Chapter 16 #2
I opened my arms to him, and he crossed the space between us so slowly it was almost painful to watch, giving me every chance to change my mind.
When he finally stepped into my arms, he rested his forehead against my chest while his fingers fisted the front of my shirt.
Then something inside him seemed to give way.
The last inch disappeared, and he leaned his full weight against me with a shaking breath.
I wrapped my arms around him with care, conscious of the baby between us, one hand settling high across his back and the other resting lightly against his side.
Beneath the wool blankets and the soap from the shower, Soren smelled of peaches and the faintest trace of warm vanilla.
It was gentle and made my wolf settle instead of pacing.
Soren trembled for a few seconds before the tension began to drain from him, his breathing slowing until it matched mine.
He swallowed hard. “I don’t remember…”
“What?”
“I’ve never been hugged.”
Safe, my wolf murmured. Our omega knows he’s safe.
I hated that somewhere along the line, he’d learned not to expect kindness. Soren made the smallest sound, and his grip tightened. He stayed where he was for another few breaths before whispering so quietly I almost missed it.
“Thank you.” His shoulders shook once, and then he went very still. “I could stay here forever,” he admitted, embarrassment creeping into his voice. “Or I mean… for a little while. Is that all right?”
“It’ll always be all right,” I heard myself say, and there wasn’t a single part of me that didn’t mean it.
My wolf nudged at me, wanting to nuzzle his hair, to lick away every trace of fear the way wolves comforted their own.
The human equivalent was a kiss, soft on his temple or the top of his head, and for one bewildering second, I ached to do exactly that, to show him that gentleness existed, that he never had to flinch from me.
We stood there for some time—I don’t know how long—but it became obvious I was supporting his weight, and his breathing was slow and even. I think he was falling asleep, and I scooped him up in my arms, then placed him in the center of his nest, his eyes closed as he cuddled into my sweatshirt.
Beautiful, my wolf said.
Or was that me?
Soren woke early the next morning, socked feet on the stairs before I’d gotten the fire going, and by then I already knew what he’d eat.
Small portions. Nothing heavy. Toast cut into pieces, which he could manage when his stomach was fighting him.
He’d found a spot on the first landing where the afternoon light came through the east window, and he’d sit with a book, not really reading it, just holding it in his lap while he watched the snow.
On the first day I’d seen him do this, I’d assumed he was keeping watch for intruders, and my wolf bristled at the idea because that was our job.
By the second, I wondered if he was just comfortable, which my wolf approved of.
By the third, I wasn’t so sure what he was feeling.
Sometimes I’d find him there, sunlight catching in his hair, and for a few seconds he’d look almost peaceful.
My wolf was happy, and I had to admit I was too.
I spent a lot of time digging into the Kastor family, specifically Patriarch Emric, careful not to touch anything that might trigger someone’s security logs and inevitably found myself back on Skinside.
The site was still what it had always been: conspiracy for the masses, but mixed with genuine intelligence, rumors buried alongside leaked documents, and just enough truth for the ORT never to dismiss it outright.
If something was moving in the bloodline world, Skinside usually caught the scent before anyone else.
My old login still worked, one that Raff had set up on my behalf after one too many refusals to go anywhere near computers and do it myself.
IRONPINE authenticated.
The screen sat blank for several seconds before a private message slid into the corner.
THE ARCHIVIST: That’s a username I haven’t seen in years.
I flexed my fingers over the keyboard.
IRONPINE: Usual fee?
THE ARCHIVIST: Yes
IRONPINE: I need information.
A pause.
THE ARCHIVIST: Go on
IRONPINE: Center 14
THE ARCHIVIST: Fuck. You can have that for free
An archive hit my inbox, and I hesitated before typing the next message.
What would I give away by asking? The Archivist was a nebulous figure we’d learned to trust with black-op intel in the ORT, but with all this money on the table, could I put Emric Kastor’s name out there?
What choice did I have? The Archivist didn’t know where I was, or what I had, so did it matter?
This could be any mission request, not specific to Soren
IRONPINE: What can you find on Emric Kastor?
This time the pause lasted much longer, and when the reply finally appeared, it wasn’t what I’d expected.
THE ARCHIVIST: That’s an explosive search.
IRONPINE: Do you have a file?
THE ARCHIVIST: I have several, but tell me something first.
I waited.
THE ARCHIVIST: Is he looking for you...
The cursor blinked.
THE ARCHIVIST: ...or are you looking for him?
I didn’t answer.
The silence was answer enough, and then another message appeared.
THE ARCHIVIST: It doesn’t matter what I send you.
I frowned.
IRONPINE: Explain.
THE ARCHIVIST: Men like Emric don’t become your problem by accident.
A compressed archive appeared in the chat window.
THE ARCHIVIST: Everything I have on him is in there.
Another line followed almost immediately.
THE ARCHIVIST: Read it if you want.
IRONPINE: Thank you
THE ARCHIVIST: Word of warning. Once you start reading about Emric Kastor, sooner or later, Emric Kastor starts reading about you.
The connection dropped.
I stared at the dark screen for a long moment before opening the archive.
There was nothing in there about Soren. No frantic appeals, no calls for information, no whispers that a valuable omega heir had vanished.
The Kastor family hadn’t openly acknowledged he’d ever existed beyond the barest references in old bloodline records.
Second son. Designation: Omega. A name in a registry, nothing more.
There was no mention that he’d presented as fertile, no indication he could carry children, nothing that hinted at the fortune his body represented.
Either that secret had been guarded with obsessive care, or someone had scrubbed every trace of it long before Soren had ever run.
Some of the information on Emric was darkly personal: sexual habits, gambling issues, drug use; there wasn’t a stone that hadn’t been overturned, and not for the first time did I wonder who this person who called themselves The Archivist actually was.
Someone we can trust.
My wolf was convinced. I wasn’t sure I was.
The bounty on the A/O hunters network had increased to five million.
Anonymous escrow, verified payment, no questions asked.
Someone wanted Soren found badly enough to throw another three million onto the table, and there were only two possibilities that made any sense.
Either Ronan was right and Emric Kastor wanted his missing omega brother before anyone learned what they’d lost, or the Daltons had found out that Asha had their blood and were determined to reclaim the child their dead son had fathered.
Whichever family was behind it, the message was the same.
Someone with deep pockets had decided Soren was worth a lot, and that meant the omega hunters would keep coming. I stared at the numbers for a long time, then went back to the chat window hoping The Archivist would still be around.
IRONPINE: If I wanted this to end differently. If the world thought an omega died the night of the raid on Center 14?
The cursor blinked for a long time before the reply came.
THE ARCHIVIST: You’d need something people already want to believe. A body helps. A believable reason works almost as well.
IRONPINE: There’s already a body count nobody’s finished counting.
THE ARCHIVIST: Interesting.
Another pause, longer this time.
THE ARCHIVIST: I can seed it. Slowly. Too fast and it reads like a lie. These things need to breathe. Grief needs a shape people already expect before they’ll accept it.
IRONPINE: How long.
THE ARCHIVIST: Weeks. Longer, if you want the right people believing it instead of just repeating it. Give me something to work with. A cause. Something that fits what already leaked out of that facility.
I thought of the four confirmed deaths the SED’s own report had never sorted into names, and the blizzard that had swallowed the roads the same night.
IRONPINE: Exposure. He was pregnant, injured, and unaccounted for the night of the raid. Nobody’s found him since.
THE ARCHIVIST: That works. We’d need a body. Costs more. Give me time.
The connection dropped again.
I spent a lot of time going through the Center 14 records The Archivist had given me, but the facility ran clean on paper, and I didn’t have access to go any deeper, though there were some worrying threads I wished I could pull on.
Then it was on to the birthing files Brec had sent me, which were extensive, and I read them so many times I could quote some parts verbatim.
The clinical protocols were dry and gave me nothing to work on, but some of the personal experiences were more useful.
I printed everything and left the folder on the kitchen table where Soren would see it, and it was gone the next morning, along with the old grey sweatshirt I’d left on the back of a kitchen chair.
I deliberately left the second one, and it disappeared the same way.
My wolf approved of it all.
The bastard was practically preening.
“How can you forget Raff?” I asked my reflection in the window as I made dinner that night.
My wolf lifted his head. Never. The certainty behind the single word stole my breath. Raff is ours. Forever. A pause. Love doesn’t leave. Love makes room.
“Stop,” I whispered.
No betrayal. Only protect.
“Stop!”