Chapter 33 Broken Glass And Burning Bridges #2
"If I knew it would cause trouble," Ruby says, her voice small, "I wouldn't have pushed so hard for them to run it on the front page. I just thought—it was such a good story, you know? Small-town romance, chosen family, underdog victory. The editor loved it. But if this is what it brought—"
I laugh.
It comes out before I can stop it—a genuine, startled laugh that cuts through the tension like a knife. Ruby stares at me like I've lost my mind, which is fair, because laughing in front of a vandalized building is probably not the most rational response.
"Rosemarie?"
"I love it," I say, reaching out to take the newspaper from her hands.
I examine the photo—really look at it, at the joy captured in that single moment, at the pack I've somehow stumbled into, at the life I'm building from nothing.
"This is amazing. We look amazing. Please tell me you got extra copies. "
Ruby blinks, clearly thrown by my reaction. Then, slowly, a smile creeps across her face. "I got five. Shh, don't tell anyone—I may have liberated them from the print room."
"Five copies." I press the newspaper to my chest like it's something precious. Because it is. It's proof. Proof that I exist, that I belong somewhere, that I'm not just a ghost drifting through life waiting for someone to drag me back to a cage. "Ruby, I love you. I genuinely, truly love you."
She laughs—relieved and a little watery around the edges. "Love you too, babe. Even when you're being weird about property damage."
"I prefer 'resilient in the face of adversity.'"
"That too."
The tension breaks, just a little. Just enough for me to breathe again.
The police arrive within ten minutes—two officers in a patrol car, looking appropriately serious as they approach the scene.
Julian takes the lead, explaining what we found, when we found it, pointing out the various areas of damage with the clinical precision of someone who's dealt with law enforcement before.
I hang back with Ruby, watching him work, grateful that I don't have to be the one fielding questions right now.
One of the officers—a middle-aged Beta with tired eyes—examines the broken window and frowns.
"Unfortunately, there aren't any cameras pointed at this angle.
The closest one is on the corner, but it faces the other direction.
" He makes a note on his pad. "We'll check with the neighboring shop owners, see if any of them have private security footage that might have caught something. "
"What about fingerprints?" Julian asks. "Or DNA evidence?"
"We'll dust for prints, but if whoever did this wore gloves..." The officer shrugs apologetically. "It's not like the movies, I'm afraid. These kinds of vandalism cases can be difficult to solve without witnesses or clear footage."
Difficult to solve. Which means whoever did this might get away with it. Might be emboldened to try again.
I push the thought away. One problem at a time.
Julian speaks quietly with the officers for a few more minutes, then walks back to where Ruby and I are standing. His expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.
"I'm going to stay and handle things here," he says, his voice gentle in a way that still catches me off guard.
"Get statements from the neighbors, coordinate with the investigators, arrange for the window to be boarded up.
But I want you to go home. Be with Tank and Elias until we figure out what's going on. "
"Are you sure?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. How uncertain. "I don't want to be a burden. I can help—"
"Rosemarie." He steps closer, invading my space in a way that would have made me flinch a month ago but now just feels like comfort. His hand comes up to cup my face, tilting my chin so I have to meet his eyes. "Let me handle this. Please."
And then he kisses me.
Soft. Tender. Nothing like the demanding heat of the ball or the playful banter in the car.
This is something quieter—a reassurance, a promise, a moment of connection in the middle of chaos.
His lips are warm against mine, and his hand slides to the back of my neck, cradling me like I'm something precious.
I'm not expecting this. I'm not expecting him to be tender. Julian is sharp edges and defensive walls and carefully maintained distance. He's not supposed to be gentle. He's not supposed to make me feel safe with nothing but a kiss and a soft touch.
But he does. God help me, he does.
When he pulls back, his thumb traces along my cheekbone, wiping away a tear I didn't realize had escaped. "It's going to be fine," he says. "We're going to figure out who did this, and we're going to handle it. But right now, I need you somewhere safe. Can you do that for me?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
His hand moves to my back, rubbing slow, soothing circles through my coat. It's such a simple gesture, but it unravels something inside me. This is what comfort looks like from someone who's not used to giving it. This is Julian trying, actively trying, to make me feel better.
This is different. This is so different from anything I've ever experienced.
My ex-pack would have blamed me. Would have demanded to know what I did to provoke this, what trouble I brought to their doorstep, how I was going to fix my own mess.
They never would have offered comfort. They never would have taken over so I could rest.
The officers confirm they'll begin their investigation immediately, canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses and checking for any available footage. Julian nods, all business again, and turns back to me.
"I'll stay here and coordinate. You go home."
"I can give her a ride," Ruby volunteers, already fishing her car keys from her pocket. "Don't even worry about it. She's in good hands."
Julian looks at her for a moment, assessing, then nods. "Thank you." He reaches into his wallet and pulls out several bills—more than several, actually, enough to make my eyes widen—and presses them into my hands before I can protest.
"What—Julian, this is too much—"
"Get your nails done," he says, closing my fingers around the cash. "Have breakfast. Get a spa massage if you can find somewhere that's open. The full experience." His expression softens. "You deserve to be taken care of today. Let someone do that."
Let someone take care of me. Such a simple concept. Such an impossible thing for someone who's spent her whole life taking care of herself.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice thick. And then, before I can overthink it, I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
I don't hug people. Not really. Not casually, not comfortably.
Physical affection has always been something I've had to perform rather than genuinely feel—something my family demanded as proof of my compliance, something my ex-pack used as a tool of control.
Initiating a hug, actually wanting to hold someone and be held in return, is not something I do.
But I'm doing it now. Pressing my face against Julian's chest, breathing in his bergamot-and-sandalwood scent, feeling his arms come around me after only a moment of surprised hesitation.
He hugs me back. Properly, firmly, like he means it. One hand cradles the back of my head, and his lips press against my hair—a kiss so gentle it makes my throat ache.
"It's going to be okay, Rosemarie," he murmurs against my hair. "I promise."
This isn't normal for him either. Julian doesn't do comfort.
He does sarcasm and distance and carefully constructed walls.
But here he is, holding me on a sidewalk covered in broken glass, trying his best to make me feel safe.
Because that's what pack does. That's what family does.
That's what love—or whatever this is—looks like when it's real.
Ruby is pretending to be very interested in her phone when we finally separate, giving us a thin veneer of privacy that I appreciate more than I can say.
"Text me when you get home," Julian says. "And tell Tank and Elias I'll call with updates as soon as I have them."
"I will."
"And try to relax. At least a little."
"I'll try."
He watches us go, standing sentinel on the sidewalk as Ruby leads me to her car—a cheerful yellow Beetle that looks completely out of place against the grim backdrop of the vandalized bakery. I climb into the passenger seat, buckle my seatbelt, and force myself to take a deep breath.
"So," Ruby says as she starts the engine, "nails and breakfast as stress relief? Or would you rather just go straight home?"
I think about it for a moment. The responsible thing would be to go home, to be with Tank and Elias, to help figure out who's behind this. But Julian gave me cash and told me to take care of myself. And Ruby is looking at me with hopeful eyes, clearly wanting to help in whatever way she can.
"Nails," I decide. "And breakfast. And maybe that spa massage if we can find somewhere."
Ruby grins. "That's my girl. I know just the place."
As we pull away from the curb, I twist in my seat to look back through the passenger mirror.
Julian is still standing there, but he's turned now, gesturing toward the broken window as he gives instructions to the officers.
His posture is all business—shoulders squared, spine straight, the investor and the model and the Alpha all rolled into one commanding presence.
He's handling it. He's taking care of things so I don't have to.
This is what it feels like to have people in your corner. This is what it means to not be alone. This is—god, this is everything I never had before and everything I didn't know I needed.
My ex-pack never would have done this. When trouble found me—and it found me often, because being an Omega in a household that saw you as property meant trouble was inevitable—I was always left to deal with it myself.
My problems were my problems. My fears were weaknesses to be exploited. My pain was inconvenient.
I remember once, years ago, getting cornered by an aggressive Alpha at a family event.
Someone my father wanted to impress, someone with money and connections and absolutely no concept of consent.
He'd backed me into a corner, his hands too familiar, his scent overwhelming and wrong.
And when I'd finally escaped, shaking and sick and desperate for someone to care—
No one did. My mother told me I'd probably done something to encourage it. My father asked if I'd at least been polite. My pack told me to stop being dramatic and making a scene.
That's what "family" meant to me for most of my life. That's what I thought I deserved.
But this—Julian's tenderness, Tank's protectiveness, Elias's unwavering support—this is something different. This is real. This is what I should have had all along.
Ruby is chattering about nail polish colors and the best spots for breakfast in Oakridge Hollow, her voice a pleasant background hum that doesn't require much response. I make appropriate noises at appropriate intervals, but my mind is elsewhere.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, expecting a message from Tank or Elias—Julian probably called ahead, warned them that he sent me with Rose, away from the scene. But the notification on my screen isn't from anyone in my contacts.
Unknown number. Single text message.
"Are you paying attention now?"
My blood runs cold.
I stare at the message, reading those five words over and over until they stop looking like words and start looking like a declaration of war.
Because that's what this is, isn't it? The vandalism wasn't random.
Wasn't about Julian's enemies or society gossip or anything else we tried to rationalize.
This is targeted. This is personal. This is my past reaching out with clawed hands, trying to drag me back into the darkness.
Are you paying attention now?
Yes. Yes, I'm paying attention. I'm paying very close attention to the fact that you think you can scare me into submission.
That you think a broken window and some spray paint will make me come crawling back.
That you still believe I'm the same frightened Omega who ran away in the middle of the night with nothing but the clothes on her back.
I'm not that person anymore.
I have a pack now. I have people who will fight for me. I have a life worth protecting.
My thumb hovers over the delete button for a moment, considering. Then I change my mind. Instead of deleting the message, I screenshot it. Evidence. Ammunition. Proof that someone is actively trying to intimidate me.
You want to play games? Fine. We'll play games. But you don't know the rules anymore. You don't know what I've become. You don't know that I'm not alone, that I'm not afraid, that I'm not going to bow down to your threats no matter how many windows you smash or how many warnings you send.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, my jaw set with determination.
"You okay?" Ruby asks, glancing over. "You went quiet."
"Fine," I say, and my voice comes out steady. Calm. "Just thinking."
"About the bakery?"
"About the future."
She accepts this with a nod, turning her attention back to the road. The cheerful yellow Beetle carries us away from the crime scene, away from the broken glass and the angry words, toward whatever comes next.
I look out the window at Oakridge Hollow passing by—the quaint shops and friendly faces, the Valentine's decorations still hanging from every lamppost, the life I've built in this place where no one knows my past. This is my home now.
These are my people. And I'm not going to let anyone take that from me.