Chapter 28 Long Night
Long Night
~THEODORE~
Iwalk out of the bathroom into the hallway of Winter Pine Lodge's exclusive luxury cabin, steam following me out like a personal cloud, wrapping around my shoulders before dissipating into the cooler hallway air.
My skin is still warm and slightly pink from the near-scalding water I'd used, muscles loose and pliant from the heat. A yawn catches me completely off guard—deep and jaw-cracking and utterly impossible to suppress.
I'm exhausted.
Bone-deep, muscle-aching, ready-to-collapse-into-bed-and-sleep-for-twelve-hours exhausted.
The day has been relentless in the best and worst ways possible.
Started at 0500 hours with a brutal two-hour workout session at Iron Haven Fitness Center—full body training with heavy compound lifts, cardio intervals that left me drenched in sweat and gasping, core work that had my abs screaming.
I'd pushed harder than usual, trying to burn off nervous energy about picking up Reverie's credit card.
Then unexpectedly meeting up with the entire pack in Millbrook when what was supposed to be a quick solo trip to the bank turned into a group adventure.
Shopping at TechSavvy Electronics with River, watching Nash casually drop his American Express card like it was nothing while buying Reverie a phone and laptop that cost more than some people's monthly rent.
Her adorable protests about spending money, her shocked face when she realized we were serious.
The wild horseback ride across those frost-covered fields with cold November wind cutting into any exposed skin like tiny knives, adrenaline pumping through veins in a way I haven't felt since active duty. Racing Nash and losing by barely a second—which he won't let me forget.
Coming to Winter Pine Lodge for what was supposed to be a simple dinner reservation and maybe basic overnight accommodations to avoid driving in the predicted snowstorm.
Except nothing is simple or basic when Reverie is involved.
Nothing ever goes according to plan in the best possible way.
The owner—a warm, friendly woman in her fifties named Patricia with laugh lines around her eyes and an infectious enthusiasm—recognized Reverie immediately from her Instagram live stream that had apparently been shared extensively across local Millbrook community Facebook groups and neighborhood apps.
She'd practically vibrated with excitement, insisting on giving us a complete comprehensive tour of the entire sprawling property.
Showed us the main lodge with its massive stone fireplace and exposed timber beams, the restaurant with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest, the indoor pool and spa facilities, the various room options from standard to luxury suites.
She'd gushed enthusiastically about how wonderful it would be to have an actual influencer feature Winter Pine Lodge in her content, how it would help bring awareness to their small business, how local tourism could benefit.
Then she'd insisted—absolutely insisted, wouldn't take no for an answer—on offering us the exclusive luxury cabin for the night completely free of charge as long as Reverie mentioned them in her social media posts and tagged the location.
The generosity, eyes shining with grateful tears had completely overwhelmed Reverie, promising profusely to do a full detailed lodge feature tomorrow morning with photos and videos and glowing reviews.
Then dinner.
The most luxurious, decadent meal I've had in months—possibly years if I'm being honest. Braised short ribs that fell off the bone with the lightest touch of a fork, so tender and flavorful they practically melted on the tongue.
Roasted root vegetables glazed with local honey and fresh thyme, caramelized to perfection.
Fresh-baked sourdough bread still warm from the oven with herb-infused butter that Patricia made herself.
And for dessert, a chocolate lava cake with a molten center that made Reverie moan in a way that had all three of us Alphas shifting uncomfortably in our seats and adjusting our pants under the table.
I'm absolutely stuffed.
Pleasantly sore from the day's physical exertion. But there's this odd sense of satisfaction settling warmly in my chest that I don't quite know what to do with or how to process.
It's strange experiencing this feeling. Foreign and unfamiliar. Like trying on clothes that don't quite fit your usual style but somehow feel more comfortable than anything you've ever worn before. This is the first time in my thirty-two years that I've felt kind of... whole.
Complete in a way I didn't even know I was missing pieces until suddenly they all clicked into place.
Is this how it's supposed to feel with an Omega who genuinely loves you?
Who wants to be around you not out of obligation or contract terms or financial dependency but real, authentic affection? Someone who lights up when you walk into a room instead of shrinking away or flinching?
An individual who makes you want to be better than you are?
The towel wrapped around my waist is the only thing I'm wearing.
The cabin is warm—heated to a comfortable temperature by the gas fireplace downstairs and excellent insulation—so I don't bother getting fully dressed yet.
I walk past one of the bedrooms—the one on the left with the door slightly ajar—and see Grayson already asleep. He's sprawled across the king bed on his back, one arm thrown over his head, breathing deep and even. There's a book resting on his bare chest, rising and falling with each breath.
He falls asleep reading. Always has. I'd find him passed out with whatever paperback he'd brought, book still open to the page he was reading.
I walk quietly into the room, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet.
The bedside lamp is still on, casting warm golden light across Grayson's peaceful face.
I pick up the book carefully, trying not to wake him. It's one of the three cozy romance novels he'd bought at the bookstore where he’d first met Reverie—this one has an illustrated cover showing a decorated Christmas tree and two people standing close under mistletoe.
He and Reverie were talking about this one over dinner.
Something about it having twenty-four short stories in a countdown format—one for each day of December leading up to Christmas.
They were planning to start reading it early so they could create content together for her social media.
Book reviews or reading vlogs or whatever influencers do.
I like that they can help her with this new endeavor.
That we're all finding ways to support her dreams and ambitions. That she has people in her corner now instead of people holding her back.
Though deep down, beneath the satisfaction and warmth, there's worry gnawing at my gut like a persistent parasite.
The dark side of social media.
The jealousy that comes with it. The harassment. The stalkers. The people who think they're entitled to access just because someone shares their life online. I've seen it in my line of work—the cases that go wrong, the fans that become obsessive, the danger that lurks behind anonymous profiles.
I grab a sticky note from the nightstand—Grayson always keeps supplies nearby—and mark his page before closing the book and setting it on the table.
Then I grab the folded blanket from the chair in the corner and drape it over him carefully, covering him halfway. Not all the way—he runs cold at night and tends to wake up if he's too warm, preferring to adjust the blankets himself rather than having them piled on top of him.
Unlike Nash who would rather sleep completely naked year-round because he's always running hot. Summer, winter, doesn't matter—he overheats the second blankets touch him.
I turn off the bedside lamp and close the door quietly behind me as I leave Grayson's room.
Next I check on Nash.
His room is on the right side of the hallway, door cracked open enough that I can see inside without pushing it further or announcing my presence.
He's sitting at the elegant wooden desk near the large window that overlooks the dark forest, hunched over his sleek laptop with his face illuminated by the harsh blue-white screen glow.
There's a ceramic mug in his hand—I can smell the coffee from here even through the partially closed door, strong and dark and bitter.
He takes a long sip without looking away from whatever he's reading, his blue eyes moving rapidly back and forth as he scrolls through what looks like dense text.
He's deep in research mode. Full investigative mode.
Probably embarked on some complicated rabbit hole of cross-referenced information that will keep him up for hours, following digital breadcrumbs wherever they lead.
And I know exactly what—or more accurately, who—he's researching without having to ask or disturb his concentration.
Reverie's old pack.
Those bastards who treated her like unpaid labor instead of a cherished centerpiece or their pack member.
We've discussed what Nash has uncovered so far in his preliminary investigation.
Only two of the four pack members are using their actual real legal names—Kael Winters and Jasper Thorne.
The other two names associated with Reverie's old pack situation and living arrangement are aliases.
Fake identities. Carefully constructed personas that don't match any legitimate public records.
Which means there's a very specific reason they've been keeping such meticulously maintained alibis for years. People don't create and maintain false identities without significant motivation.