20. Storm
Chapter 20
Storm
T he sound of the shower running provides a soothing backdrop as I stretch languidly across the bed, my body still humming with pleasure. I can't stop the smile that spreads across my face.
Rook is here. He found me, and for the first time in four years, I feel like myself again.
But the realities of our situation quickly intrude on my moment of bliss. My scent is everywhere, dark chocolate notes heavy with arousal and my release, broadcasting exactly what we've been doing to anyone with a nose. I need my blockers and suppressants, which I left somewhere in the kitchen last night.
I roll out of bed, wincing slightly at the pleasant ache in muscles I haven't used in years. I pull on a pair of sleep shorts and Rook's t-shirt, which he must have tossed on the floor last night. It smells like him—strawberries and cream—and I bury my nose in the fabric for a moment before heading for the door.
The penthouse is quiet as I pad down the hallway, the morning sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I make my way to the kitchen, hoping to grab the pills and get back to my room before encountering any of the alphas.
No such luck.
Reed stands at the kitchen counter, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the other gripping the edge of the marble so tightly his knuckles are white. He looks up as I enter, his nostrils flaring as he takes in my scent, and more importantly, Rook's scent all over me.
His eyes narrow, stormy blue, darkening to almost black. "Where is he?" The question comes out as more of a growl than words.
"Good morning to you too," I say, scanning the counter for my pill bottles. I spot them near the sink and move toward them, trying to act casual despite the tension crackling in the air.
Reed steps into my path, his tall frame blocking my access to the medications. "I asked you a question."
"And I ignored it," I reply, lifting my chin. "He's in the shower, if you must know. Alone," I add pointedly.
"I told him not to touch you," Reed says, his voice low and dangerous. "I made that very clear."
I roll my eyes, trying to sidestep him. "We didn't do anything."
"Your scent says otherwise," he challenges, not budging. "You reek of him. And arousal."
Heat flushes my cheeks, but I refuse to back down. "He's being a perfect gentleman, which is more than I can say for some of the alphas in this penthouse."
"He was explicitly warned," Reed continues as if I hadn't spoken. "No inappropriate touching. We had an agreement."
Something in me snaps at his presumption—the idea that he gets to dictate what happens between me and Rook, that my body is somehow under his power.
"He didn't touch me with his dick, if that's what you're worried about," I say sweetly, watching his expression darken. "Does that count?"
The coffee mug in Reed's hand cracks, dark liquid spilling over his fingers. He doesn't seem to notice.
"I'm going to kill him," he says matter-of-factly, setting the broken mug down and turning toward the hallway.
I grab his arm without thinking, my fingers barely circling his wrist. "Touch him, and I'll tell the father’s and everyone in the restaurant tonight that wants to listen, how this omega rigged the draw, and got herself this pack."
Reed freezes, his eyes locked on my hand touching him, before slowly rising to my face.
"I'll tell them how all the omegas have been rigging the draws to win who they wanted," I continue, releasing his arm but standing my ground. "How it's been happening for as long as anyone knows. How the entire system is a sham."
"You wouldn't," he says, but there's a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Try me," I challenge. "Threaten Rook again, and I'll burn the whole thing down. Wouldn't that be fun to watch?"
Reed's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. He's furious. I can smell it in his scent, like the air before a lightning strike. But there's something else there too, something I don't quite understand. Something almost like... jealousy?
"You have no idea what you're playing with," he says, his voice deadly quiet. "No idea what's at stake."
"Then enlighten me," I fire back. "Because from where I'm standing, all I see is an alpha having a tantrum, because he's not getting his way."
Something shifts in Reed's expression, a flash of emotion so raw it makes me take a step back. But it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by cold fury.
Without another word, he pushes past me, stalking down the hallway to his room. The door slams with enough force to rattle the artwork on the walls.
I stand there, heart racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I've pushed him too far, I know that. But I won't let him threaten Rook. I won't let any of them come between us again.
"That wasn't smart," a quiet voice says from behind me.
I whirl around to find Alexander and Frankie sitting at the dining table, both watching me with concerned expressions. I hadn't even noticed them there. I swear. Why are they always lurking there when Reed is in the kitchen with me?
"How long have you been sitting there?" I demand, embarrassed to have had an audience for that confrontation.
"Long enough," Alexander says, setting down a cup of what smells like chamomile tea. "I told you. Leave Reed alone, Storm. Don't push him."
"He started it," I say, aware of how childish I sound. "He threatened Rook."
Alexander sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. "I know. And he was wrong to do that. But there's more going on here than you understand."
"Then make me understand," I plead, frustration building in my chest. "Everyone keeps saying that, but no one tells me anything! I know I fucked up alright? The uprising, the rebellion. I didn’t mean to light the match."
"Please, Storm. It’s not just that." Alexander says, his green eyes serious in a way I haven't seen before. "Just be on your best behavior for the father’s tonight. It's not only your life on the line. There are other things at play here, other people's lives depending on this going well so everyone can go back to their usual routines."
The weight of his words settles over me. Is this to do with Reed's disgraced family name? He shouldn’t care what they think. How many more secrets does this pack have?
"Fine," I concede, grabbing my pill bottles from the counter. "I'll be good."
Alexander's expression softens. "Thank you."
I hesitate, suddenly reluctant to return to my room. "Are you going to leave? After the dinner?"
Something flickers in his eyes—sadness, perhaps. "I'll stay a day or two more," he says gently. "But yes, I have to go back."
"To where?" I press, then immediately regret it when I see his expression close off.
"To somewhere that needs me," he says vaguely.
The realization hits me then—he has someone waiting for him. Maybe a beta girlfriend, someone who lives far from Crescent City. Someone he loves enough to disappear from public life for months at a time.
An unexpected wave of jealousy washes over me, which is ridiculous. I have Rook. I love Rook. I've always loved Rook. So why does the thought of Alexander having someone else make my chest ache?
"I should get back," I mutter, hugging the pill bottles to my chest. "Rook will wonder where I am."
Alexander nods, but his eyes are knowing. Too knowing. Like he can see right through me.
I flee back to my room, confusion and upset churning in my stomach. When I open the door, Rook is just emerging from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets still clinging to his broad shoulders.
The sight of him—my Rook, solid and real and here, steadies me. This is what matters. This is who I've been waiting for.
But as I kiss him on the cheek, the memory of Reed's fury and Alexander's cryptic warnings follow me like a shadow.
* * *
"Storm, stop fidgeting," Jonathan says under his breath as we wait for the driver to bring the car around.
I fight the urge to tug at the neckline of the dress he bought for me—a deep burgundy number that's modest enough to satisfy propriety but fits well enough to show I'm "taken care of," as Jonathan put it. My hair has been tamed into softer waves, and there's makeup on my face that I didn't even get to apply. He hired a beta makeup artist as if I couldn’t do it myself.
Worst of all is the perfume—a floral scent so strong it makes my nose burn. But they were worried that even though I showered and stayed away from Rook all afternoon, I might still smell like him. The perfume is meant to cover any lingering traces, to ensure the father’s don't realize there's a beta-born alpha in their precious sons, omega's bedroom.
Reed hasn't spoken to me since our confrontation this morning. He stands a few feet away, looking coldly elegant in a tailored suit, his gaze fixed on the street ahead. Alexander is beside him, equally well-dressed but more relaxed, occasionally exchanging quiet words with Frankie, who looks like he wants to disappear into the pavement.
Poor Frankie. He's been dragged into this nightmare too, forced into a suit that doesn't quite fit right, expected to play his role in this charade. At least I'm not alone in my misery.
"Remember what we discussed," Jonathan says as the sleek black car pulls up. "Eyes down, short answers, no sass."
"I know," I reply, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "I'm not an idiot."
"Could have fooled me," Reed mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
Before I can retort, Jonathan opens the car door, and we're sliding into the back seat—Jonathan, me, then Alexander on one side, with Reed and Frankie facing us on the other. The seating feels deliberate, keeping me surrounded by alphas, with Reed positioned where he can watch me but not close enough to touch.
The restaurant is only a fifteen-minute drive from the penthouse, but it feels like hours with the tension in the car. By the time we arrive, my shoulders are so tight they ache.
The restaurant is exactly what I expected—all gleaming marble and soft lighting, with discreet private rooms for elite patrons who don't want to be seen by the common folk. We're led through the main dining area to a door at the back, where a host gives Jonathan a nod before ushering us in.
Jonathan's fathers are already seated at a large round table, three imposing figures in expensive suits, radiating power and privilege. They stand as we enter, their sharp eyes immediately landing on me. I force myself to keep my gaze down, studying the intricate pattern of the carpet instead of meeting their assessing stares.
"Jonathan," the first father says, his voice crisp and commanding. "You're late."
"Traffic, Father," Jonathan replies smoothly. "May I present Storm?"
A large hand enters my field of vision, and I have no choice but to take it, allowing myself to be led forward. I risk a glance up, finding myself face to face with the oldest of the three—Father One, as I've come to think of him. His eyes are the same green as Jonathan's, but colder, harder.
"Is she still causing trouble?" he asks, assessing me with a clinical detachment that makes my skin crawl.
I bite my tongue to keep from responding, remembering my promise to behave.
"She's smaller than I expected," says Father Two, moving to circle me as if I'm a horse at auction. "But passably attractive, I suppose."
I dig my nails into my palms, forcing a bland smile onto my face as rage bubbles in my chest.
"Come, sit," Father Three says, gesturing to the table. "Let's not waste time on pleasantries when there's business to discuss."
The seating arrangement is clearly predetermined—the three fathers on one side, Jonathan at the head of the table, with me to his right, then Alexander. Reed sits across from me, and poor Frankie is at the far end, as distant from the fathers as possible while still being at the same table.
"Wine?" Father Three offers, already gesturing for a waiter to pour.
"None for the omega," Father One intercepts. "She appears spirited enough without it."
I keep my eyes on my plate, resisting the urge to tell him exactly where he can shove his wine.
The dinner proceeds with excruciating slowness. Course after course of food I barely taste, conversation that flows around me as if I'm not there. The fathers ask pointed questions about the lottery incident, about how Jonathan is "managing" me, about plans for a formal claiming ceremony.
I answer when directly addressed, keeping my responses short and neutral, though I can't quite manage to keep my face from showing my distaste. Every time Father Two suggests a "training regimen" to make me more "suitable," I feel my expression slip into a scowl before I can school it back to neutrality.
Frankie, poor soul, is completely ignored, treated like furniture rather than a person. I catch his eye occasionally, trying to convey silent support. He gives me small, encouraging smiles in return, though I can see how uncomfortable he is.
"The real issue," Father One says as the main course is cleared away, "is how to salvage the situation. She's clearly not suitable for the Kingsley name, beta-born as she is."
I tense, sensing the direction this is heading.
"We've had inquiries," Father Three says, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "The Blackwood pack has expressed interest. They're lower elite but established. Willing to pay handsomely to take her off our hands."
"They don't care about her beta-born status?" Jonathan asks, his voice carefully neutral.
"They're desperate enough not to," Father Two replies with a dismissive wave. "Nine alphas, no omega. They're willing to overlook much for a fertile omega, even one with... questionable lineage."
My stomach turns at the casual way they discuss trading me like a commodity. Nine alphas. The thought makes my blood run cold.
"They will keep her hidden away, never to be seen from again," Father One continues. "You’ll claim she died before the bond could be completed. By then, you’ll have secured a match with the Governor’s niece—Daisy—an elite omega whose bloodline will bring greater power and alliance to the Kingsley name."
Daisy is the niece of the Governor? What the fuck. I can't help it—I look up, meeting his gaze directly, my disgust plain on my face. Father One smiles, a cold, reptilian curve of his lips.
"She doesn't like that idea," he comments, as if observing an interesting specimen. "But her thoughts are irrelevant."
"Father," Jonathan begins, his voice tight. "I don't think?—"
"You don't need to think," Father Two cuts in. "This is the solution. The Blackwood offer is generous. The papers will be arranged by the end of the night."
A cold sweat breaks out across my back. A night. They're planning to hand me over to nine strange alphas tonight?
"Alexander," Father Three says, turning to the quieter twin. "You've been silent. What's your opinion on the matter?"
Alexander sets down his wineglass slowly. "I believe we should consider all options carefully," he says diplomatically. "This isn't a decision to be made hastily."
Father One dismisses this with a flick of his wrist. "You've been absent for months. Your input is noted, but unnecessary."
I notice how they barely acknowledge Alexander, how different their treatment of him is compared to Jonathan. It's subtle, but unmistakable—Alexander is an afterthought, not the heir, not important to their plans.
But they completely ignore Reed.
"If you'll excuse us," Alexander says suddenly, standing with a grace that contradicts the tension I can sense in him. "I believe the omega and her beta should return to the penthouse. They've both had a long day, and tomorrow's preparations will require them to be well-rested."
"Of course," Father Three says, waving a dismissive hand. "Take them. We have actual business to discuss, anyway."
I rise gratefully, nodding my thanks to Alexander as he helps me with my chair. Frankie practically leaps to his feet, relief evident in every line of his body.
"I'll escort them," Alexander tells Jonathan. "You and Reed should stay. The fathers will want to discuss the Blackwood proposal in detail."
A look passes between the twins—something significant, though I can't decipher its meaning. Jonathan nods once, his expression unreadable.
"Good night, Fathers," I say, forcing myself to be polite as Alexander guides me toward the door, one hand hovering near but not touching the small of my back.
"Untrainable. Pack her bags, Alexander." Father Two calls after us.
It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to turn around and tell him exactly what I think of him. But I made a promise, and as much as it pains me, I keep it, stepping out of the private room with my head high but my mouth shut.
"You did well," Alexander murmurs as we make our way through the main restaurant. "Better than I expected."
"Thanks, I want to kill them," I reply, finally allowing myself to breathe once we're outside waiting for the driver.
"You were amazing," Frankie says quietly from my other side. "I wanted to crawl under the table half the time, but you just... took it."
"Don't get too impressed," I warn him with a weak smile. "I was composing detailed murder scenarios in my head the entire time."
Alexander laughs, the sound lighter than I would have expected given the evening we've just endured. "I'd like to hear those sometime."
The driver brings the car around and we pile in, me besides Alexander, Frankie across from me. After the stifling atmosphere of the restaurant, the car feels like a sanctuary.
"Thank you for getting us out of there," I say as the driver pulls out and into the traffic. "I was about ten seconds away from throwing my dessert at Father Two's face."
"I could tell," Alexander replies with a small smile. "Your scent was shifting despite the perfume. Another minute and even they would have noticed your anger."
"Nine alphas," I say, still processing the horror of what they were discussing. "They’re going to sell me to nine alphas."
Alexander's fists ttighten. "It won't happen," he says firmly. "Jonathan won't allow it."
"Doesn’t sound like he has a choice?" I challenge. "Then what?"
Alexander glances at me, something fierce and protective flashing in his eyes. "Then I won't allow it."
The declaration hangs in the air between us, heavy with promise. Before I can respond, Alexander's phone pings with an incoming message. He pulls it from his jacket. His face goes pale as he reads the screen, his scent spiking with alarm. Without a word, I grab the phone.
The message is from Jonathan: "TAKE THEM ALL. GET OUT NOW. YOU KNOW WHERE."
"What's happening?" I ask, fear rising in my throat. "Alexander, what does this mean?"
"We need to go,” he says to the driver. "Now."
“What’s happening?” Frankie asks, when Alex doesn’t answer me.
"We need to get Rook," his voice tight with tension. "And then we're leaving the city."
"Leaving the city?" Frankie repeats, leaning forward. "Alexander, what's going on?"
"I don't know," Alexander admits. "But if Jonathan is telling us to run, it's serious."
My heart hammers against my ribs as we speed toward the penthouse. "The fathers," I guess. "They're coming for me tonight."
Alexander doesn't confirm or deny. We make the normally fifteen-minute drive in under eight, screeching into the underground garage with the tires squealing.
"Leave everything unnecessary," Alexander instructs as we rush to the elevator. "Clothes, toiletries only. We need to be out in ten minutes, max."
The elevator ride feels endless, my mind racing with possibilities, each worse than the last. When the doors finally open, I sprint down the hallway to my room, where Rook is pacing anxiously.
"Storm!" he exclaims, grabbing me by the shoulders. "What the hell is going on? Reed called. Said that we're leaving."
"I don't know," I admit, grabbing onto him and not wanting to let go. "I think the fathers are coming to take me away to another pack. Jonathan told Alexander to get everyone out, to go somewhere safe."
Rook doesn't waste time with more questions, immediately helping me gather essentials. We throw clothes in my backpack haphazardly, grab my medications, and I snatch the small photo of us—the one thing I refuse to leave behind.
When we emerge into the hallway, Alexander is already there with his own bag, looking grim but determined. Frankie appears a moment later, white-faced but composed, a small backpack clutched in his hands.
"Reed's meeting us downstairs," Alexander says, herding us toward the elevator. "We'll take two cars. Reed can't be seen with us."
"Why not?" I demand as the elevator doors close.
"Because he's the distraction," Alexander says cryptically. "He's buying us time."
The garage is a flurry of activity when we arrive. Reed is there, throwing bags into the trunk of a nondescript black SUV I've never seen before.
"About time," he growls when he sees us. "Alexander, take them in your car. Follow me out of the city. Don't stop for anything. If we get separated, you know where to go."
"What about Jonathan?" I ask, clutching Rook's hand so tightly my knuckles ache.
Reed's expression darkens. "He'll meet us there if he can."
The ominous ‘if’ hangs in the air like a storm cloud.
"Reed," Alexander says, his voice tight. "Be careful."
For a moment, something vulnerable flashes across Reed's face. "You too," he says, then turns to me. "Keep your head down, Little Omega. And take care of him." He nods toward Alexander.
Before I can respond, Reed is in the SUV, the engine roaring to life. Alexander hustles us into his car—me and Rook in the back, Frankie in the passenger seat. We pull out of the garage just behind Reed. The night swallows us as we speed away from the penthouse.
"Someone tell me what's going on," Rook demands, his arm locked protectively around my shoulders.
"I don't know the details," Alexander says, his focus on the road ahead where Reed's taillights lead us through the city streets. "But if Jonathan told us to run, it means the fathers have made their move. Probably using their connections to override the claim, possibly with legal enforcement, to back it up if we disagree."
"They're trying to take Storm," Rook guesses, his hold on me tightening. "Give her to that other pack."
Alexander nods grimly.
Fear claws at my throat, making it hard to breathe. "Where are we going?" I manage to ask.
"Somewhere safe," Alexander promises. "Somewhere they won't find us."
I want to press for more details, but the tension rolling off Alexander in waves stops me. Whatever's happening, it's bad enough to make even him—usually the calm one—scared.
We follow Reed's SUV out of the city, the gleaming towers of downtown giving way to suburbs, then to darkness as we hit the mountain roads leading away from Crescent City. The drive is mostly silent, all of us too wrapped up in our own fears to make conversation.
My scent must be broadcasting my distress because Rook pulls me closer, nuzzling the top of my head, trying to comfort me with his presence.
"It's going to be okay," he murmurs against my hair. "I won't let anyone take you."
I want to believe him, but the panic bubbling in my chest won't be soothed. I think of Jonathan's fathers, of their cold calculation, of how easily they discussed trading me like property. If they're willing to go that far, what else are they capable of?
"What about Jonathan?" I ask Alexander, leaning forward in my seat. "Is he in danger?"
Alexander's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Jonathan can take care of himself," he says, but there's worry in his voice that belies his confident words.
The realization hits me then—I actually care what happens to Jonathan. Despite everything, despite his controlling nature and cold demeanor, I don't want him hurt. When did that happen? When did he become someone I worry about?
The mountain roads grow more winding, the forest on either side dense and dark. Reed's tail lights remain our guide, a beacon leading us deeper into the wilderness. I have no idea where we're going, but it's clearly far from civilization, far from the reach of the fathers and whatever forces they might have set in motion.
At some point, exhaustion overcomes my fear. I find myself drifting off against Rook's shoulder, the steady rhythm of the car and the warmth of his body lulling me despite the chaos swirling around us. My last conscious thought is how wrong my scent must be—fear and stress overwhelming the usual chocolate notes.
I wake briefly when the car stops for gas, blearily registering Alexander's hushed conversation with Reed outside the car. From my half-asleep state, I catch fragments: "...too risky to call him..." "...might be tracked..." "...Fox will be worried..."
Then we're moving again, deeper into the night, far from the life I've known for these past weeks. Rook holds me steady, his heartbeat a constant rhythm beneath my ear, and I surrender to sleep once more.
I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't know where we're going, or what waits for us out there.
But as I drift off in Rook’s arms, with Frankie and Alexander standing guard, I realize we’re not alone anymore.
We’re a strange, makeshift family—bound not by choice, but by survival.
And somehow, even with danger pressing in from every side, that feels a lot like hope.