Chapter Four
Chapter Three
Dare
I lay in bed, arms crossed behind my head, staring at the ceiling like the answers to my restlessness might be written in the shadows.
Sleep isn’t coming. Not tonight.
I’m bone-deep exhausted—my muscles ache, my mind feels like it’s been run through a grinder—but none of it matters. My instincts won’t settle. Not when she’s down the hall.
Our omega.
The past few days feel like a dream—the kind you don't want to wake up from. The kind where everything feels a little too perfect, and part of you is waiting for the fall.
We've spent every moment we could learning her—her likes, her edges, her tells. Every word from her lips has a bite to it, a twist of sass, but there’s always something soft underneath. Something real.
Violet St. James.
Sharp-tongued, sweet-hearted, and completely capable of knocking me on my ass with one look.
She’s the kind of woman who’ll insult your haircut with a straight face and then turn around and offer you the last piece of garlic bread without blinking. Fiercely independent, a little reckless, and still soft in those quiet ways that make something in my chest ache.
She challenges us. Makes us work for every inch of trust. And gods, I love it. Every sharp remark, every arched brow, every time she bites her lip like she’s debating whether or not to let us in—it all makes me want to fight harder. To be better.
To prove we’re worth it.
And she’s so fucking talented .
The way she talks about her art—it’s not just a job, it’s part of her.
She told us about her commissions, how people wait months for a piece, how her inbox fills faster than she can paint.
She sells her work online but has a studio, too.
A space ten minutes from her house that’s all hers.
Where she disappears for hours. Where she gets quiet and focused and alive .
And the way she lights up when she talks about it…
God.
Her eyes sparkle like she’s seeing things none of us could imagine, her hands moving in the air as she tries to explain her process, even though she doesn’t need to.
I could watch her talk about art for hours.
That soft, proud smile she wears when she mentions finishing a piece? It wrecks me in the best fucking way.
She loves what she does. You can feel it radiating off her. Her scent goes stronger—richer—sweet lemon frosting warming the air like sugar on a flame.
And I want to see it. Not just the art. Her. In her element. In her space. Dressed down and covered in streaks of paint, bare feet on canvas-dotted floors, eyebrows furrowed in that way she does when she’s focused too hard to notice she’s smiling.
That thought sends a wave of something through my chest. Hot. Heavy. Possessive.
I want to know every version of Violet St. James.
The sharp, sarcastic brat who flips us off when we flirt too hard. The shy, sweet omega who softens under praise and leans into touch like she hasn’t had it in years. The artist who loses herself in color and movement and gives the world pieces of her soul and calls it brushwork.
And the version she hides—the one who wants to let us in, even when she’s too afraid to say it.
I shift, glancing toward the other side of the room.
Fox is out cold, breathing slow and steady, one arm tucked under his head like he’s been in the same position for hours.
Jex is stretched out on the opposite bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, but I can tell from the way his chest rises and falls that he’s awake.
None of us have said it. Not out loud.
But we’re gone for her. Drowning. And I don’t think any of us want to come up for air.
And gods, my dick —it’s been half-hard for three days straight. Doesn’t matter how many cold showers I take or how many times I tell myself to get it together. It’s like my body knows before my brain does.
She’s it. She’s ours.
The barely-there sound of shifting glass—soft, delicate, but wrong —has my instincts snapping to attention.
A beat later, the muted creak of a floorboard.
My body moves before my mind fully catches up. I sit up fast, muscles locking into place, breath slowing as my adrenaline kicks in hard. Jex is already moving; his steps are silent and fluid, like smoke and violence wrapped in one. He disappears into the shadows beside the dresser without a sound.
Fox rolls smoothly off the mattress, landing in a crouch. His pistol is already in hand, aimed at the door, steady and sure.
I don’t hesitate.
My fingers close around the hilt of the knife I keep stashed between the mattress and frame—cool steel grounding me as a lifetime of training takes over. My heartbeat slows, and everything narrows down to focus, threat, and defense.
If Violet were awake… we’d know.
She mutters when she moves around. Grumbles about cold floors. Yells at her socks. Sometimes narrates entire imaginary conversations with her coffee maker.
But this? This silence?
It doesn’t belong to her.
A faint, deliberate tap against the bedroom door makes every muscle in my body tense. Fox shifts his weight, steadying his aim, finger hovering just above the trigger.
And then the door opens.
Just a crack. A sliver of dim hallway light spilling into the room.
Violet slips through like a shadow, barefoot and silent, her expression calm—but sharp. She closes the door behind her with practiced care, her eyes sweeping the room, finding all three of us in an instant.
I exhale through my nose, relief hitting me like a sucker punch. Jex straightens just a little. Fox lowers his weapon—only slightly.
She glances at the gun, then at our stances, and lifts her fingers to flash three at us. Her other hand dips to her hip, and I catch a glimpse of steel in the dim light—a knife tucked into the waistband of her sleep shorts.
She ties the oversized shirt she’s wearing into a knot at her lower back, exposing her stomach, her thighs, her intent.
She’s not here to hide.
She’s here to fight.
And fuck, my heart does something I can’t name.
Fox steps forward and gently pushes on her head, guiding her lower and motioning her to crouch. She obeys with a tight nod, her eyes still scanning the room, sharp and focused.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to. She’s telling us something—three intruders, living room, moving quietly. And she’s ready to take them down with us.
Goddamn. Our girl is terrifying.
And I’ve never wanted her more.
My cock twitches in response to the sight of her crouched there like some feral dream, blade in hand and eyes sharp enough to cut. But I shove it down. Lock it away. Now’s not the time.
Even if I am half in love with my mate and wholly fucking obsessed.
If anyone out there so much as breathes wrong in her direction, they’re going to learn exactly how bad of a fucking idea that is.
Violet doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Her grip on that knife is solid, and her knuckles pale around the hilt like she was born for this.
Her blue eyes flick between the three of us—alert, focused, waiting for our lead.
Fox goes first, silent as breath, pressing his ear to the door, one hand loose at his side, the other still gripping his gun.
Jex takes the opposite side, a shadow despite the size of him, his frame shifting with surgical control.
I hang back, eyes locked on Violet, giving her a single, silent order: stay put.
She nods once, lips tight, chest rising slow and steady. But her fingers tighten around the blade, and her scent sharpens—lemon frosting over fire.
My omega.
And right now, there’s nothing soft about her.
Fury coils in my chest like a live wire, buzzing hot under my skin—but I keep it locked down. Controlled. Useful.
This isn’t the time to rage.
This is the time to end the threat.
Jex lifts two fingers. The signal. One smooth breath, and we move.
Fox goes first—fluid, precise. His bare feet were silent on the floor.
The first guy never stands a chance. He’s got his back to us, weapon raised, trained on Violet’s bedroom door.
The second he shifts his weight, Fox is on him.
One brutal twist of his wrist, and the gun clatters to the floor, harmless.
The man doesn’t get to cry out. Fox slams his knee into his ribs, drives a fist into the side of his head. He crumples instantly, unconscious before he hits the ground.
The second one reacts fast—too fast for most. But not for Jex.
They collide with the force of a dropped wrecking ball.
The man throws a punch, sharp and well-aimed, but Jex doesn’t flinch.
He catches it midair, wrenches the guy’s arm in a way no joint should bend, and flips him onto his back with a sickening thud.
There’s a crack—a groan. The man doesn’t get up again.
The third man is the danger. He’s bigger. Smarter. Faster. His weapon swings up with terrifying control, aimed clean at the hallway.
Violet.
I don’t think. I move. I lunge, grabbing the barrel, jerking it up just as the silenced shot rips past my ear.
The sound is nothing—just a breath of sound—but it still sends my blood screaming.
I drive my elbow into his face. Cartilage crunches.
Blood gushes. He staggers, but this one doesn’t drop.
He fights. We grapple, the hallway too narrow, too tight.
He swings, and I duck, my blade biting deep into his side.
He grunts, rage thick in the sound. He’s still holding the gun, but he’s off-balance.
I slam my knee into his stomach. Again. Again.
When he buckles, I hit him square in the throat.
His breath chokes off. He collapses, gasping.
One more punch to the side of the head, and he’s out.
Fox and Jex are already restraining the others.
Fast. Efficient. One man groans low, the other is unconscious.
We use their own cuffs, twist them tight.
Blood smears the floor. Someone’s bleeding hard.