Chapter 1
The Past Knocked, So I Brewed Coffee
~REVERIE~
The nightmare always starts the same way.
Kael Draven's voice—smooth as winter bourbon, cold as the frost creeping across my windowpane—slithering through the dark corridors of my subconscious like smoke from a dying fire.
You're nothing without us, Reverie.
Just a broken little Omega playing pretend.
The words wrap around my throat, squeezing, suffocating, until I can't breathe, can't scream, can't—
I shoot up from bed, gasping.
My heart hammers against my ribcage like it's trying to escape, and for a wild, disoriented moment, I'm not sure where I am.
The darkness presses in from all sides, thick and suffocating, and I can still smell it—that awful combination of leather and expensive cologne and wrongness that always clings to Kael and his pack like a second skin.
Then reality filters back in through the panic.
The soft glow of my fairy lights, strung haphazardly across the slanted ceiling of my attic apartment.
The familiar scent of vanilla buttercream from the candle I forgot to blow out before bed, now mixed with the crisp bite of November air seeping through the cracked balcony door.
The weight of my favorite fuzzy blanket—the one covered in dancing snowflakes and sugar cookies—tangled around my legs.
Safe.
I'm safe.
I press a shaking hand to my chest, willing my heart to slow down, and flop back against my pillows with a theatrical groan that would make my online followers laugh.
Except there's nothing funny about waking up drenched in cold sweat, my sleep shirt clinging to my skin, anxiety crawling through my veins like ice water.
How are you supposed to move on from a toxic ex when your brain keeps dragging you back to their dungeons every night?
I ran away to this small town specifically to escape the past, to build something new, something mine.
And yet here I am, still haunted by the ghost of Kael Draven and his pack of pretentious Alphas who treat me like a pretty toy to show off at events and discard when I no longer serve their purposes.
A sigh escapes my lips as I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead, my fingers trembling slightly.
I hate this feeling—this bone-deep anxiety that makes my stomach twist and my hands shake. It's like carrying a backpack full of stones everywhere I go, invisible to everyone else but crushing me with every step.
Kael is so good at making me feel small.
At taking every insecurity I ever whisper to him in vulnerable moments and weaponizing them.
You're too much, Reverie.
Too loud, too needy, too emotional.
No wonder your family didn't want you.
His Beta, Thorne, is even worse, with his cruel smile and cutting remarks disguised as concern.
And Jasper, the other Alpha in their pack, just watches it all happen with those dead, disinterested eyes, like I'm a mildly entertaining reality show he'll eventually get bored with.
The belittling.
The ridicule.
The way they make me feel like a fundamentally broken individual in their presence, like there's something inherently wrong with me that no amount of trying can fix.
Until I finally shatter completely and leave.
Because nothing—nothing—can be more humiliating than staying with a pack that only uses me for their own gain and social dominance. A rejected Omega is tragic, sure, but at least a rejected Omega has her self-respect intact. Mostly. On good days…
I grab my phone from the nightstand, squinting at the too-bright screen.
4:30 AM.
Doesn’t my anxiety have impeccable timing?
Outside my balcony doors, I can already hear the birds starting their pre-dawn chorus—that peculiar 3 AM bird convention that technically happens closer to 4:30 but whatever, birds don't care about accuracy.
Their cheerful chirping feels almost mocking in contrast to the heaviness sitting on my chest.
But you know what? This is fine.
This is good, actually.
November mornings in Oakridge Hollow are perfect for my pre-sunrise routine.
The darkness lingers longer now, wrapping the town in velvet shadows and the kind of quiet that feels almost sacred.
I can do my whole Pilates session in peaceful darkness before the first creep of sunrise starts painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that always make me feel inexplicably melancholic.
See? Silver linings. I'm practically a professional optimist.
I swing my legs out of bed, my toes immediately recoiling from the cold hardwood floor. My apartment is basically a glorified attic—all slanted ceilings and quirky angles and a bathroom so small you have to decide between showering and breathing—but it's mine.
Every fairy light, every mismatched throw pillow, every candle in a ridiculous holiday scent — current favorite, "Candy Cane Forest," which smells exactly like what would happen if a peppermint married a pine tree and they had a very enthusiastic wedding.
I pad toward my tiny kitchen alcove, the November chill raising goosebumps on my arms despite my fuzzy pajamas.
The apartment smells like vanilla and cinnamon from yesterday's candle-burning marathon, with an undertone of the caramel body lotion I slather on before bed. Comforting. Safe. Mine.
First things first: coffee.
The world’s finest blessings.
I pull out my favorite mug—the one that says "Powered by Chaos and Caffeine" in swirly gold letters—and start the coffee maker. The rich, dark aroma of French roast immediately begins filling the small space, mixing with the vanilla-cinnamon-caramel situation I have going on.
If my apartment has a scent profile, it would be: Cozy Disaster Who Tries Really Hard.
While the coffee brews, I change into my workout clothes—high-waisted leggings covered in tiny crescent moons and slices of pie —because why choose between celestial and dessert themes?
— and a soft purple crop top that makes me feel cute even when I'm sweating through Pilates poses that definitely violate several laws of physics.
I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging by my closet and pause.
Honey-gold hair with those pumpkin-spice orange tips I impulsively add last month, currently looking like a bird's nest that survived a tornado.
Big, still-slightly-panicked eyes that give away everything I'm feeling, even when I don't want them to.
Soft curves that Kael's pack alternately fetishizes and criticizes, depending on their mood.
Not going down that road this morning.
I grab my coffee—blessed, life-giving coffee—and take a long sip.
The warmth spreads through my chest, chasing away some of the lingering anxiety.
I learned the hard way that mornings after nightmares require extra gentleness.
Pushing too hard, moving too fast, only makes the anxiety worse.
So today will be slow. Intentional. A moment of stillness and calm to ease myself back into the happy persona I build.
The Reverie everyone online gets to witness.
Social media saves me, in a weird way.
When I first arrived in Oakridge Hollow—broken, scared, convinced I'm fundamentally unlovable—I started posting little videos about my new life.
Nothing fancy, just me being aggressively cheerful about small-town things.
The local bakery's cinnamon rolls. The way the leaves change color.
My disastrous attempts at holiday crafts that look like they're made by an enthusiastic toddler with access to a glitter cannon.
People respond. Not millions—I'm still a small influencer in the grand scheme of things—but enough.
Enough comments saying "you made me smile today" and "I needed this positivity" to make me feel less alone.
Less isolated.
Like maybe I'm not as broken as Kael convinces me I am.
But there's always a dark side to it, isn't there?
The comparison trap. The perfectly curated lives that make mine look messy and chaotic. The occasional comment that cuts deep, usually from someone who definitely isn't Kael or his pack but could be.
I try to avoid that darkness.
Pretend it doesn't exist. Focus on the joy, the connection, the community I'm building.
And deep down—in a place I barely admit to myself—I hope that one day, a video will go viral. That some magical algorithm will bless me with fifteen minutes of fame that could open doors. Maybe a brand partnership. Or enough money to stop worrying about making rent every month.
Would that give me the proof I need to feel I'm worth something?
God, that's depressing…I must need more coffee.
I roll out my yoga mat in the small clear space between my bed and my overflowing bookshelf, positioning myself where I can see out the balcony doors.
The sky is still deep indigo, punctuated by a few stubborn stars.
The air coming through the cracked door is sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine from the forest that edges the town and the faint sweetness of wood smoke from someone's fireplace.
I start with gentle stretches, letting my body wake up slowly.
Neck rolls that release the tension I carry since the nightmare.
Shoulder shrugs that remind me I don't have to hold the weight of the world—or Kael's criticisms—anymore.
Cat-cow stretches that make my spine crack in deeply satisfying ways.
The familiar movements are meditative. Grounding. Each breath in brings the scent of coffee and vanilla and pine. Each breath out releases a little more of the nightmare's grip.
In with peace. Out with panic. In with possibility. Out with the past.
I move into a plank, arms shaking slightly because despite doing this every morning, planks are still the devil's exercise and I stand by that assessment. But I hold it, focusing on my breathing, on the way my muscles engage, on anything except the lingering echoes of Kael's voice in my head.
Side plank. The shaking intensifies.