Chapter 14
JESS
The flight blurs into a stretch of white noise and recycled air, the kind that tastes metallic on the back of my tongue. Lukewarm coffee and a bag of stale peanuts. The steady hum of engines makes my skull vibrate.
Cassian’s out before we even taxi, head tipped toward my shoulder, lashes dark against his cheek. His weight anchors me in a way I pretend not to notice, except I do notice. I notice everything about all of them.
Warmth bleeds through his shirt, and his breath evens out into something peaceful I’ve never managed myself.
The piney scent of his shampoo mixes with his amber and black pepper scent, something that makes my hindbrain purr in a way I’ve spent years learning to ignore with other Alphas I’ve met.
However, it somehow never seems to work with these three.
I should move. Shift away. Reclaim the armrest and the careful distance I’ve maintained since we left. But my body won’t cooperate. It wants to sink into this, into him, like I have any right to.
Rowan claimed the window seat on my other side when I said it didn’t matter when we boarded.
Now he stares through it like he can make the clouds move faster by glaring.
I catch him watching us once in the reflection with a tight jaw, gaze gone in the next breath, and heat crawls up the back of my neck like I’ve been caught.
Guilt twists low in my stomach. Or maybe a longing for something I can’t name.
Eli, in the aisle across from us, charms the flight attendant into two bags of pretzels “in the name of research,” and gets the kind of grin people reserve for puppies and bad pick-up lines.
His laugh cuts through the cabin, bright and easy, and I feel it like ice trailing down my spine.
He glances back at me and winks, shamelessly, and I blush before I can stop it.
This was a mistake. This whole trip was a mistake.
By the time the wheels hit tarmac, I’m vibrating from caffeine, nerves, and the pressure of too much stillness—too much proximity to three men who make me feel like my skin doesn’t fit right anymore.
The Uber driver doesn’t talk much. Wind slips through the half-open windows, carrying salt through the tang of engine oil and air freshener. I close my eyes and breathe until the highway turns into side streets and the glow of the city fades behind us.
I’m in the back between Cassian and Rowan, two Alphas that are clouding my judgment and making it hard to focus on anything but them. Eli rides up front with the driver, taking pictures of the scenery with his phone.
Cassian’s thigh presses against mine in the backseat. Just an inch of contact, burning through denim. There’s room to move, but neither of us does.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low enough that only I can hear.
No. “Just tired.”
His hand twitches on his knee, fingers flexing like he’s fighting himself not to reach for me. My chest goes tight with wanting him to—and with terror that he might.
“We’re almost there,” he says instead, and turns to look out the window.
Rowan glances over at us like he wants to say something, but leans back and closes his eyes.
I swallow against the ache in my throat and tell myself this is better.
Brightwater Bay smells like salt and kettle corn. Like the ocean trying to sweeten itself for tourists. The air is softer here with no exhaust sting, no city grit. Just water and sugar looped together on a breeze that makes me want to fill my lungs until they ache.
We exit the Uber. Cassian and Rowan take our luggage up the steps to the porch while Eli thanks our driver and pays him.
The cabin is smaller than I imagined, but beautiful in a weathered kind of way. Cedar shingles. White trim. A porch that faces the bay.
Someone lined sea glass along the railing, green and blue and amber catching the porch light like a string of tiny cathedrals. I touch one. It’s cool and smooth, edges worn from waves—the way people get when they’ve survived too many storms.
It’s too intimate. I can already imagine mornings on this porch, coffee going cold while Rowan does the crossword in the local paper and Cassian argues with Eli about nothing that matters. And I can picture myself with them easily.
The thought makes panic claw up my ribs. My chest locks, breath catching halfway, like my body already knows what happens when things start to feel like home.
Inside, the floorboards creak under our feet. The sofa’s older than me but smells faintly of lemon polish and sun. There’s a chipped ceramic bowl on the counter and a folded welcome card with a cartoon crab waving on the front. Enjoy your stay.
Cassian prowls through first, flipping light switches and testing windows until he finds one and opens it wide for a cross-breeze.
He moves through space like he owns it, confident in a way that makes me want to submit, want to let him arrange the world while I curl into whatever safe corner he creates.
I hate that I want that. Hate that my Omega instincts haven’t gotten the memo that I’m not doing this anymore. That I decided long ago that I wouldn’t be a statistic, wouldn’t allow an Alpha (or Alphas) to take my heart.
Rowan checks the smoke detectors, the locks, and the thermostat like he’s setting perimeters instead of settling in.
Protecting. Providing. My chest aches watching him, knowing he’s doing this without even thinking about it.
And I wonder if part of him keeping busy is not to think about our kiss in his office. Does he regret it?
Eli hangs the keys on a nail by the door, the way people do when they already feel at home.
They’re taking care of things for me, and the thought sits heavy in my stomach.
I drift to the kitchen, palm tracing the counter. The surface is nicked, the edges worn smooth. Someone cooked here—burned toast, made coffee, lived. It feels oddly intimate, standing in a stranger’s domestic leftovers. Like witnessing the ghost of something I convinced myself I didn’t want.
A pack. A home. People who stay.
“Three bedrooms, two baths,” Eli announces, reading from the laminated info sheet like it’s scripture. “One with a tub, the other with a shower, and absolutely no parties after ten.” He lifts a brow. “Guess that ruins your plans.”
“I’ll survive,” I try to laugh, but my voice comes out wrong. Too quiet and small. Survival’s all I’ve ever managed. Anything past that still feels like fantasy.
Rowan opens a door off the hall. “This one’s got the tub.”
“I call it,” I say and grab my luggage.
Cassian chuckles, but there’s something careful in it. “She decided that fast.”
“I’m jetlagged.” My voice sounds too thin. Too brittle. “The airplane peanuts are already waging war. I’m showering and crashing.”
What I don’t say: I need space before I do something stupid. Before I forget why I shouldn’t want this.
Eli props a shoulder against the wall, smiling, but his eyes track over my face like he’s reading something I didn’t mean to write there. “Fair. I was going to see if anything’s still open, but you look one breadstick away from collapse.”
“Tempting,” I admit, “but bed wins.”
Even though it’s true, what really wins is cowardice. What wins is the need to put walls between us before they see how much I want to stay.
“Suit yourself.” Cassian digs his phone out of his pocket and scrolls. “I’m ordering pizza. Coupons?” he says, digging around in the bookshelf while on hold for the pizza. Then he tosses a small velvet pouch onto the table…colored dice spilling out like candy. “Anyone up for a game of dice?’
Rowan gives him a look that says whatever, but he sits anyway. “Just until the pizza gets here.”
They’re settling in, getting comfortable, and building memories without me. My throat closes, but it’s probably just the exhaustion pulling at me.
“Night,” I say, already halfway down the hall, dragging my suitcase behind me.
“Night,” Eli echoes, but there’s a question in it I refuse to answer.
Cassian waves two fingers in a lazy salute, and I feel the weight of his attention like hands on my skin.
Rowan nods once without looking up, focused on lining the dice by color, but his jaw’s tight like he’s holding something back.
I turn away before I can wonder what.
The hallway’s narrow, walls paneled in honeyed wood that hums faintly with the breeze. My door opens into the smaller bedroom—white sheets, a nightstand made from a repurposed crate, one window looking straight out at the dark stretch of bay.
I should close the door. Lock it. Build the barrier I need.
Instead, I leave it cracked, and I hate myself for it. For the pathetic, needy part of me that wants to hear them. Wants proof they’re still there, still real, even if I can’t let myself have them.
The murmur of voices drifts from the kitchen: the clatter of dice, Rowan’s low laugh, Cassian pretending to trash-talk, Eli’s voice steadying the chaos like gravity itself.
And for once, the sound doesn’t make me tense. It makes me ache.
It makes me want things I swore I’d stopped wanting. A table I belong at. Laughter that includes me. Cassian’s head on my shoulder meant something more than accidental proximity. Rowan’s careful attention. Eli’s easy warmth.
I press my palm to my chest, feeling my heartbeat kick against my breastbone.
This is why I don’t do this. Why I can’t. Because wanting hurts worse than loneliness ever did.
I flip the switch in the bathroom. The tub isn’t big, but the water runs hot, steaming the mirror before I can finish undressing. I sink into it until the warmth bites, the soreness in my muscles bleeding out inch by inch.
But the heaviness in my chest stays.
Steam curls around my head. The scent of soap mixes with salt still clinging to my skin from the air outside.
I close my eyes and try not to think about the flight—Cassian asleep against my shoulder.
Rowan’s silence pressed up against the window, Eli’s laughter cutting through the dull roar of engines, bright enough to make me believe in good things again.
It should feel crowded. That’s what I tell myself. Four people in a small cabin, too much proximity, too many chances to slip and show them the messy, broken parts I keep hidden.
But it doesn’t feel crowded.
It feels like company I didn’t know I needed. Like coming home to a place I’ve never been.
It feels dangerous.
The pipes rattle from water running somewhere down the hall, followed by Cassian’s laugh—low and close, like it’s pressed against the wall with me. Intimate in a way that has my chest twisting sideways.
I sink deeper until the water covers my ears, trying to drown out the sound of them being happy without me.
Trying not to care that I chose this solitude, the safety of distance.
Trying not to wonder what it would feel like to stay at that table with them, Cassian’s knee pressed against mine, Rowan’s quiet attention making me feel seen in ways I’ve spent years avoiding, Eli’s hand casual on my shoulder like touch is easy. Like I’m easy to want.
My throat goes tight. Eyes hot.
I press my face into my wet hands until the feeling passes.
It doesn’t pass like I’ve done before.
By the time I drag myself out of the bath, the pizza’s come and gone. The smell lingers of cheese and tomato sauce. My stomach growls at me, but I can’t face them, not now.
But the kitchen sounds quiet, and I tiptoe out, hoping I can grab a bite before I bump into any of them.
A bottle of amber liquid sits on the counter, with three glasses half-full. The dice are still scattered across the table like abandoned treasure.
No pizza in sight. I check the fridge. Bingo. I pull out the box and open it. Four slices, still in the box, with a note scrawled on a napkin in Eli’s handwriting: In case you wake up hungry. -E
Something loosens in my lungs—something I can’t afford to feel.
I pick up the napkin, running my thumb over the letters. Such a small thing. Such a stupid, small kindness.
Quickly, I shovel in a slice and put the rest back. Then I drink a glass of water. The house is quiet, and I half expected one of them to come out. Or maybe they’re waiting for me to come to them.
But I can’t do that. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
I head back to my room and crack the window an inch. The sea breathes in with me—salt, wind, the distant crash of waves. Sheets cool against my overheated skin.
I curl on my side, facing the door I left cracked open, and pull the blanket up to my chin like it can protect me from my own stupid heart.
Somewhere behind the wall, one of them laughs again, low and unguarded.
Cassian.
I know it the way I know my own pulse. The way I know all of them, despite spending the hours since I met them pretending I don’t.
My eyes burn. My chest aches.
I fall asleep with my hand pressed to the space above my heart, holding myself together—trying not to imagine what it would be like to finally let go… or if someone caught me when I did.