17. Mara
Mara
The walls bend in and the lights burn into my skin.
I'm back there, the three of them leaning over me, hands grazing, testing, claiming.
Jason's smile is all teeth and charm, but there's a weight behind it, a sharp edge, and I feel him press against me, hands brushing my shoulders, sliding down my arms, tracing the line of my waist as if memorizing it, as if it belongs to him.
Jonathan's eyes are sharp, cold, calculating, following every movement, his hand on my thigh, nudging, testing my limits, like I'm an object to be measured. Mason leans close, laughter low and cruel, fingers brushing my hair, tugging lightly, smirking as though he owns my reaction.
I try to curl into myself, to shrink, to disappear, but every inch of me is under scrutiny.
Their hands move with purpose, exploring, marking, taking.
I feel the brush of palms over skin that once felt like mine, every touch igniting a panic that twists my stomach, makes bile rise, makes me gasp and choke on my own terror.
I thrash, but I'm trapped, pinned beneath the weight of them, and the sound of their amusement is unbearable.
The air reeks of cologne and power, of money and dominance, every breath thick with it.
They whisper things I can't block, words meant to wound, words meant to claim, and my body reacts against my will. My pulse races, and the bile comes again, choking me, burning, because I can't reconcile the revulsion and the control they have.
Their hands don't pause; they roam, brushing over my skin in ways that are supposed to thrill, supposed to entice, but all I feel is panic, a deep, clawing fear that settles in my chest like ice.
I can taste vomit, hear my heart hammering, smell myself and them together, mingling, suffocating, and I scream into the darkness, a wordless sound that shatters the air around me.
Jason leans down, pressing against me in a way that's too deliberate, too claiming. Jonathan circles, evaluating, measuring, and Mason laughs, pressing a palm across my back, his grin sharp enough to cut. I try to move, try to push, but my limbs are lead, my voice swallowed by the terror.
The knowledge that they think they own me, think they can control me, is the worst weight of all. I throw up again, raw, violent, my stomach rebelling at the memory, at the smell, at the feel of hands that never belonged on me.
And then I'm awake, chest heaving, sweat soaking my sheets, bile sour in my mouth. I claw at the blankets, shivering, heart hammering, every nerve alive and screaming. The memory of them, of their hands, of the way they thought they could take me, presses against me, unrelenting.
I stumble out of bed, knees weak, stomach still twisted, and pull myself into the bathroom.
The water is freezing when I enter the shower.
Ice against skin, shocking, almost painful enough to make me cry.
I scrub at myself frantically, hands sliding over arms, chest, stomach, legs, every inch of skin raw from friction.
Soap runs down my neck, tangling in my hair, and I push it away, clawing at every memory, at every shadow of them lingering on me.
My voice comes out in whispers, raw and trembling, but I force out the words like armor against the fear: "I won't go through it again. I won't belong to another pack that will own me instead of loving me."
My knuckles press into the tile, white from the pressure, and I lean against the wall, shivering, letting the sting of the water anchor me.
My stomach twists, my skin burns from the scrubbing, and yet I go harder, harder, pressing soap into my skin like if I can rub it hard enough, I can wash away the memory of their hands, their voices, their cruelty.
My hair sticks to my cheeks and neck, and I push it back, shoving my face into the water stream, inhaling and tasting cold, clean shock.
"I won't," I whisper again, teeth clenched, voice stronger now, almost defiant. "I won't."
I press my palms to the wall, lowering myself until I'm sitting on the cold shower floor, letting the water soak through my hair, stream down every curve, every scar, every place their hands ever traced.
I breathe in deep, shivering, letting the water mix with my tears, letting it wash the images, the fear, the violation from me.
I picture Daniel for a fraction of a second, and guilt coils like a snake in my stomach. Foolish girl, entertaining warmth when I've known only cold and danger. But the memory of him is fleeting, replaced by the steel of my resolve.
No one touches me like that again. No one owns me. No one uses me. Not Jason, not Jonathan, not Mason. And if someone ever tries, I will fight until there's nothing left of me but defiance.
I scrub my arms, over shoulders, along thighs, over chest, the soap sliding over every inch until my skin is red, raw, tingling, alive in a new way. My body shakes from cold, from fear, from the adrenaline of the dream, but each heartbeat is mine. I won't be used. I won't.
The cold drips from my hair, down my back, over my shoulders, and my skin prickles, alive, aware, burning with the heat of survival. I whisper it over and over, letting it etch into my bones, into my skin, into my chest: "I will not be theirs. I will not be taken. I will survive. I will choose."
Finally, exhausted, trembling, I step out of the shower.
Toweling off, water dripping onto the floor, my skin stings, my stomach twists, but beneath it all is a steel certainty.
They can never claim me again. I wrap the towel tighter, shivering, whispering again, eyes bright with fire and determination: "I am not theirs. I will never go through it again."
I lie down, shivering beneath the blankets, letting the last remnants of water, cold and biting against my skin, remind me that I survived.
The nightmare still hums beneath my skull, but it's weaker now, muted.
I close my eyes, gripping the memory of freedom, the warmth of possibility, the hope that someone like Daniel exists, that there's life beyond fear.
I am Mara. I am free. I am mine. And I will never belong to another pack that sees me only as property.
I'm pressing the button on the espresso machine when the door opens, and the sharp mountain air hits me first. Then his scent—citrus and sun and wild mountain air—follows, filling the kitchen and sinking into my chest.
Leo.
"Good morning, Mara. You're up early," he says, voice teasing but low, almost careful. "Want to go skiing?"
I glance at the machine, at the steam curling from the spout. "I can't," I say firmly. "I'm busy."
He steps inside, boots scraping lightly against the floor. "Just for an hour," he insists, leaning casually against the doorframe with a grin.
I frown, putting a hand on the counter. "I said no. What is it with Alphas and never taking no for an answer?"
He tilts his head, the smile fading a little, and I catch the hurt in his eyes. Guilt spikes in my chest, sharp and sudden. "Wait," I rush, my voice softening. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap."
He steps closer, and I notice how tall he looks, filling the doorway, the scent of him stronger now. "What's going on?" he asks, sounding curious and cautious at the same time. "Is it something I did?"
I shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek. "No. I just… I want a low-key day. That's all." My shoulders slump slightly, tension I hadn't realized I was holding finally spilling out.
He studies me for a long moment, then a small, understanding smile creeps in. "I can help with that," he offers.
My chest tightens, and I find myself wanting—needing—to lean into something, anything that feels safe. He tilts his head, asks softly, "Is it okay if I give you a hug?"
I hesitate a fraction, then nod, barely perceptibly.
He closes the distance, arms folding around me with ease. Heat radiates through me, and his scent fills my senses—wild mountain air, sun, and the faint hint of something uniquely him. He presses a little closer, hand braced gently against my back.
"Shhh," he murmurs, low against my ear, "it's okay."
I let myself lean into him fully, pressing my forehead against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of him, the solid warmth of him.
My breathing is ragged at first, shallow, tight with the leftovers of tension I didn't even realize I'd been carrying.
He hums a low sound, gentle, almost melodic, and I let it work through me, unraveling the knots inside my chest.
Tears prick at my eyes, and I catch them with my cheek pressed against him, letting myself sob softly, the sound muffled against the thick fabric of his jacket.
I feel ridiculous and childish, but the need to release it is overwhelming.
Every shiver, every catch of breath, every tight twist of my chest begins to ease as I lean into him, letting him hold me.
When he pulls back slightly, just enough for me to meet his eyes, I see the tenderness there, the careful concern.
He's a Beta. I know that. He doesn't push me, doesn't demand anything from me I'm not ready to give.
He's not Daniel, and he's not Gray, but he understands in a way that's deep, instinctual.
"I… I don't know what happened," he says softly, voice steady, careful. "I just want you to know—Daniel wouldn't hurt you. Not him, not me, not Gray. We're not like that."
I wipe at my cheeks, fingers trembling, and swallow hard. My throat is tight with the remnants of sobs and the ache of release. The words hit me harder than I expected, and I blink at him, absorbing the certainty in his voice, the safety.
He hugs me again, firmer this time, letting me sink into him, letting me feel the solid reassurance of him holding me upright. "I got you," he says, voice low, anchored, and I press closer, letting the last of the tremor leave my body.
I breathe him in, letting the smell, the comfort, the mountain freshness, ground me. The day doesn't matter. The past, the future, the chaos, none of it can touch me here. Just this—the solid presence of someone who cares, who won't hurt me, who won't claim me as property—holds me together.
His hand strokes my back gently, a slow, circling motion that seems to push the panic from my chest. "Shhh," he repeats, soothing, patient. "You're okay. Just breathe. I'm here. I've got you."
I cling to him, pressing into his chest, letting the tears fall freely now, tasting salt, tasting relief, tasting the unexpected sense of safety that's never been so real.
He doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull back.
He lets me unravel into him, lets the fear, the tension, the leftover memories of bad men and cruel packs dissipate into his warmth.
"I… I don't know why I'm like this," I whisper, voice trembling against the fabric of his jacket. "I just… I don't want to be… used. Not again."
He nods, resting his chin gently on the top of my head. "I know," he says simply. "And you won't be. Not while I'm around. Not while any of us are."
The words sink in, heavy and reassuring.
I let myself exhale, long and shaky, letting the panic leave my lungs in one shuddering stream.
My fingers dig into his jacket at my sides, needing the pressure, the reassurance, and he doesn't move, doesn't let go, just holds me, letting me process the storm inside me.
"I got you," he murmurs again, softer this time, almost a mantra. "I've got you."
I nod against him, finally letting a small, shaky breath escape.
The tight knot in my stomach loosens, my chest lightens, and I feel something fragile and precious stir inside me.
I never realized how much I needed a steady presence, someone who would respect my boundaries, someone who would let me cry without judgment, someone who would keep me safe.
He lets me stay there, arms around me, grounding me, until I can finally pull back, enough to look at him, my hair clinging to my cheeks, my eyes red but clearer.
His gaze is steady, patient, reassuring.
He doesn't rush, doesn't speak louder than necessary, just gives me room to breathe, to feel, to be.
"I…" I murmur, voice almost lost. "Thank you. For… for this."
He smiles faintly, tilting his head. "No need. You needed it. You're safe. That's all that matters."
I nod again, swallowing hard, pressing my hands to his chest as if anchoring myself to him, letting the panic drain away in the safety of the hug. I want to cry again, want to feel the release, but I hold it in, savoring the feeling of being seen, being protected, being understood.
Finally, reluctantly, I pull back just a fraction, but he holds my gaze, steady and calm. "You okay?" he asks softly.
I take a deep breath, nodding slowly. "Yeah," I whisper. "I think… I think I am."
He gives me a small, comforting squeeze before letting go, hands resting a moment on my arms as though imprinting reassurance into me. "I got you," he says one last time. "Always."
I nod, brushing at my cheeks, the tears finally gone, replaced by a fragile, careful calm.
I feel my chest still heavy with remnants of the fear, but it's manageable now, tempered by him, by the certainty that not all Alphas are cruel and not all packs are oppressive.
Some people, some Betas, some friends, are steady, and that steadiness has never felt so vital.
I inhale slowly, taking in the crisp scent of the café kitchen, the faint steam of the espresso machine, the smell of him—clean mountain air, sun, and warmth—and I let the calm settle, grounding me in a way I didn't know I could feel.
I can survive this day. I can survive this life. Not because I'm alone, but because sometimes, someone will hold me, and I can let them.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe that maybe it's possible to feel safe again.