2
I sigh hard, dragging my sleeve across my eyes even though it does little to stop the ache building behind them.
“Honestly? I don’t even know. The men who rescued us that night, along with your pack.
They were mine, Fallon. I felt it. My whole damn soul felt it.
But after we left that warehouse... nothing. ”
My voice trembles, traitorous and thin. “It’s been a month.
A whole fucking month. They could’ve found me through your pack or any of your alpha connections.
But they didn’t. I haven’t heard a word.
” I press the heel of my palm to my chest, like that’ll stop the crack forming there.
“I think—” The words splinter mid-sentence, and I have to force them out through clenched teeth. “I think they rejected me.”
Fallon gasps, full and furious, and I barely register it before—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell chimes like it doesn’t know it’s interrupting a full-blown emotional meltdown.
I flinch, blinking in disbelief. “Hold that thought,” I mutter, scrambling out of the nest with all the grace of a sleep-deprived opossum. “Someone’s apparently decided it’s a great time to ring my doorbell.”
I trudge down the hallway, muttering curses under my breath, emotionally unraveling and blanket-wrinkled like a true disaster omega. I’m fully prepared to lay into a Jehovah’s Witness, a lost pizza guy, or possibly a neighborhood cat.
But then I yank open the front door—
—and my heart stops.
They’re there.
All three of them.
Dare. Fox. Jex.
Jex, the tallest, massive enough to practically fill the entire doorway, towers over me.
His deep chestnut hair is dull and knotted from neglect.
His golden-brown eyes—intense and strangely vulnerable—fix onto mine, exhaustion and desperation swirling in their depths.
Even slumped and clearly drained, he radiates raw, untamed power that sends chills skittering down my spine.
Beside him stands Dare, his lean, muscular frame tightly coiled despite obvious fatigue.
He’s all sharp angles and dangerously graceful movements, obsidian-black hair falling messily over his sharp, defined jawline.
His stormy gray eyes search my face cautiously, assessing, wary, yet somehow pleading for something unspoken.
Tattoos peek from beneath the sleeves of his black T-shirt, shadowy patterns crawling across his forearms, hinting at secrets I’m not yet privy to.
Fox stands slightly behind the other two, the quietest presence yet no less impactful.
He’s slimmer than both Jex and Dare, built like a silent predator.
Fox’s sandy-blond hair falls wildly across his forehead, framing soulful brown eyes that shimmer with exhaustion and quiet intensity.
His handsome, angular face is wary, but his gaze remains steady on mine, silently begging forgiveness for their absence.
I stare openly, my mouth hanging unattractively open. “I...uh—Fallon, I stand corrected. I’ve gotta go.” I barely register Fallon’s shouted protest as I lower my phone and end the call with trembling fingers.
“Hello,” Jex finally murmurs, his voice a soft rumble, deep but strangely hesitant. He sways unsteadily on his feet, eyes hooded as he fights to stay upright.
“Come in,” I whisper, stepping aside without thinking. The three men shuffle past me silently, their powerful auras muted by exhaustion, collapsing onto my couch in an almost synchronized slump of relief.
My instincts kick into gear, and I dart into the kitchen, grabbing three bottles of cold water before rushing back. I hand them out quickly, heart hammering painfully in my chest.
Fox accepts his bottle gratefully, offering me a small, tired smile that warms me despite everything.
“Thank you,” he murmurs softly, his voice like velvet wrapped in steel.
He studies my anxious face and sighs, eyes gentle.
“I know you must have questions—a lot of them. And we will answer every single one.”
I nod numbly, hugging myself tightly as I watch them, relief, confusion, and uncertainty warring in my chest.
This had better be one hell of a good explanation.
Fox
May 17th
10:45 A.M
Violet St. James stands in front of us, barefoot and blinking, like we’ve just shown up in the middle of one of her nightmares—and we might have.
She looks like she just rolled out of bed, and I can’t decide if I want to fall to my knees and beg her forgiveness, or drop dead from exhaustion right here on her doormat.
Her short purple curls are a chaotic, beautiful mess—tangled in a way that only happens after hours spent buried in a nest. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted in surprise, and her sharp blue eyes flick between us like we might disappear if she blinks too hard.
There’s no mistaking the emotions there—anger, confusion, maybe even fear—but beneath all of that, what cuts the deepest is the glint of hurt . It wraps around my throat like a noose. She doesn’t say anything. Just looks at us. And fuck, I think that silence might kill me.
She’s smaller than I remember. Not physically, but something about her posture, the way she’s holding herself. Like she’s had to learn how to brace against things. Like the space we were supposed to fill had been left cold for too long.
She’s wearing tiny sleep shorts that leave way too much bare skin and a loose black T-shirt sliding off one shoulder.
I can see the faintest freckles scattered there— hers.
A detail I didn’t know I needed until this moment.
The shirt reads I like my coffee how I like my magic—dark and bitter , and I let out a breath of a laugh despite the crushing weight in my chest.
Of course, our mate would be soft and sharp all at once. Of course, she’d make heartbreak look like art.
And then I smell her. Lemon frosting. Sweet, sugary, comforting, and so very Omega .
It hits me like a brick to the gut, curling in the air, thick with heat and something painfully real.
That scent has haunted my memory for a month.
I don’t realize how much I missed it until I’m half-sick with the need to get closer.
Beside me, Dare stiffens, his jaw tight. Jex exhales a sharp breath through his nose, fists clenched at his sides. We’re all on edge—every nerve frayed raw—but none of us move. We can’t. We’re barely standing, and we sure as hell haven’t earned the right to touch her.
I want to fall at her feet. I want to beg. I want her to look at us like we’re more than ghosts showing up too late.
But mostly—I want her to stop looking at us like we broke her.
“Hi,” I say, voice rough from disuse and regret. “You look...”
I almost say beautiful , but I don’t deserve to give her that right now. So instead, I swallow it.
“You look like you were sleeping.”
Brilliant, Fox. Fucking brilliant.
Violet’s silence stretches between us like razor wire—thin, taut, and ready to snap. Her piercing blue eyes flick between the three of us, sharp as glass, measuring everything we are, everything we’ve done… and everything we didn’t do.
Then, finally, she speaks.
“I have two questions.”
Her voice is calm—too calm. Like silk wrapped around steel, something delicate with the threat of blood beneath. Her arms cross tightly over her chest, pushing her breasts higher and framing her tension in a way that’s both distracting and devastating.
“One: Are you rejecting me?” she asks, tone clipped, each word delivered like a stone tossed into still water. “Because if you are, you can march right out of my house without another word.”
Jex jerks like she just landed a punch. His body goes stiff, his throat bobs with a hard swallow, and I see it—his instinct to drop to his knees and beg. Dare lets out a growl, low and vicious, like someone’s just threatened something sacred. And honestly? They have.
Me? I just sigh. Deep and tired. The kind of sigh that’s carved from bone-deep guilt and sleepless nights.
“No,” I say quietly, firmly. “Of course we’re not rejecting you. Not now, not ever. I swear to you, Violet—we had a damn good reason for what happened. But none of it… none of it was because we didn’t want you.”
She doesn’t budge, not really, but there’s a tiny shift in her shoulders. Just enough that I know she’s listening—even if she hasn’t decided whether or not she wants to forgive us yet.
“That brings me to question number two,” she says, voice clipped. “What the fuck happened?”
Even brimming with frustration, she’s radiant—her fire, her presence. I can’t stop my eyes from tracking the way her shirt clings to her breasts and the way those ridiculous shorts ride up her thighs. Exhaustion claws at me, but my cock still twitches because she’s here. Angry, glorious, real.
“It’s a long story,” I say, dragging a hand down my face, wishing I had more energy to shape it how she deserves to hear it.
She raises a single brow, unimpressed. “I’ve got time.”
With that, she turns her back on us and crosses the room.
She curls herself into what looks like a nest-chair hybrid, all oversized cushions and soft throws.
Of course, she’d claim the coziest, most defensible perch in the room.
It suits her. Something tight and aching in my chest loosens at the sight.
I clear my throat. “We knew the second we walked into that building—you were ours. Not a maybe. Not a hope. A fact. You’re ours, Violet.”
My voice catches, so Dare picks up the thread.
“We had you ride back with the others because we needed to report in. It was protocol, and at the time… we couldn’t tell you who we worked for.
It was confidential.” He exhales hard, like just saying it pulls something from his gut.
“The plan was simple. Get in, report, shower, come find you. Kingston already gave us your name. Said you were one of their omegas’ best friends. We knew who you were.”
“We weren’t walking away,” Jex says, his voice low, eyes dark with memory. “We went to the building where we always debrief. Looked the same. Nothing felt off. But the second we were inside the room, the door locked behind us—and we were surrounded.”
My jaw tightens. The anger still simmers just beneath the surface, slow-burning. “They detained us,” I add, voice like gravel. “Said we’d gone rogue by helping the Rosetti pack. Called us liabilities. The higher-ups think Kingston and his people are running some underground crime syndicate.”
Violet makes a noise—part groan, part scream—and grabs the nearest pillow, whacking herself in the face with it before letting out a muffled yell into the fluff. I blink, not sure whether to laugh or duck.
“They aren’t mafia!” she shouts into the pillow.
She lifts her head and glares at us, eyes wide and fierce. “Insane, yes. Mafia, no.”
Despite everything—despite the guilt dragging me under—I can’t help the corner of my mouth from twitching. That’s our mate: her fury, sass, and absolute refusal to let anyone define her world for her.
She’s not backing down.
And that’s good. Because neither are we.