Epilogue
Kaia
Six Months Later
"Café?" he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep.
The café. I kept my job even after everything. Even after moving into this house officially, even after bonding with them, I still show up for my morning shifts five days a week. Because it’s mine. Still is. My dream. My independence. The thing I built with my own two hands when I had nothing.
And they never asked me to give it up. Never even suggested it.
They supported my decision completely, without hesitation.
Adrian drives me sometimes when he's up early, buying himself coffee and working at the counter until my shift ends.
Lachlan picks me up after, always arriving exactly when he said he would.
Jonas brings me food on the days his meetings bring him into town, making sure I'm eating enough.
Finn shows up unannounced just to make me laugh during the slow afternoon hours, doing impressions of customers that have me doubled over, trying not to make noise.
I have both now—the café and the pack. My dream and my home. I'm not the girl who had to choose between survival and belonging anymore. I don't have to sacrifice one part of myself to have another. I get to have it all, every piece, every dream.
"Yeah," I whisper, careful not to disturb him too much. "Early shift."
He kisses my shoulder, his lips warm against my skin, before releasing me reluctantly. "Be safe."
"Always am," I murmur back.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, the cool morning air drifting through the cracked-open window raising goosebumps on my skin.
The house is quiet, wrapped in that particular stillness that only exists in the hours before dawn.
But still, it’s familiar. Safe. I pull on jeans and one of Jonas's hoodies—a red one with the worn elbows, my favorite.
I wear it so often it's practically mine now, and Jonas has never once complained.
It still smells like him, like rain on the beach.
I breathe it in for a moment before heading downstairs.
In the kitchen, there's coffee already brewing, the rich aroma filling the space. Adrian's doing. He sets the timer every night before bed, knowing I have these early shifts. It's a small thing, but it makes my chest warm every single time.
I pour a cup into my favorite mug, a chipped ceramic one Finn found at a thrift store and insisted was "vintage." Then I add cream until it's the perfect shade of caramel. The routine is muscle memory now, comfortable and grounding.
Six months. Six months since everything changed. Six months since the night everything came crashing down and somehow, impossibly, built itself back up into something better. Since I stopped running from the people who wanted to love me.
The drive to the café is peaceful, therapeutic even.
Early morning light is just starting to touch the horizon, turning the sky from deep purple to soft pink.
The roads are nearly empty. I have the windows cracked, letting in the salt-tinged ocean breeze.
But halfway there, passing the intersection near the old marina, I pass a black Escalade parked on the side of the road.
My hands tighten on the wheel. A cold jolt runs through me.
It's not them. I know it's not them. I know that.
Adrian's father made sure of that, made sure they'd never come near me again, using whatever powerful connections he has that none of them talk about but I'm grateful for anyway.
But my body doesn't care about logic or facts.
My heart races anyway, picking up speed like I'm being chased.
I pull into the café parking lot, my hands trembling slightly on the wheel. I decide to sit in the car for five minutes. Breathing. Grounding myself. Counting backward from one hundred like Jonas taught me. Pressing my feet flat against the floor mat. Reminding myself: I'm safe. I'm safe. I'm safe.
Then the bond warms. Not all at once, but one presence after another.
Lachlan reaches me first, steady and deep as the ocean, giving me something solid to hold on to: You are safe.
Breathe with me. Jonas follows with quiet understanding, his presence settling around my panic without trying to erase it.
You don't have to fight this alone. I'm right here.
Take all the time you need. Finn sends a bright spark of warmth through the bond, a ridiculous image of himself tripping over a beach chair and swearing at it, and despite myself, a laugh catches in my throat.
Adrian comes last, cool sea breeze and clean linen wrapped around something unshakable.
The doors are locked. You are safe. No one is coming for you.
When you're ready, walk inside. Until then, stay exactly where you are.
Their reassurance doesn't demand that I stop being afraid.
It simply surrounds me until the fear has less room to fill.
It still happens sometimes. The fear. The panic. The way my body remembers trauma even when my mind knows I'm okay. Healing isn't linear—that's what the therapist Adrian insisted I see keeps telling me. Some days are better than others. Today is just one of the harder ones.
By the time I unlock the café door, my hands have stopped shaking.
Mostly. The morning rush is steady but manageable.
Familiar faces ordering their usual drinks.
Mrs. Chen with her oat milk latte. Jake the construction worker with his black coffee and blueberry muffin.
Regular orders that I can make in my sleep by now.
I'm wiping down the counter, lost in the rhythm of the work, when the mailman walks in, bringing with him a gust of cool morning air.
"Morning, Kaia," he says cheerfully, his weathered face crinkling into a smile. He hands me a small stack of envelopes and magazines. "Got a couple for the café and some for your pack. But there’s one in there for you personally."
I glance down at the stack, sorting through it. An electricity bill for the café. A promotional flyer. A history magazine for Jonas. And then, my name. Handwritten in careful script.
My mother's handwriting—I'd know it anywhere.
I stare at the curved lettering, the careful and elaborate swoop of my K. The envelope feels heavy in my hands. Wrong, like it's carrying more weight than just paper.
"You okay?" my coworker, Iris, asks, noticing the way I've frozen.
I nod too quickly, and shove the letter into my apron pocket where it sits like a stone. "Yeah. Fine. Just, yeah." But the words couldn’t be any further from the truth. I turn off my side of the bond as much as I can, so my pack doesn’t come in, demanding to know what’s going on.
I wait until my break, until I can lock myself in the back office, away from customers and questions. Sit in the old desk chair that squeaks. Hands shaking as I turn the envelope over and over, staring at my name written by her hand.
Finally, I tear it open. The letter is short. Just two pages. Her handwriting is careful. Controlled. Each letter perfectly formed, like she drafted this multiple times before actually putting pen to paper.
Kaia,
I don't know if you'll read this. I don't know if I deserve for you to. But I needed to write it anyway.
I've thought about what I'd say to you every single day for the past six months. Since you left. Since I let you leave without fighting for you the way I should have years ago.
I read the first line. Then the second. My vision blurs, tears making the ink swim. My chest tightens. My throat burns. I can't breathe right. Can't get enough air. I read it twice, then a third time—each word sinking deeper, settling into places I didn't know were still raw.
I've been in therapy. Real therapy, not the kind your father would approve of. The kind where someone asks hard questions and doesn't let you hide behind excuses. And I've learned things about myself that I should have understood decades ago.
We raised you to be efficient. Controlled.
Practical. Your father used those words like weapons, like measurements of your worth.
And I stood by and let him. I told myself it was for your own good, that we were preparing you to be strong.
But we weren't making you strong—we were breaking you down and calling it discipline.
My therapist asked me what those words meant to me. And I realized I'd never questioned them. Efficient meant useful. Controlled meant obedient. Practical meant suppressing anything that made you inconvenient to us.
But that's not what those words have to mean.
You were efficient when you escaped—you saved yourself with nothing but determination and intelligence. You were controlled when you took control of your own life instead of letting us control it for you. You were practical when you chose your safety over our expectations.
Those words should have meant self-care, not self-denial. Protection, not domination. Strength that comes from love, not fear.
I failed you, Kaia. I failed to protect you from your father's cruelty, and worse, I participated in it.
I taught you that love was conditional, that your worth was measured by how well you performed the role we assigned you.
I stood silent when I should have stood between you and him.
I chose my own comfort over your safety, and that is unforgivable.
I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't expect you to respond to this letter or ever want to see me again. But I needed you to know that I see it now. I see what we did to you. What I did to you. And I am so, so sorry.
You deserved a mother who loved you unconditionally. Who celebrated your designation instead of mourning it. Who taught you that being an Omega was beautiful and powerful, not shameful. You deserved better than me.