
He mock gasps. "That's slander. I am delightful and you know it."
I look at Finn. Really look at him.
Messy hair that falls across his forehead, the sharp jaw. Those glasses that make his eyes look bigger and more expressive. His crooked smile with one corner higher than the other.
He's smiling at me now and my stomach does something I wasn't expecting.
I look away first. Back at my cards.
From the corner of my eye, I see Rhys watching me. Not intrusively. Just present like he's always present. Like he's cataloguing something and keeping the results to himself.
I meet his gaze. His eyes hold mine before shifting to Finn, then returning to me with deliberate attention. There's a look on his face that might be approval. Or satisfaction. Or both.
I look back at my cards.
"Another round?" Alex asks.
"God no," Finn says.
"You're just scared you'll lose again."
"I'm preserving my sanity."
"So yes. Scared."
"I'm going to put you in a headlock."
"You can try."
I watch them. The easy affection. How they move around each other like they've been doing this for years. Which they have.
The bond tugs, stronger this time. I want this, want them. Want to be part of this pack in a way that feels permanent.
The thought terrifies me.
I stand up. "I'm going to get water."
I don't look at the couch as I pass, but I feel Drake's eyes follow me across the room.
I don't turn around.
I don't know what it looks like from over there.
But I notice, when I finally look over on my way to get water, that he's not watching Malcolm or Alex or even Finn.
He's watching Rhys with an expression I recognize.
Because I've worn it.
It's the look you get when you see someone being given something you didn't give. When you understand, in a way that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with a gut feeling, that you are watching someone else be chosen.
I go to the kitchen and get my water.
And I don't feel guilty about what he saw.
***
It's late.
I'm in bed staring at the ceiling. The room is dark except for a sliver of moonlight through the curtains.
I've brought extra blankets onto the bed. I didn't consciously decide to do it, but I found myself pulling them from the closet and arranging them around me.
It's not quite a nest, but it's something.
My omega is trying. Even here, even now after everything.
I think about Ragon.
Wonder what he's doing right now. If he's home, if he's with Marie.
I haven't had the courage to ask Drake about Marie yet. If they bonded her before he left.
Part of me doesn't want to know.
Part of me needs to.
A memory comes. Unwanted.
Ragon and me in his bedroom months ago.
It was after Marie came. The dynamics were already shifting. I could feel myself becoming smaller, less important.
But that night he'd stayed with me. Kissed me slow and deep.
His hands were everywhere, patient, thorough.
He'd undressed me and laid me back on his bed.
Then he was inside me, moving slow, his forehead pressed to mine.
"I don't forget you," he'd said, his voice rough. Strained. "I will not let this house teach you that again. I will not let anyone make you small here. Not even me."
I believed him.
Believed it when his hands gripped my hips. When his purr wrapped around me. When he came inside me and held me after.
"You're mine," he whispered. "You've always been mine."
I'd fallen asleep in his arms that night thinking maybe it would be okay.
I was so stupid.
I close my eyes and press my palms against them. I don't want to think about him anymore.
I get up.
The house is quiet and dark.
I pad downstairs in bare feet. The kitchen is dim. There's only the light over the stove.
It's 2am.
I start pulling out ingredients. Flour. Sugar. Cocoa powder. Eggs.
Brownies.
I need to bake, need my hands busy. I crave something I can control.
I'm measuring flour when I hear footsteps.
Alex appears in the doorway.
He's shirtless, sleep pants hanging low on his hips. The definition of his lower abs visible even in the dim light.
"What are you doing?" he asks, sounding rough with sleep.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out automatically. "I know it's late, I didn't mean to wake you. I can clean this up and—"
"Vee." He crosses to me. "I didn't ask for an apology. I asked what you're doing."
"Making brownies."
He looks at the counter. The ingredients spread out.
Then he reaches for the cocoa powder. "How much?"
"What?"
"How much cocoa powder?"
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." He opens the container. "How much?"
"Half a cup."
He measures it out, then dumps it in the bowl.
We work in silence. He follows my lead and hands me things before I ask, moving around the kitchen like he belongs there.
"Did you used to bake?" I ask.
"No. You know I'm bad at cooking."
"Then how are you so good at this?"
"I'm good at following instructions."
I crack eggs into the bowl. "Most people aren't."
"Most people overthink it. I'm bad when I try to wing it."
He's right. There's something methodical about how he works. Precise. No wasted movement.
We get the batter into the pan, slide it into the oven and set the timer.
Alex leans against the counter. "What were you thinking about?"
"What?"
"Before you came down here."
I look away. "Nothing."
"Vee."
He sounds gentle but firm.
"Ragon," I admit. "I was thinking about Ragon."
He doesn't say anything, just waits.
"Something he said to me once. About not forgetting me. About not making me small." I swallow. "And then he did both anyway."
Alex is quiet.
"He failed you," he says.
"Yeah."
"That's on him. Not you."
"I know." I do know. Logically. "But knowing it and feeling it are different."
"They usually are."
We stand in the quiet kitchen. The oven hums. The timer ticks down.
"Tell me about your day," Alex says.
The change throws me. "What?"
"Tell me about your day."
"You were there for most of it."
"So tell me what I missed."
I think. "I read for a while this morning. Some fantasy novel about a girl who finds out she's half-fae."
"Any good?"
"The world-building is solid but the romance feels rushed."
He nods. "What else?"
"I helped Finn with lunch. He told me about a case he worked on last year. An omega whose pack was forging registry documents."
"How'd it turn out?"
"Finn caught it. Got her placed somewhere safe."
"Good."
We keep talking. About nothing and everything.
By the time the timer goes off I've forgotten why I was sad.
I pull the brownies out and let them cool. Then I cut them into squares.
Alex pours us both milk and we sit at the table.
The brownies are perfect. Rich and fudgy, still warm.
"These are good," Alex says.
"Thanks."
We eat in comfortable silence.
When we're done he helps me clean up. We wash dishes together and put everything away. It's almost 4am.
"You should sleep," he says.
"Yeah."
I turn to go and pause.
"Alex?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For this."
He knows what I mean. For not asking questions or pushing. For just being here.
"Anytime," he says.
I head back upstairs.
As I pass the living room I notice Drake on the couch. Eyes half-open, watching.
He's been awake. Probably the whole time.
I don't flinch. Don't look away.
Just keep walking.
Back to my room. Back to my bed with its extra blankets.
I unfold one more and add it to the pile.
I settle in and fall asleep almost immediately.
Dreamless and safe.