17. Storm
Chapter 17
Storm
T he smell of Chinese food fills the penthouse, boxes upon boxes of it spread across the dining table. My stomach growls loudly. I haven't eaten much all day, too busy playing cards with Alex and Frankie. I'd forgotten what it was like to have someone I could actually talk to, someone who didn't look at me like I was a problem.
Alexander came back from the bathroom, then Jonathan and Reed returned just as the sun was setting, arms laden with takeout bags. I hadn't expected the grumpy alphas to bring dinner home, let alone enough to feed a small army.
I sit at the table, knees pulled to my chest and chin resting on them, watching as the rest of them settle in. The seating arrangement feels deliberate—Jonathan at the head of the table, Reed to his right, Alexander to his left, then me beside Alexander, and Frankie beside me.
Frankie's noticeably tense, his shoulders hunched like he's trying to make himself smaller, his eyes darting nervously between the alphas as they pass containers back and forth. I hate seeing him this way, like he's afraid to breathe too loudly.
I peer into the open containers nearest me, trying to identify their contents without making it obvious that I'm clueless. I recognize rice, obviously, and something that looks like chicken with vegetables. But the rest? No idea. Growing up in the foster system meant food was basic at best—pasta, hamburger helper, the occasional frozen pizza when Mrs. Jennings splurged. And the Omega House? The same bland, nutritionally balanced meals day after day, not Chinese, nothing interesting.
"Here," Jonathan says, holding out a container toward me. "Do you want the kung pao chicken?"
I stare at the container, not wanting to admit I have no clue what "kung pao chicken" is. Is it spicy? Sweet? Will I make a fool of myself trying to eat it?
"I'm good," I shrug, trying to sound casual as I pick at the rice already on my plate.
Jonathan's eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of confusion passing over his face before he turns to offer it to Frankie instead.
Alexander watches this exchange with unusual interest, his sharp green eyes missing nothing. He leans closer to me, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
"Chicken with the little red peppers," he clarifies, nodding at my hesitation. "It's pretty spicy. I prefer the sweet and sour pork myself, the one with the pineapple. Or the beef and broccoli; it has those thick slices of carrots that soak up all the sauce. The sauce is mild but sweet, which is my favorite."
The subtle way he describes the dishes sends relief washing through me. He noticed. And instead of calling me out, he's helping.
"I'll try that one," I say, pointing to the beef dish he just described.
Alexander smiles and passes it to me. "Good choice."
I take a tentative bite and find that he's right—the sauce is mild with a sweet undertone, nothing overwhelming. It's actually delicious.
"Good?" Alexander asks, his expression warm with something that might be understanding.
I nod, taking another bite with more enthusiasm. "Really good."
"I had a feeling you'd like it," he says with a conspiratorial wink.
Across the table, Reed's eyes track this interaction, his stormy gaze unreadable. Jonathan seems tense, his jaw working as he chews, like he's grinding his food to death before swallowing.
"So, Frankie," Alexander says, turning his attention. "How long did you work at the Omega House?"
Frankie startles, nearly dropping his fork. "Um, f-four years, sir—I mean, Alex."
"The whole time Storm was there?" he asks, though I suspect he already knows the answer.
Frankie nods, his gaze flicking briefly to me before returning to his plate. "Yes. I started just a few weeks before Storm arrived."
"And you were what, sixteen?" Alexander continues casually. Something that he found out earlier during our card game.
Reed's head snaps up at that. "Sixteen? Aren't there age restrictions for working at the Omega House?"
I laugh, the sound sharp in the sudden tension. "Oh please. Like the Omega House cares about rules when it comes to betas. They're just disposable labor."
Frankie flinches slightly beside me, and I immediately regret my harsh tone.
"Sorry," I murmur to him. "I didn't mean?—"
"It's okay," he says quickly. "You're not wrong."
"Is that true?" Alexander asks, looking between Reed and Jonathan. "They hire beta teenagers to guard omegas?"
Jonathan's expression darkens. "Technically, the minimum age is eighteen. But enforcement is lax at best."
"They don't check too closely as long as you can do the job," Frankie adds quietly. "And they don't pay well enough to attract many adult betas who have better options."
The table falls into uncomfortable silence. I feel a surge of protectiveness toward Frankie, watching how he shrinks under the alphas scrutiny. He's been nothing but kind to me for four years, snuck me gum, played cards with me when no one else would. And now he's sitting here like he doesn't belong, when the alphas are the ones who dragged him into this mess.
"You know what?" I say, setting down my fork with a clatter that makes everyone look up. "If I'm supposed to be on my best behavior for your fathers, you all better start treating Frankie like an equal member of this pack."
Reed's eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," I say, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "You brought him in as your beta. He's part of this pack now, not some servant or afterthought. So start treating him like a person and not just a designation."
Frankie makes a small, choked sound beside me. "Storm, it's fine?—"
"It's not fine," I cut him off, turning to face the alphas. "He's sitting here looking terrified because you're all acting like he doesn't belong. But he does. You made sure of that when you dragged him into this mess."
Alexander's lips twitch, like he's suppressing a smile. "She's right," he says, surprising me by taking my side. "Pack is pack. All members equal."
"All members equal?" Reed scoffs. "That's not how pack dynamics work and you know it."
"Maybe it should be," I fire back. "Maybe if you all weren't so obsessed with who's an alpha and who's a beta and who's an omega, the world wouldn't be such a fucking disaster."
Jonathan watches me with an unreadable expression. "You have strong opinions for someone who's only been in a pack for a few days."
"Yeah, well, I've had twenty years of watching how this system treats people based on their designation. So excuse me if I'm not impressed with your hierarchical bullshit."
Frankie's scent shifts beside me, the toasted marshmallows and cinnamon taking on a sweeter edge that makes my omega instincts hum with approval. He's responding to my defense of him, his beta pheromones broadcasting appreciation in a way that makes my heart squeeze.
Without meaning to, I perfume in response, dark chocolate notes filling the air around us. The reaction is immediate—all three alphas tense, their nostrils flaring. Reed's hand pauses halfway to his mouth, and Jonathan's grip on his fork tightens enough that his knuckles turn white.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I mutter, trying to control my scent and failing miserably. "Can we not make this weird?"
Reed clears his throat and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small bottle of pills, which he slides across the table to me. "Heat suppressants," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "As requested."
I stare at the bottle, then back at Reed. "Thanks. What about blockers?"
"You didn't say you needed them," Reed replies smoothly. "But I'll get them."
Jonathan looks confused. "When did she request suppressants?"
Reed and I lock eyes across the table, and I suddenly realize—it was him. He was the one watching through the camera this morning, not Jonathan. The knowledge makes heat creep up my neck, all those mornings I put on a show, thinking I was taunting Jonathan... Oh fuck . It really was Reed.
"This morning," I answer, looking away first. "When you two were out."
"I see," Jonathan says, though his tone suggests he doesn't see at all.
Alexander watches this exchange with interest, his gaze moving between me and Reed, a small smile playing at his lips. "Well, I think Storm makes an excellent point about pack dynamics," he says, smoothly changing the subject. "Frankie is one of us now. He should be treated accordingly."
Reed's eyes narrow at his pack mate. "And what exactly does that mean in practical terms, Alex?"
"It means," Alexander says, reaching for another spring roll, "that we stop treating him like he's invisible. We include him in conversations, decisions. We make him feel welcome." He turns to Frankie. "What do you think, Frankie? What would make you feel more like part of the pack?"
Frankie looks like a deer caught in headlights, his eyes wide as everyone's attention turns to him. "I... I don't know," he says uncertainly. "I'm just not used to—" he gestures vaguely at the table "—all of this."
"All of what?" Jonathan asks, his tone surprisingly gentle.
"Sitting at the same table," Frankie admits, looking down at his plate. "Being asked for my opinion. In the Omega House, betas eat in the staff room. We don't... socialize."
"Well, that's a load of crap," I declare, reaching for the beef and broccoli again. "We socialized all the time."
"That was different," Frankie says, a small smile appearing despite his nervousness. "That was just us."
"And now it's all of us," Alexander says firmly. "So, Frankie, tell us something about yourself that we don't know. Something not in your personnel file."
Frankie hesitates, glancing at me as if for reassurance. I nod encouragingly.
"I, uh, I play the guitar," he says finally. "Not very well, but I've been teaching myself. My mom started teaching me before she got sick, and I kept it up after she... after she was gone."
"You never told me that," I say, genuinely surprised. Four years of friendship, and I never knew he played music.
He shrugs, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "It never came up. Besides, I'd have to sneak out to play at the Omega House. No guitars allowed."
"No guitars?" Alexander asks, looking genuinely offended. "What kind of dystopian nightmare is this place?"
"The kind that thinks omegas might get too emotional if they hear music," I say dryly. "God forbid we feel things."
"Do you have a guitar now?" Alexander asks Frankie.
He shakes his head. "I had to sell it. After my mom died, there were bills and—" he breaks off, clearly uncomfortable with sharing so much.
"We'll get you a new one," Alexander declares, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "What kind do you play? Acoustic? Electric?"
Frankie seems overwhelmed by the offer. "You don't have to?—"
"I know I don't have to," Alexander cuts in smoothly. "I want to. Pack takes care of pack."
Jonathan and Reed exchange a look I can't quite decipher. Then, to my surprise, Jonathan nods.
"Alex is right," he says. "If you want a guitar, we'll get you one."
The genuine shock on Frankie's face would be comical if it weren't so sad. Has no one ever done anything nice for him before?
"Thank you," he says quietly. "That's... really kind."
"It's not kindness," Reed says, his voice gruff. "It's pack."
I roll my eyes at his tone, but I notice Frankie sit a little straighter, his scent shifting subtly to something warmer, more confident.
The conversation flows more easily after that, with Alexander asking questions that draw Frankie out of his shell bit by bit. Even Reed contributes occasionally, though he watches me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
Jonathan remains mostly silent, observing rather than participating, but I catch him studying me when he thinks I'm not looking. There's something in his gaze I can't quite place. Not anger or annoyance, but something deeper.
As the meal winds down, I find myself surprisingly content, my belly full of food I've never had before, surrounded by a strange collection of people who, just for this moment, almost feel like they could be something resembling a pack.
I glance at Alexander, who catches my eye and gives me a warm smile that reaches all the way to those green eyes, so like his brother's, yet so different. In another life, in different circumstances, I think I could have been happy in his pack.
If only it didn't include the two assholes at the end of the table.
But then I think of Rook—his dark eyes, his protective arms around me, the way he always made me feel safe even when the world was falling apart. The memory is both comforting and painful, a reminder of what I've lost and what I'm still fighting for.
This isn't my pack. These aren't my people. No matter how many Chinese dinners we share or how much Alex makes me laugh or how Frankie's presence soothes my frayed nerves.
This is just temporary. A holding pattern until I can find my way back to where I truly belong.
I catch Frankie's eye and he gives me a small, genuine smile that reminds me of all the card games and whispered conversations that got me through four years of hell. The one constant in my life since I was taken.
And I know with absolute certainty. When I find my way back to Rook, Frankie's coming with me. He belongs with me, has since that first day he dealt cards with shaking hands. He's not just my beta guard or my friend. He's family. The kind you choose, the kind you fight for.
The kind you don't leave behind.
* * *
Hours later, I stand at my bedroom window, staring out at the glittering city below. Dinner ended with polite goodnights, everyone retreating to their respective corners of the penthouse. The lights of Crescent City stretch out like a galaxy of stars, each one representing a life I know nothing about, people with their own desires and struggles.
Somewhere out there is Rook, maybe looking up at these same lights, wondering where I am.
A sudden, sharp cramp doubles me over, pulling me from my thoughts. Heat floods my body, and I feel the unmistakable rush of slick between my thighs.
"Shit," I hiss, gripping the bed as another wave hits me. The suppressants. I forgot to take the suppressants Reed gave me at dinner.
I straighten, breathing through the ache, and try to recall where I last saw the pill bottle. The dining table. I left it there after dinner, too distracted by the conversation to remember to take it with me.
Carefully, I open my bedroom door and peer into the darkened hallway. The penthouse is silent, all the lights off except for the ambient glow from the city through the windows. I slip out, padding quietly toward the dining area, hoping everyone's asleep.
The dining table has been cleared, the remains of our Chinese feast gone. My heart sinks until I spot the small bottle on the kitchen counter, deliberately placed where I would see it.
Relief floods through me as I move toward it, but another cramp hits just as I reach the counter, this one sharper than the last. A soft whimper escapes me before I can stop it, and I grab the edge of the sink to steady myself.
I need water to take the pill. I fumble for a glass from the cabinet, my hands shaking as another wave of heat washes over me. My scent is getting stronger by the second, dark chocolate notes filling the kitchen.
"Can't sleep?"
The low voice startles me so badly I nearly drop the glass. I spin around to find Reed leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He's still fully dressed, though his hair is slightly mussed, like he's been running his hands through it.
His ocean scent hits me like a physical force, making my knees weak and my omega instincts whine. I grip the counter behind me, trying to stay upright.
"Do you never sleep?" I manage to ask, aiming for casual despite the fire raging through my veins.
"Rarely," he answers, his voice deeper than usual.
I turn back to the sink, trying to fill the glass, but my hands are trembling too badly. Another cramp hits, stronger than the others, and the glass slips from my fingers, clattering into the sink with a sharp sound that echoes through the quiet kitchen.
"Fuck," I gasp, doubling over as slick rushes down my thighs.
In an instant, Reed is behind me, his body radiating heat. I feel rather than hear the growl that rumbles through his chest, the vibration of it traveling through the minimal space between us.
"You need to take that suppressant. Now ." His voice is strained, fighting for control.
"I'm trying," I grit out through clenched teeth, attempting to reach for the pill bottle with shaking fingers.
Reed's hand closes over mine, helping me open the bottle. The brush of his skin against mine sends electricity shooting up my arm. I manage to shake a pill into my palm, but before I can lift it to my lips, another wave of heat crashes over me.
My knees buckle, and Reed's arm wraps around my waist, keeping me upright. The moment his body makes contact with mine, something shifts. His control fractures.
I feel him press against me from behind, the hard length of him unmistakable against the curve of my ass. A growl tears from his throat, primitive and hungry, as he buries his face in my hair.
"Storm," he warns, his voice rough with restraint, "take the pill."
But I can't move, can't think beyond the need pulsing through me. My omega biology is overriding everything else, responding to the alpha pressed against me.
"Reed," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for.
His grip on my waist tightens, and for one breathless moment, I think he's going to give in to the instincts clearly raging through him. But then, with what seems like superhuman effort, he steps back, putting space between us.
"Take the pill," he repeats, his voice hoarse. "Now."
The cold air that replaces his body heat shocks me back to reality. I fumble to get the pill in my mouth, then grab the glass with both hands, filling it enough to swallow.
The suppressant will take time to work, but just taking action helps clear my head slightly. I turn to face Reed, who's now standing across the kitchen, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the island.
"I'm sorry," I say, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm apologizing for. My scent? The way my body responded to his? The fact that for a moment, I wanted something I shouldn't?
“Don't,” he says sharply. “Don't apologize for your biology.”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling very exposed in my sleep shorts and tank top. "I forgot to take it after dinner."
“I noticed.” His eyes are still dark with desire, but he's regaining control by the second, his breathing evening out.
“Why are you even awake?” I ask, needing to break the tension somehow.
“I told you. I rarely sleep.” He pushes away from the counter, running a hand through his hair. "I was in my study when I smelled you."
The thought of him tracking my scent through the penthouse sends a shiver down my spine. Half fear, half something else I refuse to acknowledge.
“You should go back to your room,” he says, his voice steadier now. "The suppressant will kick in soon."
I nod, moving toward the hallway on still-shaky legs. As I pass him, he reaches out suddenly, catching my wrist in a gentle grip.
“The blockers will be here tomorrow,” he says, his stormy eyes holding mine.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He releases me, and I hurry back to my room, closing the door firmly behind me. I lean against it, heart racing, body still thrumming with heat and need.
What the hell just happened? Reed Howard, the cold, distant, intimidating asshole Reed. He nearly lost control because of me. And worse, for a moment there, I wanted him to.
I press my hands to my hot cheeks, horrified at myself. I love Rook. I'm going to escape and find Rook. That's the plan. That's always been the plan.
So why can't I forget the feel of Reed pressed against me, the growl in my ear, the ocean and cedar scent that made my omega instincts sing?
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, waiting for the suppressant to cool the fire in my veins. It's just biology, I tell myself. Just stupid omega hormones reacting to an alpha. It doesn't mean anything.
But as I crawl into bed, the memory of Reed's hand on my waist, his breath in my hair, follows me into restless dreams.