4
“Ineed to talk to you about something shitty,” Noah mutters as he tucks his towel around his bare waist.
I halt in place, my hairbrush combed halfway through my hair. “Okay, what is it?”
We meet eyes in the bathroom mirror, but Noah looks more uncomfortable by the second. I set down my brush, spinning around to face him directly.
Droplets spill from Noah’s hair like a timer counting the seconds. The only sound in the room is the buzzing fan over our heads, still pumping out damp air from our hot bath.
It’s been over a week since we were ambushed by Alpha-domination cultists, but Noah has been quieter ever since. Tenser. I haven’t had much of a chance to ask him about it; we’ve hardly had alone time together with how busy he’s been. Thankfully, it’s finally Saturday. But with me looking at him face-to-face, Noah’s shoulders raise.
I rub his arm. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I just— I don’t ever know how to bring this up. I feel bad bringing it up.”
I sigh, dropping my hand. “This is about Steven, isn’t it?”
Noah meets my eyes again, hurt racing across his features.
I pull him over to the toilet seat, plopping myself on the closed lid. Then I pat my lap. “Come sit.”
Noah lifts one eyebrow, unable to suppress a smile. “Sweet Omega, I don’t think—”
“Don’t you dare call me tiny, you big, sweet Alpha.”
Noah’s soft laugh lightens my spirits by miles.
With a tug on his hand, I convince Noah to hover-sit in my lap. I burst out laughing. “You have to actually put some weight on me!”
“No,” he laughs, shaking out a few droplets from his hair and spraying my face.
I scream-giggle, burrowing my face between his shoulder blades.
With my arms wrapped around his waist, we sit in silence. But after 30 seconds, Noah scoops me up, switching our positions.
“Fine, I give up,” I laugh. “But don’t think you’re upsetting me just by saying his name. Part of what I’ve worked on with Jenny in therapy is speaking words out loud, treating words and thoughts like words and thoughts, not like real-life dangers to avoid. It’s helped.”
Noah nods, kissing my shoulder. “O-okay, that’s good to hear.”
“So what about Steven did you want to ask?”
Noah’s eyebrows flinch when I say Steven’s name. “I still think my questions could be extremely triggering.”
I clear my throat, dropping my eyes to my hands. I’m tempted to pick at my nails. “Are you talking about the break-in?”
Noah rapidly shakes his head, but this time his water-flinging doesn’t make me laugh. His stare clings to the bathroom tile, avoiding my face. “No, not about any particular acute trauma. I don’t want you to relive that moment unless you have to.”
The sharp silence between us makes my heart race. Somehow, I’m touched.
I’m also relieved; I don’t really want Noah thinking too much about the exact details of the break-in. He probably wants to hear them, at least once, and I know his thoughts aren’t in my control. But for now, the thought of anyone I know imagining me in that state makes me feel weak all over again.
I’d never call another person in my shoes “weak,” but this was Steven’s goal. He knew I felt like an exception, and he exploited it. To his credit, he was an excellent manipulator of my brain. I still find little pieces of his teachings in the background of my thoughts.
Recounting every detail from that day makes me feel like raw meat, baring my sore spots for someone to chew off a devastating chunk of me. I don’t trust people anymore.
Then I met Noah. Over the past three months, I’ve bared my soul to him more than anyone I’ve ever met.
Everything has changed. Maybe my judgments about my “weaknesses” can continue to change too.
As my mate anxiously runs his hands up my sides, I relax into his chest.
“I trust you,” I whisper. “I know I haven’t told you everything about what he did to me that day, but I want to. Someday soon.”
Noah drops his forehead against my shoulder, wrapping his arms around me. His breath is sharp but quiet, flexing his built chest against my back.
After a minute-long hug, Noah’s deep voice rumbles even quieter against my shoulder blades. “Basically, I’ve been thinking a lot about us having kids.”
My heart flips. That wasn’t what I was expecting to hear.
I open my mouth to speak, but I’m too shocked at what’s dying to come out on instinct: me too. All day, every day.
But Noah trudges on, picking up speed. “Ever since you told me you felt like you’re being watched, it hurts to think about. I know it’s a PTSD thing for you, and all these asshole Alpha cultists aren’t helping, but it’s also because you don’t know where he is. I don’t want you to have to feel like you have to watch your back for the rest of your life, not in Greenfield. Not in your own fucking home. Especially not while you’re pregnant, or while you’re taking care of our kids. That’s not fair to you at all, not when I might be able to do something about it.”
I bite my lip. My eyes are already watering, partly from Noah’s agitated Alpha musk, but mainly from how startling it still is to experience Noah’s compassion while I’m recalling Steven’s heartlessness.
“Noah, I don’t want you to have to—”
“No, not ‘have’ to.” He breathes hard against my back, shaking his head. “I can’t stand that no one fucking listened to you. I want to be that authority figure in your community who listens. The one who believes you.”
I bite my lips, no longer able to stifle tears. Dropping my head, my shoulders shake as my expression warps.
Noah’s head pops up. His balled-up hands in my lap soften to caress my abdomen. “Fuck, I’m sorry...”
“No,” I suck back tears, smiling. “Thank you.”
Cupping Noah’s cheeks, I drop my forehead against his. We close our eyes, breathing through the humming emotional overwhelm in our bond.
But the longer we sit in silence, the more my heart aches too much to ignore. When I open my eyes, Noah’s are already open.
He tucks my damp hair over my shoulder, replacing its wet chill with his overheated palm on my neck. “What are you thinking?”
My eyelids flutter at his gentle, sweet brushing on my mark—the scar he left on my sensitive scent gland to symbolize our bonded souls. A loving wash of his concern warms my heart through our shared emotions, but it also makes my chest ache worse.
This beautiful soul staring back has suffered immensely too. Fear spikes our bond around triggers I’m slowly noticing over time, but mainly when he’s not home with me. I know he hides them, and I don’t think it’s solely because he’s afraid to show his pain.
I think no one believed or protected Noah either. The thought scalds my heart.
Of course he’s guarded. Why wouldn’t he be? When no one else shows you they’re safe, you do everything you can to survive—alone.
I sort Noah’s hair, biting back tears. “It’s just— What about you? Aren’t you still going to be uncomfortable that whoever hurt you just as badly is still out there too?”
Noah traces my eyes. Instinct stifles my breath as he analyzes me.
For a second, I don’t recognize him. All his emotions have been washed away.
Then he taps on my side. “I need to stand.”
I hop off his lap immediately, my eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
He gives me a soft smile before throwing his shirt collar over his head, disappearing into the fabric. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong, sweet Omega.”
When he pulls his head through the collar, his back remains to me. Noah hurriedly throws on the boxers and worn black jeans from his clean clothes pile beside the sink, his agitation rising by the second in our bond. Then he reaches for the door handle.
Fuck, I hit a major sore spot. With my experience, there’s no mistaking what just happened; Noah is in the throes of hyperarousal from PTSD, his emergency alert systems thrusting into overdrive. I’ve described it to Jenny as sprinting in place, giving me urgency to scream or run, but terrifying me that I’ll hurt myself out of panic from how heavily the fear wracks my heart until I’m begging for it all to end already. I doubt Noah wants to be confined in this small, humid bathroom.
I stick close to Noah, but not too close, allowing him space to breathe. I didn’t expect this reaction, and I’m not sure he expected it either. I haven’t breached the subject of Noah’s monster since he disclosed a tiny piece of trauma in his den, but I know he’s worked on this in Prolonged Exposure therapy—as in, his trauma is massive.
He’s worked hard in therapy, I’m sure, but I also know sometimes it’s too raw to fully work on. Or even if it’s worked on, trauma never truly disappears. Every time there’s another trigger, there’s a potential setback.
I just hope Noah will be okay.
Squeezing my fingers over and over again to self-soothe, I follow Noah past his living room. I’ve never seen him this triggered before, so I’m not sure what to expect. What type of symptoms his PTSD presents itself as. It’s eerie: I genuinely can’t feel anything from his side of our bond, so maybe he’s dissociating.
But when we reach Noah’s kitchen, he pulls out a barstool for me. I track him across the kitchen as he rolls his shoulders out, but it’s almost like I’m watching a silent movie of his usual morning routine—like we weren’t just talking, at all. After a few quick circles of his arms, he opens a drawer at the end of his kitchen cabinets and fetches a black pen and a white lined notepad.
Noah sets the notepad on the countertop beside me, leaning heavily into the rich brown wooden block. After a few silent seconds, I swallow hard, unable to stifle my worries.
Noah glances at me in passing, but he does a double-take when he sees my face. “Hey, it’s okay. Really.”
He drops his pen, reaching across the countertop with an open palm. I place my hand in his. He smiles softly, but there’s a visible, cavernous crack in his stoic mask, a horrendous pain seeping through the sudden grayish exhaustion around his eyes. It tears at my stomach, acid stinging my throat.
Noah runs his thumb over my knuckles, softening his voice. “Do you not believe me? If I seem upset, I’m not upset at you. None of this is your fault. It’s— It’s Barrett’s.”
I swallow hard. Noah’s the one who can’t say Steven’s name, opting for using Steven’s last name, “Barrett,” instead. What if I’m triggering Noah worse than I realize?
Wait, that’s right: we were supposed to be talking about Noah’s abuser now, not mine. Did Noah just deflect me?
I know it’s not the same as Steven’s deflections, but I can’t calm my racing heart: in the past, deflections were my warning sign. If I challenged Steven’s avoidance of an important topic, I’d be the one to pay for it.
This is where I’d usually follow Steven’s cue to keep myself safe, but this isn’t Steven. Noah is holding my hand, looking into my eyes for answers. I have to give him a chance.
“That’s not how I saw what just happened.” I settle onto the barstool, keeping my tone gentle. “I brought up something sensitive, and I’m worried I triggered you badly.”
“Oh... Oh.” Noah bites the end of his pen, his brows furrowing. After a few seconds of staring into the distance, Noah drops the pen to the countertop with a massive sigh. “No, you were fine. I just don’t know how to solve that either. I don’t know what to say that’s not a huge fucking disappointment that might make you lose faith in me because there’s—” His breath hitches. Noah swallows hard like his throat ran dry. “There’s not a single thing I can fucking do about that situation, but— But I know I’m good at tracking, so please don’t think I can’t help you, it’s just— This one’s—” Noah smashes his face in his palms, breathing hard into them. “This one’s different.”
My heart burns. Noah’s emotions are slowly returning to my awareness, and they’re too much to bear. What the hell happened that feels so unfixable to my powerful mate?
Noah takes a deep, shuddering breath as his wolf frantically paces across our bond. “But at least I haven’t tried to track down Barrett yet. There’s still hope there. I swear, there’s hope.”
I’m nauseous. “You want to track him? And then what?”
He shrugs, keeping his forehead in his palms. “File that restraining order, for one.”
My heart leaps. I mentioned my rejected restraining order to Noah one single time.
Revealing bloodshot, weary eyes, Noah tilts his head, blinking at the blank lined paper between us. “But if he’s a Lycan, I can do a lot more.”
My stomach growls, and Noah lifts an eyebrow. He breaks into a smile, but I shake my head, unable to laugh.
“I don’t like this. I don’t know what you’re thinking, and I’m starting to get triggered, myself.”
Noah rounds the counter to sit on the barstool beside me, his smile erased. “I’m not thinking about anything I”m not saying aloud. I just can’t—”
He drops my stare, taking a shuddering breath. God, the way he just croaked out that last word physically hurt my nerves with the pain it carried. When he speaks again, he hides the ache in his voice with a flattened tone.
“I can”t stomach telling you about what I”ve failed to do in the past, or why I failed at it. That’s why I’m extra weird. I’m sorry.”
Rubbing Noah’s arm feels like a pathetic attempt at comfort, but I’m unable to find the right words. I don’t know enough to know what’s true, but I doubt Noah failed at anything. That sounds more like his disorder making him extra harsh toward himself.
Noah doesn’t seem to notice I haven’t spoken, his knee bouncing as he returns to rubbing his head. “But if Steven is a Lycan, I can put word out that he’s not allowed around our Omegas, our women, or any of our ally packs. That’s the least I should do, other than locking him up for what he did to you if he takes a single step onto our territory.”
My heart races just as quickly as Noah’s pacing wolf. Noah isn’t just telling me he’ll take me seriously, he’s acting on his words. I don’t know how to process it.
A strange guilt creeps in, warning me I’m taking too much space. Soon enough, Noah could get sick of my bullshit, just like Steven, so I shouldn’t put any extra stress on Noah. To stay safe, I have to keep the peace.
But with my intensifying emotions, Noah’s eyes glow yellow. “He’ll be a rightful outcast, and assumed guilty far quicker if he ever pulls anything even close to harassment of anyone else. I can’t let that happen to any of us again, Aliya. I won’t.”
His breath shakes through every word, but now I certainly feel something; his anger in our bond is just as strong as my heartache. I”m so grateful for him, but I know Noah’s wolf well enough to recognize he’s been weird lately: brooding and quiet for his usually excitable puppy-self.
I suck in a sharp breath. This might finally be it; what Noah is doing for me is exactly what he needs someone to do for him.
But fuck, I can’t. I don’t have the skills to track his monster, let alone prevent them from hurting anyone else. Even if I was stronger, I wouldn’t know where to begin. I don’t have the resources or skills to protect Noah. He’s the one teaching me how to function like other Lycans in the first place. Who am I to think I can solve this massive, terrifying problem for him?
Pathetic tears prick my eyes. I feel so small, so feeble.
For now, my wolf reminds me.
There’s still one person I might be able to stop.
I straighten in my seat, grabbing the pen and notepad. “Alright, ask me anything you might need to know about Steven, and I’ll write it down.”
Relaying Steven’s identifying details has been too much to stomach at once, so between binging movies together, Noah stepping out to solve a minor issue at the border, and my unexpected, trauma-exhausted nap on the couch, we’ve managed to gather a small list in a mix of our handwriting.
Name:Steven Barrett
Identifying features:blonde, light brown eyes, probably human, 6’1”, runner - lean, athletic, toned
Hometown:Westview
Family members:Stacey and John Barrett→parents, Aaron→older brother in WA
Note: Steven felt betrayed by his mom for kicking his dad out when they were kids because he felt like he had to become the parent way too early on in life to make ends meet and didn’t have a real childhood, so I never met any of them
Job/Workplace:5 years ago, he was working at Chestnut Real Estate
address:
406 Chestnut Rd
Westview, OR 97139
-controlling
-jealous
I’ve ended up on the carpet, fiddling with the strands. Noah tucks his massive form between the couch and coffee table just to settle against my side. “Alright, are you ready for the hardest questions?”
My smile fades. I take a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes.”
As agreed upon, we’ll roll through Noah’s questions about Steven’s core beliefs quickly. My heart pounds faster by the second, my anticipatory anxiety spiking. What if I can’t handle it as much as I think I can?
Maybe I can’t, I tell myself. I can’t be certain.
My stomach gurgles.
“If you had to pick one thing you heard the most, what was his top belief about male superiority?” Noah asks quietly.
My focus flickers across the carpet, struggling to sum up years of Steven’s indoctrination. But Noah and I planned to rapid-fire speak without allowing OCD or PTSD to tag team too long, and it’s proving necessary; both disorders pour doubts into my mind. What if I made all this up? What if I was wrong about feeling harmed, and Steven was right about everything—that I was a delusional, whiny girl?
But in my heart, I know the truth.
My voice shakes as I spout it. “Everything went back to one thing with him: that men are inherently owed many things, and not giving it to them was unjustified, especially as a woman.”
I huff through the silence. I expect Noah to write something down, but his notepad remains stationed in his lap.
And his tender eyes remain on me. “You okay?”
I nod, giving him a soft, quick smile. “Keep going.”
He glances between my eyes. “What would he do if you challenged those beliefs?”
Anxiety burns my veins, so I pick at my nails. “He’d make it really personal. Saying stuff like how I like to make everything about me, or that women complicate the simplest things.”
Noah frowns. “So he’d shift the blame? Would he always make it about your gender or sex, or was it all different personal things about you?”
I open my mouth to say it wasn’t always about gender or sex, but then I shut it again. “Actually, now that you say that, I think it was both. He’d dig at little things I’d do wrong, and it felt so personal, but from a distance, I can connect them all to things he found irritating about women, in general. I walked away from that relationship feeling like trash, not just because of what he did, but because I felt like trash as a woman.”
A flicker of hurt races over Noah’s features. He places his hand over mine. “Do you still feel like trash?”
My heart flips. I wriggle where I sit, uncomfortable with my answer. Eventually, I spit it out. “Only when I think about that day he broke in.”
With that, Noah scribbles additions to his notes at the bottom of our list, his jaw clenched hard enough to bulge a vein across his temple.
- generally a wimpy ass coward
- classic abuser:
judgmental, hyper-critical
lack of morals around how to treat others: highly objectifying.
manipulative, word-twister
demands power, control, and dominance, especially over women***
doesn’t like to face problems head on—could use to our advantage when confronting him
***fixated on beliefs to the point of violence→proof of potential to hurt others
Once he’s done, Noah allows me to take the notepad from his hands. I suck in a shaky breath in anticipation of how I’ll respond, but this list feels surprisingly neutral.
It’s more than the list; I was afraid of serious trauma fallout within myself from today’s continually triggering conversation, but the more we’ve written down, the lighter I’ve felt. And I know why.
With one glance at my mate beside me—his brooding stare tracing the ceiling as if it’ll help him solve this puzzle—I truly feel it: I feel believed.
Cupping my hand around my mouth does nothing to stop a sob from escaping. Noah jolts upright. Within seconds, I’m tucked into his lap, my chest squeezed against his in a tight embrace.
“I’m so sorry,” Noah whispers.
The ache in his heart pangs through me. I squeeze him back twice as hard.
“No, it feels like you’re saving her,” I say. “That version of me who felt so alone and scared that day.”
“Fuck.” Noah’s watery whisper tugs at my chest’s core. He kisses the top of my head, but I can feel his lips quivering as his breath shudders through fresh tears. “She wasn’t trash.”
Whimpering through another sob, I grip Noah as hard as I can.
We hold each other in silence until our tears run out. After what must be an hour of nuzzling, tracing each other’s features, and gentle massages of each other’s arms and backs, Noah and I shift into a smiling exhaustion.
It’s weird; I couldn’t imagine smiling after spending a whole day working through past traumas. But the longer I gaze into Noah’s adoring eyes in front of me, the less I can stop myself from giggling. He laughs, wrapping me in his arms until I hum through the endorphins from his deep, satiating squeeze.
“Fuck, you’re too cute. How did I get smushed down here with you, sweet Omega? I don’t remember.” Noah whispers. His smile widens as I purr against his chest.
“You’re right, I don’t remember us choosing to be sandwiched between the couch and coffee table either, but I love it. What started this whole thing again?”
Noah chuckles. “Just your annoying mate’s paranoia kicking in, or something.”
Then my eyes snap wide open.
No, this all started because Noah was thinking about having kids with me.
As I gape at him, Noah’s eyebrows raise higher and higher. “W-what?”
“You’ve been—” I bite my lips. I never thought I’d be able to say this to someone. My heartbeat thrums into my ears. “You’ve been thinking about having a baby with me?”