Chapter 5 Xaden
XADEN
This time of year, it’s cold, but predictable.
Liam pulls his jacket tighter, muttering something about the weather that I don't quite catch.
Garrick doesn't seem to notice the temperature at all, because he still has that glazed look in his eyes like someone just hit him with a particularly effective concussion grenade.
"So," I say, my breath misting in the frigid air as we walk toward the truck. "That was interesting."
Liam shoots me a look, because he knows me well enough to recognize when I'm fishing for information.
When you live with someone for three years like we have, as a pack sharing everything from morning coffee to late-night conversations, you develop an almost telepathic understanding of each other's motivations.
We've become this tight unit, and each of us knows how the others tick.
Garrick grunts and keeps walking, his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he's trying to physically contain whatever's happening inside his head.
"I mean," I continue, because apparently I have a strategic death wish tonight, "it's not every day we see Meredith Blackwell take in charity work."
"She'll pay rent," Garrick scoffs.
"Uh-huh." I unlock the truck and climb into the driver's seat, waiting for them to settle in before I start the engine. The pause gives me time to read the tension radiating from him. "And how exactly is a woman with no car and no money going to pay rent?"
Liam buckles his seatbelt, and Garrick stares out the passenger window like he's mapping escape routes. Which, knowing Garrick, he probably is.
I pull away from the curb and head toward the mountain road that leads to our place, letting the silence stretch long enough to make them uncomfortable. People reveal the most when they think you’re not really listening. Happens every time.
I catch Liam’s reflection in the rearview mirror. His jaw is tight, brow furrowed, staring at the bakery door like he's willing Violet to come back out wrapped in blankets and a goddamn emotional support team.
Huh. Our gentle giant doesn’t usually spare that kind of worry for anyone who walks on two legs. But tonight? He looks ready to hand-feed her soup and stand guard while she sleeps.
Interesting.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “It’s as if she’s learned how to brace for a blow while pretending not to flinch.”
I’ve seen that kind of conditioning before…deep muscle memory that doesn’t fade just because the threat’s gone.
Garrick's jaw ticks, but he stays quiet. He doesn't have to say a word. His scent tells the whole story: coffee turned bitter, wood sharpened into something restless and on edge.
"What are we going to do about it?" Liam asks.
"“Nothing,” Garrick mutters, still not looking at us. “She made it clear that she’s not sticking around. I gave her a bed, a hot meal, and enough breathing room to get back on the road.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. But his posture’s locked tight, and he hasn’t moved from that damn window since she went upstairs.
I've known Garrick Tavis for nearly a decade, and I can count on one hand when he’s rattled. The same guy who barely grunted at customers for six months after Rebecca left him for someone else is now coming apart over a guarded omega.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Sophia didn’t just leave, but dumped me for Jesus and took vows.
Liam once said he trusted animals more than any omega.
And me? I figured if we all had our hearts stomped on, we might as well build something from the wreckage.
That’s how our pack started. Three rejects, swearing off love like it was a bad habit.
We’re not poster boys for emotional stability.
Out here, it's nothing but pine, rock, and space to think. No staff. No patrons. No one expecting a damn thing from me.
Just the road, the trees, and the kind of quiet that doesn’t ask questions.
No scent, but I can’t stop thinking about Violet’s, even after she stole the bread rolls from the tables.
I shift my grip on the wheel.
Focus. Just the road, the trees, and the kind of quiet that doesn’t give a shit about feelings.I check the mirrors again. Habit. Not the way her scent’s still lodged somewhere in the back of my skull like it belongs there.
It's not a traditional pack house. More like three separate cabins connected by covered walkways, with a central common area that houses the kitchen, living room, and the kind of stone fireplace so damn big it could roast a moose and still leave room for the flames to show off. Visitors lose their minds over it.
Liam designed it after we decided to stick together. He wanted something that gave us room to breathe without cutting off connection. Smart man. Nothing strains a bond faster than being crammed together with no escape.
I park next to Liam's SUV, where he left it after work. He tends to hitch a ride to the bakery after he’s finished at the clinic. I kill the engine.
"You know," I say, making no move to kill the engine or open the door, "for someone who claims he wants her gone as soon as possible, you sure did put a lot of effort into that soup."
"She was hungry," Garrick snaps, and I can practically hear his defenses slamming into place.
"Uh-huh. And the fresh bread?" I ask.
"Had extra dough."
"Right. And the way you went back to check on her three times while she was eating?"
"Making sure she didn’t choke or stab someone.”
Liam snorts from the back seat. "Mate, you do realize we can all smell the lie on that, right?"
I twist around to look at our vet, raising an eyebrow. It's rare for Liam to call anyone out directly. He's more of a gentle nudge and supportive silence kind of alpha. This is new territory.
"What?" Liam shrugs, not looking particularly repentant. "Someone has to say it. Garrick's a grumpy alpha and even more brisk against her being there than he might normally, and we're all just going to pretend it's normal?"
Garrick's scent goes from bitter coffee to something dangerously close to espresso mixed with motor oil, his version of barely contained fury.
"I am not..." he starts, then stops.
I’ve seen Garrick go full grizzly before. It's not a Hallmark moment.
Right now, he has tense shoulders, fists like he's ready to punch a wall for breathing too loud. One wrong word and he’s either throwing hands or emotionally combusting. It could go either way.
"Look," I say, "no one's judging you for noticing an attractive woman. We're alphas, not monks. It’s not like we haven’t all used Knot Me app to keep things... manageable.”
We swore off having an omega of our own. Too much mess. Too many complications.
That doesn’t mean the need disappeared.
The app, Knot Me fills the gap. Quick hookups. No bonds. No aftermath.
It satisfies the body, not the instinct.
We act like it’s enough. Pretend the emptiness after doesn't matter.
But it always creeps back in.
The hunger. The bond we say we don’t need.
No app can replace that. Not really.
"She’s not staying," Garrick snaps, cutting me off. His voice is flat, final. "Whatever you're both thinking, forget it. She’ll be gone in a few days, and everything goes back to normal."
He climbs out of the truck and slams the door hard enough to rattle the frame, then stalks off toward his cabin like it just insulted his sourdough starter.
Liam and I trade a look, the kind of resigned eye contact you make when your grumpiest packmate starts spiraling and pretending it’s about soup.
"Well," Liam says, breaking the silence, "that went well."
"Like lighting a match in a fireworks factory."
We get out and head to the common area. The motion-sensor lights blink on, spilling cold light over the covered walkway that links our three cabins to the main building.
Liam’s cabin’s on the left, all windows and sunshine, with a wide porch where he lounges with his vet journals and pretends not to listen in when we argue.
Mine’s on the right, built for comfort but also with good views of the property, quiet corners, and more exits than strictly necessary.
I like knowing who’s coming before they knock.
Garrick’s place sits straight across from the common area, separated by a little garden Meredith guilted him into planting last spring.
He grumbled about it the whole time but kept adding herbs and late-bloomers like he cared.
It’s the most private of the three cabins which suits him.
He likes his quiet, room to bake, space to brood, and just close enough that we can drag him out when we need to.
The common area is cozy in the way Liam insisted on: exposed beams, big stone fireplace, furniture that practically begs you to stop pretending everything’s fine and just take a nap already. Liam beelines to the kitchen of course. That man stress-cooks like it’s a competitive sport.
I drop onto the leather couch positioned between the front door and the hallway. Not by accident. I like having sightlines. Exit and entry. Old habits die hard.
Garrick hasn’t followed us in. So he’s either in his cabin brooding over bread dough or out in that garden glaring at the moon like it owes him money.
"Coffee?" Liam asks, already pulling mugs from the cabinet.
"Only if you're making it the way Garrick taught you," I reply, settling back into the couch cushions. "None of that weak shit you usually brew."
He flips me off without looking, but then measures the grounds like someone who knows pissing off a master baker comes with consequences.
I take a slow, hard look at the mess we’re in. There’s a rattled omega camping above the bakery, and a pack brother wrestling with whatever nonsense is eating at him.
It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I’ve seen enough screw-ups to know how fast things can go sideways around here.
"She's pretty," Liam says quietly, leaning against the counter while we wait for the coffee to finish brewing.