Chapter 14 #2
I try to speak. Open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
My brain has officially abandoned ship. There are no words. Just the overwhelming scent of vanilla-caramel-citrus and the visual of wet skin and pink towel and legs I want wrapped around me.
"Did you decide to become a mime or something?" Theo's voice echoes from down the hallway.
Right. They followed me. Because apparently I can't do anything alone anymore without my pack deciding to tag along.
Footsteps approach—heavy, deliberate. Theo and Grayson rounding the corner from where they've been waiting by the elevator because Theo isn't good with stairs unless it's a literal life-or-death emergency.
.
They reach us. Round the corner. Take one look at Reverie standing in the doorway in nothing but a fuzzy pink towel with water dripping down her skin.
And both freeze completely. Like someone hit pause on their entire existence.
Theo's eyes go wide—comically wide for someone who's usually so controlled.
Then they darken, pupils dilating so fast it's visible even from where I'm standing.
His whole body goes tense, predatory, every line screaming Alpha-wants-Omega in the most primitive way possible.
His nostrils flare as her scent hits him full force—probably just as overwhelming for him as it is for me, maybe more so since he fucked her last night and his hindbrain is screaming 'mine' on repeat.
Grayson makes a small choking sound. Like someone just punched him directly in the solar plexus and knocked all the air out of his lungs in one devastating blow. His hands clench into fists at his sides, knuckles going white with the effort of not reaching for her.
Yeah. That's about right. That's the completely appropriate response to Reverie in a towel with her scent flooding the hallway strong enough to make grown Alphas forget how to function like normal human beings.
Reverie groans, crossing her arms over her chest—which does absolutely nothing to help the situation. Just makes the towel ride up slightly and draws attention to how the fabric is molded to her curves.
"Why are you three all here at my place?" Her voice pitches higher with frustration. "Actually—how did you guys even find my place? Are you legal stalkers or something?"
"No," Grayson says immediately, his voice strained. Then adds helpfully: "Only Theo has the tactical training for that."
Grayson. Buddy. That was not the reassuring response you think it was.
Reverie tilts her head, one eyebrow arching in that way that makes her look simultaneously adorable and extremely unimpressed.
Grayson's mouth forms a perfect O of realization. "Oh... that comment was rhetorical, wasn't it?"
Theo grins—that dangerous, knowing smile that means he's enjoying this chaos way too much. His voice drops to that low rumble that he uses when he's being deliberately provocative.
"If I wanted to find our Sugarplum, I most certainly could. But following Nash was probably the smarter move. Less work."
Our Sugarplum. He's already claiming her with possessive pronouns and she doesn't even know about the fake pack arrangement yet.
Reverie groans again, louder this time. The sound vibrates through the hallway.
"I'm on the phone!" She gestures wildly with the hand that's not clutching her towel. "Why are you three here? What is happening right now?"
Theo and Grayson both point at me in unison.
Thanks, guys. Real supportive pack behavior. Throw me under the bus immediately.
I finally find my voice. Clear my throat. Hold up the sushi bag and envelope like they're self-explanatory.
"The delivery."
She blinks. Stares at all three of us like we've collectively lost our minds and she's trying to figure out if this is a prank or a mental health crisis.
"So," she says slowly, her tone carefully measured like she's talking to particularly slow children. "Out of all the people in Oakridge Hollow—all the delivery drivers, all the random strangers—you're the one who got my food delivery?"
I nod. Slowly. Because explaining the side gig thing and the address recognition and the irrational need to make sure she eats seems too complicated right now when my brain is still mostly focused on the towel situation.
She sighs. Deep and long-suffering. Like we're the greatest trial she's ever had to endure.
"Fine. Gimme." She reaches for the sushi bag. "And shoo. All of you. I have to finish this call and—"
"Uh, delivery for Reverie Bell?"
A new voice. Male. Coming from the other end of the hallway.
All four of us—me, Theo, Grayson, and Reverie—turn to look.
There's a man in a delivery uniform standing there—professional courier service based on the embroidered logo on his chest. Premium delivery company.
The kind that charges extra for same-day service and guaranteed freshness.
And he's holding a massive bouquet of flowers that probably weighs as much as a small child.
Roses. Red roses. At least three dozen of them—maybe more—arranged in an elaborate crystal vase display that probably cost more than my motorcycle payment.
Long-stemmed, perfect, the kind you get from an actual florist instead of a grocery store.
Baby's breath filling in the gaps. Green filler creating visual interest. A massive red bow tied around the vase.
Expensive. Thoughtful. Romantic.
Who the fuck is sending our Omega roses? Who thinks they have the right? Who's trying to court her with overpriced flowers when she doesn't even have a pack yet—when WE'RE supposed to be her pack?
Reverie is halfway into the hallway—one bare foot out of her apartment, clearly intending to sign for them and probably put them in her apartment where she'll look at them every day and think about whoever sent them—when instinct takes over.
The three of us move as one. No discussion needed. No coordination or planning. Just pure pack synchronization born from months of living together and fighting together and learning each other's tells.
We form a wall between Reverie and the delivery guy. Shoulder to shoulder. An impenetrable barrier of Alpha muscle and possessiveness.
She squeaks—an actual squeak of surprise that's adorable and indignant all at once—as she finds herself suddenly blocked by three Alphas who've collectively decided without discussion that she's not getting anywhere near those flowers or that delivery guy.
"What the—oh my god, what are you guys doing?" Her voice is muffled behind us, frustrated and confused. I can feel her trying to peer around shoulders that are definitely not budging. Small hands pressing against my back, trying to create space. "Move! I need to sign for them!"
Theo ignores her completely. His attention is laser-focused on the delivery guy, his entire body language shifting into something harder, more dangerous. His voice drops into that interrogation tone that probably worked wonders when he was extracting information from enemy combatants.
"Who are the flowers from?" Each word is clipped, precise, allowing for no evasion.
The delivery guy looks increasingly uncomfortable, shifting the massive bouquet in his arms like it's suddenly gotten heavier. His eyes dart between the three of us, clearly trying to assess the situation and whether he should just abandon the delivery and run.
"It's from a private sender," he says, voice wavering slightly. "But that's not really your concern. I just need a signature from Ms. Bell and I'll be on my way."
Wrong answer, buddy. So very wrong. You don't tell three protective Alphas standing between you and their Omega that her business isn't their concern. That's how you get your ass kicked in a small-town hallway.
Grayson steps forward, his usual gentle demeanor completely replaced by something harder, sharper. More possessive than I've ever seen him. The romance writer who cries at movies is gone, replaced by an Alpha who's not backing down.
"It is our concern." His voice is firm, absolute. "We're her Alphas." He gestures to all three of us with a sweeping motion. "Her pack. And none of us ordered flowers for her. So why don't you take them right back to whoever thought they could court an Omega who's already claimed?"
Her Alphas. We're officially claiming her to random delivery people now without her knowledge or consent. This fake pack arrangement is getting very real very fast and I'm not sure any of us are pretending anymore.
The delivery guy looks between us and the door, clearly trying to figure out the dynamics here and whether this is worth minimum wage plus tips. "I'm just doing my job. I need her signature or I can't complete the delivery."
Reverie groans behind us—deep and frustrated and completely done with our shit.
I can feel her trying to push through again, small hands pressing against my back with more force this time, against Theo's shoulder, trying desperately to create any kind of space between three bulky Alphas who have far too much muscle and possessiveness and protective instinct working in our favor.
She's not strong enough to move us. Not even close. An Omega against three Alphas who've decided she's not getting past this wall? Not happening. We don't budge an inch.
She huffs—the sound of someone who's reached the end of their patience and given up on reasoning with unreasonable people. Her voice rises, projecting over our shoulders to the increasingly nervous delivery guy who's probably regretting taking this particular job.
"Sorry! Can you just leave them downstairs with the shop owner? She can sign on my behalf. I'll pick them up later."
The delivery guy shrugs, clearly deciding this isn't worth the hassle. "As you wish, ma'am."
He turns to leave, then pauses. Looks back at the apartment door.
"Your apartment is leaking, by the way."
The three of us growl in unison.
Not at him. Just the general statement. The implication that something's wrong with her living space. The Alpha instinct to fix and protect kicking in immediately.
The delivery guy practically runs down the hallway. Smart move.
Reverie rolls her eyes so hard I can hear it. But then she looks down at her feet.
Frowns.
I follow her gaze downward and see it—a clear puddle of water seeping out from under her apartment door like a slow-motion flood.
Growing. Spreading. Creating an expanding pool across the hallway floor that's soaking into the carpet runner and probably going to cause property damage that she definitely can't afford based on what I know about her financial situation.
Her bare feet are standing directly in it. The water is creeping toward us, dark and ominous against the beige hallway carpet.
It takes her exactly three seconds to process what she's seeing. I watch the realization hit in real-time—eyes widening with dawning horror, mouth dropping open in a perfect O of shock, the sharp intake of breath that precedes absolute panic.
"The bathtub!" She shrieks, the sound piercing enough to probably wake everyone on this floor. "It's flooding! I turned the tap on whenI was about to answer the door... and forgot to pull the drain plug and oh my god—"
She spins around.
Doesn't wait for permission or help or any kind of response from the three Alphas standing in her hallway. Just turns on her heel and runs back into her apartment, heading straight for what I assume is the bathroom where a tub full of water is currently overflowing onto her floors.
The apartment below hers is probably flooding too. The ceiling, the walls, everything getting soaked with bathwater while she was having her self-care moment. Property damage. Repairs she'll have to pay for. A landlord who's going to be pissed.
"Reverie, wait—" I start, moving forward instinctively. My hand reaches out even though she's already too far away. "Be careful, the floor is wet and you're—"
Too late.
Her foot hits the wet hardwood floor inside her apartment. The water that's been spreading from the bathroom for god knows how long, creating a slick surface that's basically an ice rink. She's moving too fast, too panicked to be cautious, bare feet offering zero traction.
She slips.
It happens in slow motion. Her arms windmill desperately, trying to catch balance that's already completely gone.
The towel starts to slip—she grabs for it instinctively instead of trying to catch herself.
Her shriek cuts through the air—high and terrified and making every protective instinct I possess roar to life.
Move. Fucking move. Catch her.
I lunge forward, arms reaching, but I'm too far away. Standing in the hallway while she's already inside her apartment. The distance is insurmountable in the fraction of a second I have.
Theo moves faster—those military reflexes kicking in even with his damaged knees, pushing past the pain to reach for her—but even he can't close the distance in time. His fingertips brush her shoulder. Miss. Can't get a grip.
Grayson shouts her name. The sound is desperate, anguished.
Reverie goes down hard.
The sound of her head hitting the floor is sickening. Hollow and wet and final. The kind of sound that makes your stomach drop and your blood run cold. The kind of sound you hear in nightmares.
Her body crumples. The towel comes loose, falling away. She doesn't try to catch it. Doesn't move to cover herself. Just lies there in a spreading pool of bathwater, completely still.
Then everything goes silent.
No movement. No sound. Just the steady drip of water from the bathroom and the three of us frozen in her doorway.
She's not moving.