4. Stellan
STELLAN
She brought me coffee again this morning.
And yesterday morning. And the morning before that.
Four days of lockdown, and Esmerelda Odom has shown up at my post every single morning with a steaming mug and that warm smile and the kind of patience I don't deserve.
She leans against the wall near me and fills the silence with her presence, asking small questions, sharing small pieces of herself, waiting for me to do the same without ever demanding it.
I don't understand her. I've spent fifteen years building walls high enough to keep everyone out, and she's walking through them like they're made of paper.
The coffee is perfect again, strong and black, exactly how I make it when I'm alone.
She must have noticed. She notices everything, this soft woman with the copper-streaked hair and the eyes that see too much.
Yesterday she brought me a sandwich because she noticed I hadn't eaten.
The day before, she adjusted her position against the wall so I wouldn't have to turn as far to see her face.
Small kindnesses, deliberate and careful, the kind that say I see you, I'm paying attention, you matter.
No one has shown me kindness like this in years. Maybe ever.
I count the seconds between her laughs, tracking the intervals like data points.
Forty-seven seconds. Thirty-two seconds.
Fifty-one seconds. The counting is automatic, a habit so ingrained I barely notice I'm doing it anymore.
But there's something different about the counting when she's near.
Usually, the numbers are a lifeline, a way to stay tethered to rationality when the hum in my mind threatens to become a roar.
With her, the numbers feel almost peaceful. Like I'm cataloguing something precious instead of fighting to stay human.
Because that's the thing I can't explain, the thing that's been keeping me awake at night: when Esmerelda is near, the beast goes quiet.
Not gone. It's never gone. The morveth has been part of me since I was seventeen years old, a constant presence lurking in the shadows of my mind.
Even on my best days, I can feel it there, the static of potential rage humming beneath my thoughts like radio interference.
It's louder when I'm stressed, louder when I'm tired, louder when someone I care about is in danger.
I've spent fifteen years learning to live with that noise, to function despite it, to count and breathe and remove myself before it becomes too much.
But when she's here, leaning against the wall with her coffee and her patience and her gentle questions, the static fades to almost nothing. The beast settles into something that feels almost like contentment, like it's too busy watching her to remember that it's supposed to be dangerous.
I don't trust it. How can I trust something I don't understand?
"You're quieter than usual," she says on the fourth morning, tilting her head as she studies me. "If that's even possible."
"I'm always quiet."
"This is a different kind of quiet." She takes a sip of her own coffee, watching me over the rim. "Like you're working through something."
Working through something. That's one way to describe the war happening inside my head, the constant battle between wanting her closer and knowing I should push her away.
Every conversation we have makes it harder to maintain the distance that's kept everyone safe from me for fifteen years.
Every smile she gives me chips away at the walls I've built around the parts of myself I can't afford to let anyone see.
"I'm fine," I say, because it's easier than the truth.
"You know," she says lightly, "in my professional experience, 'fine' is usually code for 'the opposite of fine.'"
"Your professional experience?"
"I'm a social worker." Her smile turns a little wry. "I spend my days talking to people who aren't fine and don't know how to say it."
I didn't know that about her. I've memorized her laugh and her coffee order and the way she hums church hymns when she thinks no one's listening, but I didn't know what she does for a living.
The information settles into place, rearranging my understanding of her.
Of course she's a social worker. Of course she chose a career built on reaching for people who can't reach for themselves.
"Does it work?" I ask. "Talking about things that aren't fine?"
"Sometimes." She sets her coffee on the windowsill and turns to face me more fully. "Sometimes people just need someone to listen. To witness what they're carrying without judging them for it."
"And if what they're carrying is something that can't be fixed?"
"Not everything needs to be fixed." Her voice is gentle, and I feel it like a touch against my skin. "Some things just need to be held."
I don't know how to respond to that. The beast stirs in my chest, not with anger but with something else, something that feels almost like longing. It wants her to hold my broken pieces. It wants to believe that she could.
The beast has never wanted anything soft before.
Kira Reyes finds me that afternoon.
I'm in the hallway near the back room, pretending to check the reinforced windows for the tenth time today, when she appears beside me like a shadow in designer jeans.
Barrett's woman is sharp in a way that reminds me of her man, all edges and precision, the kind of person who sees everything and files it away for later use.
She's proven herself to the club in ways that matter, but I've never spoken to her alone.
"You're spending a lot of time with Esme," she says without preamble.
I turn to face her, keeping my expression neutral. "She brings me coffee."
"She brings you hope." Kira's dark eyes are assessing, reading me with the same intensity Barrett applies to tactical situations. "I've known Esme for twelve years. I know what she looks like when she's decided someone needs saving."
The word lands like a blow. Saving. Is that what Esme thinks she's doing? Looking at me like a project, a broken thing she can fix with enough patience and coffee and gentle questions?
"I haven't asked her for anything," I say, and my voice comes out harder than I intend.
"You don't have to. That's the point." Kira steps closer, lowering her voice. "Esme sees someone in pain, and she can't help herself. She gives and gives until there's nothing left, and then she gives some more. It's the best thing about her and the worst."
"I'm not asking her to give me anything."
"You don't understand." Kira's jaw tightens, and I see the protective fury beneath her calm exterior. "She doesn't need you to ask. She'll give it anyway, because that's who she is. And if you're not careful, she'll give you pieces of herself that she can't afford to lose."
I think about the mornings, the coffee, the conversations. I think about the way Esme waits patiently for my answers, never pushing, never demanding. I think about how she touched my arm yesterday and didn't flinch when my whole body went rigid with the effort of not reaching for her.
"What do you want me to do?" I ask. "Tell her to stop?"
"I want you to be careful with her." Kira holds my gaze, and there's no hostility in her expression now, just concern. "She has a soft heart, Stellan. It's her greatest strength and her biggest vulnerability. Don't hurt her."
"I would never?—"
"Not intentionally." She cuts me off, her voice gentle but firm. "But you could hurt her without meaning to. We both know what you are. What you're capable of. And Esme doesn't have the same survival instincts as the rest of us."
The words hit me like ice water, sobering and brutal.
She's right. Of course she's right. I've been so focused on how Esme makes the beast go quiet that I forgot the most important truth: the beast doesn't stay quiet forever.
It never has. And when it wakes up, when the control I've built my entire life around finally breaks, anyone close to me will be caught in the destruction.
"I'll be careful," I say, and it feels like a surrender.
Kira studies me for a long moment, something shifting behind her eyes. Then she nods, once, and walks away without another word.
I stand in the hallway for a long time after she's gone, counting my heartbeats and wondering if being careful means staying away.
Night watch is the loneliest part of the rotation.
The compound goes quiet after midnight, the women sleeping in the back room, the brothers cycling through their shifts with minimal conversation.
I like the night watch. The darkness is honest, uncomplicated, a blank canvas that doesn't judge me for the things I can't control.
I can pace the perimeter without anyone noticing, count the stars through reinforced windows, let the beast prowl the edges of my mind without worrying about who might see.
Tonight, though, I'm not alone.
Kieran finds me near the eastern windows, his footsteps barely audible on the worn floorboards.
He moves like a predator even now, fifteen years after he gave up the front lines for the weight of the presidency.
My alpha, my President, the man who found me half-feral on a roadside and decided I was worth saving.
"Can't sleep," he says by way of greeting.
"Neither can I."
We stand in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the darkness beyond the windows.
I've always found peace in Kieran's presence, something about his steadiness that makes the beast go still with respect instead of fear.
He's the only one who's seen me at my worst and stayed.
The only one who's talked me back from the edge when the red took over and I couldn't find my way home.
"The beast is quiet," I say finally, the words falling into the darkness like stones dropped into still water, each one sending ripples through the silence between us.
Kieran turns to look at me, his reflection ghosting across the window glass before he shifts his full attention my way. "Around her?"