Chapter 6 Amelia
Amelia
I've been awake since five this morning, lying in my nest and staring at the ceiling while my stomach tied itself into progressively tighter knots.
Today is my first official day with the Kane pack.
Summer has officially started, school let out two days ago, and now I'm supposed to show up at their house and take care of their kids like I'm a functioning human being instead of a mess of anxiety and trauma responses.
They sent over a list of expectations yesterday, all of them surprisingly reasonable. Nothing overwhelming. Nothing I can't handle.
The pay they’re offering for basically babysitting is generous.
More than generous, actually. When Dylan saw the number, his eyebrows had shot up.
But this is good. I can throw myself into this.
I need to throw myself into this. Having a purpose, having something to focus on besides the constant fear that Vincent is going to find me, is exactly what I need right now.
So why does walking to their house feel like I'm walking to my own execution?
The bus drops me off three blocks away, the walk to their front door just under a mile. I'd mapped it out carefully last night and traced the route on my phone a dozen times. I know exactly where I'm going. I know how long it takes. I've eliminated as many variables as I can.
But I'm still nervous as hell.
I keep adjusting my clothes as I walk, smoothing down my shirt, checking that my jeans aren't twisted, and making sure my hair is still in its braid. It's a compulsion I can't seem to shake, this need to make sure everything is perfect, that there's nothing Vincent could criticize if he were here.
Except he's not here. He doesn't get to have an opinion anymore.
I repeat that to myself like a mantra, but it doesn't stop my hands from fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. I stop just at the edge of the driveway, forcing myself to stay put and breathe rather than take off. I can do this, I tell myself over and over again. They’re Dylan’s friends. They can’t hurt me.
Three seconds later, I’m at their front door, knocking on the wood and hoping that this won’t be a disaster in the making.
The door opens almost immediately, Wyatt standing there with a soft smile on his lips. He's wearing jeans and a dark colored t-shirt, his blond-brown curls slightly damp like he just got out of the shower, a fresh wave of his citrus scent hitting my nose.
"Hey. Right on time. Come on in."
I step inside, noticing that the house is cleaner than it was during my interview, but there's still that lived-in quality. Toys in a basket by the stairs, small shoes lined up by the door, and a backpack hanging on a hook.
"The kids are just getting up," Wyatt explains, closing the door behind me. "Isaac's an early riser but Riley likes to sleep in when she can. They'll probably be down in about ten minutes. Do you want some coffee? I just made a fresh pot."
"That would be great, thank you," I manage to say, following him toward the kitchen.
That's when I hear footsteps on the stairs. I turn just as Hunter appears, and he's somehow more intimidating in casual clothes than he was in his suit. Tattoos that were covered up before line his arms and his long hair is pulled back in a low bun, his hazel eyes landing on me immediately.
"Morning," he says, his voice that same deep rumble as the day we met. "Glad you made it."
"Morning," I echo, wrapping my arms around myself.
Silas appears from what must be his study from around the back of the stairs, a coffee mug in one hand and his glasses in the other, but he smiles when he sees me.
"Good morning, Amelia," he says. "Welcome to the chaos."
I manage to mirror his smile, about to say good morning for the second time, when I notice that all three Alphas go stiff. Simultaneously. Like someone hit a pause button on the entire scene. Three pairs of eyes lock onto me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle as the realization sinks in.
Oh god. Oh no.
I forgot my scent blockers.
In all my nervous energy this morning, all my obsessive preparation and route-planning and clothes-adjusting, I forgot the single most important thing. The cream is sitting on my bathroom counter at Dylan's house, and I'm standing here in a house full of Alphas with my scent on full display.
Rose. Sweet and warm. Unmistakably Omega.
The air in the room changes, growing thick with my scent as it goes acidic. My instincts start singing, begging me to step closer, to accept the three Alphas in front of me, and... My eyes widen at the implication of them being something more than just Alphas.
Scent matches. All three of them.
These are my Alphas. The ones my biology has been waiting for, the perfect complement to my Omega nature.
And that thought sends pure panic screaming through my system.
No. No, no, no. This can't happen. Not again. I can't do this again.
My chest tightens, my breathing going shallow. Black spots start dancing at the edges of my vision, every instinct I have screaming contradictory commands. Submit. Run. Stay. Flee. Trust. Don't trust anyone ever again.
Vincent's voice echoes in my head, all the things he used to say. That I was his. That I belonged to him. That no other Alpha would ever want me, that I was lucky he put up with me at all. That I was nothing without him.
I can't survive another Alpha. I can't survive another relationship where I lose myself completely, where I become nothing but an extension of someone else's will.
"I'm sorry," I blurt out, the words tumbling over each other in my haste to get them out. "I forgot something. At home. I need to—I have to go. I'm sorry."
I start backing toward the door, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop my phone when I fumble it out of my pocket.
"Amelia, wait—" Wyatt starts, taking a step toward me.
I bolt for the door and wrench it open, practically falling through it in my desperation to get out. The fresh morning air hits my face but it doesn't help. Nothing helps. I can't breathe. I can't think.
My feet carry me down the porch steps and down the walkway, moving on pure instinct and adrenaline. Someone calls my name behind me but I can’t stop. If I let them catch me, I’ll have to face what just happened, and then I'm going to completely fall apart.
I make it three blocks before my legs give out and I have to stop, leaning against a street sign while I try to remember how to breathe. My chest is heaving, gasping for air that won't come. My hands are shaking so violently I can barely hold my phone steady enough to unlock it.
Fate is cruel. Impossibly and devastatingly cruel.
I tell myself that I’m just needy, that the Kane Alphas aren’t necessarily my matches but just ignited that part of my hindbrain, demanding I find someone to lean on.
How am I even supposed to know if they're really good? Vincent seemed good at first. Charming and attentive and caring. He didn't show his true colors until I was already in too deep and had built my entire life around him and had nowhere else to go.
What if these Alphas are the same? What if this scent match thing, this biological imperative my body is screaming about, is just another trap?
I can't do it. I can't take that risk. The cost is too high.
My fingers finally cooperate enough to pull up Dylan's contact and hit call. The phone rings twice, my heart nearly beating out of my chest before he answers. "Hey sis, what's—Amelia? What's wrong?"
The concern in his voice breaks something loose in my chest and a sob escapes before I can stop it. "Can you come get me?" My voice comes out small and broken, barely recognizable as my own. "Please? I need you to come get me."
"Where are you?" There's rustling on his end and the sound of jingling keys. "Send me your location. I'm already on my way."
I manage to share my location through the app he installed last week, then slide down the street sign until I'm sitting on the curb with my knees pulled up to my chest. People are starting to emerge from their houses, heading to work or walking dogs, and I know I must look like a disaster. But I can't bring myself to care.
Dylan's truck pulls up less than ten minutes later, my brother out of the driver's seat before it's even fully stopped.
He crouches down in front of me, his hands reaching for me and then stopping just before he touches.
"Hey, hey. You're okay. I've got you,” he murmurs, waiting for me to lean in.
I sag forward, Dylan pulling me into his chest. "Can you stand? Let's get you in the truck."
He helps me up, supporting most of my weight, and gets me into the passenger seat before climbing back into the driver's seat. He doesn't start driving right away, instead, turning to face me.
"You don't have to be anything you're not ready to be," he says gently. "Whatever happened back there, whatever you're feeling, it's okay. You get to decide what you're ready for. Nobody else."
My eyes glaze over with tears and I let them spill over, streaming down my face while Dylan sits quietly and lets me cry. He doesn't push for an explanation or demand to know what happened. He just sits, a solid presence that asks for nothing.
When the tears finally slow, I wipe at my face with shaking hands. "I'm sorry. I'm such a mess."
"You're healing," Dylan corrects. "There's a difference."
He starts the truck and begins the drive back to his house, taking the turns carefully like he's worried about jostling me too much.
The familiar streets pass by the window, and gradually my breathing evens out.
The panic recedes, settling back into the constant background anxiety I've learned to live with.
Back at the house, Dylan walks me inside and straight to the couch. Maddox appears from the kitchen, takes one look at me, and disappears again. He returns moments later with a glass of water and a blanket, wrapping it around my shoulders without saying a word.
"Want to talk about it?" Dylan asks, settling next to me.
I shake my head. How do I explain that I just discovered my biological perfect matches and ran away because I'm too broken to accept them? How do I put into words the terror of wanting something so badly while simultaneously being absolutely certain it will destroy me?
"I just freaked out," I say instead, which is true even if it's not the whole truth. "Being in a house full of Alphas, it was too much. They all came out and said good morning and I just... I panicked."
Dylan's arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. "That's okay. That's completely okay. You've been through hell, sis. I’m not entirely sure what I was thinking when I offered you up like that."
"But I really want to try," I say, and I'm surprised by how much I mean it. Despite everything, I want this job. I need this job. Those kids need me, and I need to be needed. "I need this, Dylan. I need to do something useful instead of hiding in your house all day."
"Then we'll figure it out," Dylan muses, running a hand up and down my arm. "Maybe you can work up to it. Start with shorter hours. Whatever you need to make it manageable."
I nod slowly, already planning on how to make this work.
Tomorrow I'll set three alarms to remind myself.
I'll put the cream in my bag tonight so I can't possibly forget it.
I'll be more careful and more prepared. I'll take care of their kids and help with their house and collect my generous paycheck, and I'll keep my broken Omega self locked away where it can't get me into trouble.
They don't need an Omega anyway. They need help with their kids. That's all.
I can do that. I can be that for them without being anything more.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump. I pull it out, expecting it to be Vincent somehow, some new number he's found to harass me with.
But it's Wyatt.
Hey. Are you okay? You don't have to explain what happened. Just want to make sure you're safe.
The concern in the message makes my chest ache. Another message comes through while I'm staring at the first one.
If you need time, that's fine. No pressure. The job is yours if you still want it.
I stare at the words for a long moment, then start typing before I can overthink it.
I'm sorry about this morning. I forgot something important and panicked. I'd still like to come back if you'll have me. I'll be more prepared tomorrow.
The response comes a few seconds later.
Don't worry about it. Seriously. We all have rough mornings. See you tomorrow at 7?
Yes. Thank you for understanding.
Of course. Get some rest.
I set my phone down and lean my head back against the couch, closing my eyes. Tomorrow I'll be better. Tomorrow I won't run.
I have to believe that, even if I'm not entirely sure it's true.