Chapter 22
Confessions And Cotton Candy
~SERAPHINE~
"So we're playing house for six more days?"
The question comes out casual—deliberately so, wrapped in the kind of flippancy I've learned to deploy when things feel too real, too heavy, too much like something that might actually matter.
I look at each of them in turn.
Kai at the head of the table, cutting into his steak with surgical precision, every motion controlled and deliberate. His dark gold eyes are fixed on his plate, but I can tell he's listening—cataloguing every word, every inflection, every piece of information that might be useful later.
Sage to my left, close enough that our elbows occasionally brush when he reaches for something.
His plate is already half-empty—apparently near-death experiences make you hungry, or maybe he's just always been a fast eater.
His green-gold eyes flick to me whenever I speak, tracking my expressions like he's still learning to read me in person instead of just through letters.
Jett across from me, eating with the same mechanical efficiency he seems to apply to everything. His storm-grey gaze is distant, unfocused, but I've learned that doesn't mean he's not paying attention. If anything, the opposite—Jett seems to absorb more when he's not actively looking.
And Blaze beside him, golden hair catching the candlelight —actual candles, because apparently this pack house has candles on the dining table like some kind of olden period drama— grinning at something only he finds funny.
They're all here.
All four of them.
My pack.
The thought still feels impossible.
Like trying on shoes that don't quite fit, or speaking a language I only half-understand. I know the words, know the motions, but the meaning behind them—the weight of belonging to something, of being claimed, of mattering to people who chose me instead of being stuck with me—
That part hasn't settled yet.
Maybe it never will.
One-two-three-four.
My toe taps against the floor beneath the table.
One-two-three-four.
The rhythm is comforting. Familiar. An anchor in a sea of unfamiliar experiences.
Like this dinner, for instance.
The table is massive.
Dark wood, polished to a gleam, stretching out in both directions like it was designed to seat a small army. The surface is covered with food—actual, proper, real food—in quantities I haven't seen since I was a child sitting at my parents' table.
Steak, cooked to various levels of doneness.
Roasted vegetables glistening with butter and herbs.
Fresh bread, still warm, in a basket lined with cloth.
Salad that looks like it came from an actual garden instead of a vacuum-sealed bag.
Potatoes, mashed and creamy, steaming gently in a serving dish.
And wine—bottles of it, red and white, positioned at intervals along the table like sentinels.
My stomach growls.
Loudly.
The sound is embarrassing—the bodily betrayal of someone who's been living on academy cafeteria food and whatever she could scrounge from her limited budget.
I've been starving, I realize. Not in the dramatic sense, not in the immediate danger sense, but in the slow, grinding way that happens when you're too busy surviving to remember that you need to eat.
I grab a roll from the basket.
Tear off a piece.
Stuff it in my mouth.
Heaven.
The bread is soft, still warm from the oven, with a slight crust that yields perfectly under my teeth. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the simple pleasure of good food wash over me.
When was the last time I ate something that wasn't designed for efficiency over taste?
When was the last time I sat at a table like this, surrounded by people who weren't actively trying to hurt me?
The answers are both the same: ten years ago.
Before my parents died.
Before everything changed.
"Kai's father is already making moves."
Sage's voice cuts through my food-induced reverie.
I open my eyes, finding him watching me with that particular expression—half amusement, half concern—that seems to be his default when he's not sure how I'm going to react.
"What kind of moves?"
"Subtle ones." Kai speaks without looking up from his steak. His knife moves through the meat with precise, controlled strokes—one-two-three-four cuts before he spears a piece with his fork. "He's testing. Checking whether the information he received is accurate."
"The information being...?"
"That his son and heir has claimed an Omega." Kai finally lifts his gaze, dark gold meeting mismatched blue-and-green. "Not just any Omega. The last surviving Eastman."
The words land heavily.
The last surviving Eastman.
It's not news—I've known who I am my entire life—but hearing it stated so baldly, at this table full of people who were originally sent to kill me, makes it feel different.
More real.
More dangerous.
"So it can happen at any moment," I say, reaching for another roll because stress-eating is apparently my new coping mechanism. "Whatever 'it' is."
"The confrontation." Blaze's grin has sharpened into something more predatory. "Daddy Lawson isn't going to let this slide. He sent us here to eliminate the Eastman heir, and instead we've claimed her. That's not just disobedience—it's a direct challenge to his authority."
"Plus the whole 'trying to have us killed' thing," Sage adds casually. "Can't forget that."
"I haven't forgotten." Kai's voice is flat. Controlled. But there's something burning underneath—a rage so cold it doesn't need heat to destroy. "The goal is to ensure he's heard that we're in a pack with you. An Eastman. That alone will send him over the edge."
I nod slowly, processing.
Bait.
That's what I am.
The lure that brings the monster out of hiding.
It should bother me—being used as a tool, a weapon, a means to an end. But honestly? I've been used for worse things by people who cared about me far less.
At least these Alphas are honest about it.
At least they're not pretending this is something it's not.
"So it can happen at any moment," I repeat, confirming. "Any day in the next six. We need to be ready."
"We're always ready," Jett says quietly. It's the first time he's spoken since we sat down, and his voice carries that same eerie calm that seems to be his defining characteristic. "That's what we do."
We eat in silence for a few minutes.
The food is incredible—every bite better than the last, every flavor a reminder of what I've been missing in my bare-bones existence at Ruthless Academy.
I find myself eating faster than I should, barely chewing, like some part of me is afraid the food will disappear if I don't consume it quickly enough.
Survival instinct.
Even at the dinner table.
How fucked up is that?
A giggle escapes.
High.
Bright.
Completely inappropriate for the moment.
The others look at me—varying degrees of concern and curiosity on their faces—and I wave a hand dismissively.
"Sorry. Just... thinking about how weird this is." I gesture at the spread before us. "I haven't seen a table like this since I was a kid. Before... you know. Before."
No one asks me to elaborate.
They know what before means.
The silence that follows is different—heavier, more thoughtful. I can feel them watching me, assessing, trying to figure out how to navigate the minefield of my trauma without detonating anything.
Careful.
They're being careful with me.
When has anyone ever been careful with me?
The thought makes my chest tight.
I shove another piece of bread in my mouth to avoid dealing with the emotion.
One-two-three-four.
My fingers tap against the table.
One-two-three-four.
"I don't really know much about you," I say finally, swallowing the bread and reaching for my wine glass. The alcohol burns pleasantly on the way down. "Any of you. Beyond the basics. Beyond what Sage told me in letters and what I've observed in the last couple days."
Blaze raises an eyebrow. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything." The word comes out more honest than I intended. "But that's a lot, so... how about we go around the table? Everyone says something about themselves. Passions. Hobbies. Whatever. Get to know each other like actual pack members instead of strangers who happen to share living space."
Another silence.
This one feels uncertain—like they're not used to sharing, to opening up, to letting people see beyond the masks they wear.
Join the club, I think.
We can all be emotionally constipated together.
"I'll start," I offer, because someone has to break the ice and it might as well be me. "Since you already know most of my dark secrets from the letters anyway."
I set down my wine glass.
Take a breath.
Let myself actually think about who I am when I'm not just surviving.
"I like dancing," I begin. "Ballet, mostly, but I'm trained in contemporary and aerial work too. When I was younger—before everything—I wanted to go to Juilliard. Wanted to be on stages around the world, performing for audiences who came to see beauty instead of violence."
My fingers find the edge of my napkin, twisting the fabric.
One-two-three-four.
Four twists.
Even number.
Safe.
"In Ruthless, I adapted. Took the dance training and turned it into combat. Ballet footwork for blade fights. Aerial skills for escapes and ambushes. The flexibility came in handy when people tried to pin me down." A small smile curves my lips—not nice, not pretty. "They usually regretted that."
"Kill count?" Blaze asks, like he's inquiring about the weather.
"Seventeen." The number comes out flat. "Maybe eighteen. There was one that I'm not sure survived the blood loss, but I didn't stick around to check."
No one reacts with horror.
No gasps, no flinches, no looks of disgust.
Just... acceptance.
Matter-of-fact acknowledgment that violence is part of our world.
It's more comforting than it should be.
"What else?" Sage prompts, his voice gentle.