Chapter fifteen
Lily
Istand in front of my closet and go through three outfits before I settle.
The first dress is a wrap that says I’m desperate, please validate me, which, no.
Next: jeans and a sweater, but the vibe is defeat.
I finally land on something that splits the difference.
Dark jeans, a fitted top that sits nice on my collarbones without screaming look at me, boots with a heel low enough that I won’t break my neck.
I look in the mirror and think, yeah, this is a person you might want to talk to.
My hands shake while I put on makeup. Nothing fancy.
Just enough to cover the zombie circles and the sickly tint under my eyes.
I try not to focus on my reflection, but it’s hard not to hear what Miles said yesterday running through my head.
Old school. Hands like sandpaper. She turned up at the registry with bruises.
He lies. I know he lies. If lying was a sport, he’d have trophies. But the words are still there, worming under my skin. My stomach twists every time I think about stepping outside tonight with strange alphas.
I remember yesterday. The floor. The look on his face when—
Nope. Not going there. Not tonight.
By the time I come out, the pack is scattered around the living room.
Gabriel’s on the couch, phone in hand, probably working.
Garrett and Cyrus are in the kitchen doing something I can’t see.
Miles is curled up at the window seat with a book.
He’s not reading. The second I walk in, his eyes lock on me.
“You look nice,” Garrett says, and his voice is so warm I want to run into his arms.
“Thanks.”
“The Carrs should be here in about ten minutes,” Gabriel adds, not looking up from his phone. “Jeremy said seven sharp.”
I nod and plant myself by the door, arms folded, trying not to look like a kid waiting for prom night. My omega is on edge. Alert, prickly, the feeling you get before meeting new people.
Miles flips a page. “Try not to scare these ones off.”
I don’t answer.
“I mean it. You’ve turned down one pack and the others didn’t even want you. Your average isn’t great.”
“Miles,” Gabriel says, but it’s barely a warning. More like a sigh.
Then headlights rake across the front windows, and tires crunch over the gravel. They’re here.
Gabriel walks me to the door. Before I go out, I glance back at Miles. He’s still at the window, book forgotten, face impossible to read.
I give him the nastiest look I can muster and step outside.
The truck is parked out front now. Dark blue, clean but not showy. Four alphas get out.
I recognize them right away. The gala. The table of friendly faces, the ones I tried to greet before Jules did his wine-spilling routine. The tall one with the brown eyes who nodded at me across the room. I remember all four of their faces.
My heart skips.
Jeremy Carr is clearly the lead. Broader than I remember, neat blond hair, green eyes that crinkle when he smiles.
Button-down with the sleeves rolled up, jeans, boots, all put together but easy with it.
His handshake is solid. His scent hits me: pine and clean laundry.
My omega doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lunge for him the way she does for Gabriel, either. She settles. Interested. Calm.
“Lily.” He says my name differently. Softer. “I’m Jeremy. It’s good to finally meet you properly. We saw you at the gala, but didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves.”
“I remember,” I say. “I wanted to come over, but I, uh… got sidetracked.”
His expression flickers but he doesn’t ask.
“Well, we’re here now. This is Theo.” He nods at the tall one with the brown eyes.
“That’s Michael.” Michael’s got red-brown hair and a smile that’s all trouble—and I have to swallow, because this is the man Miles told me would make me feel stupid for breathing.
Michael grins at me like he’s never made anyone feel stupid in his life.
“And that’s Leo.” Dark hair, quiet, with a dimple that flashes when he smiles.
“Hi,” I say. It’s a miracle my words don’t shake. My omega isn’t panicking. None of their scents are setting off alarms. I’m standing in front of new alphas I’ve been warned about. I don’t want to bolt.
Miles definitely lied. Of course he did.
“Theo and Leo?” I ask, amused.
“Twins,” Leo answers. “Obviously the non-identical type.”
“I’m the handsome one,” Theo chimes in.
“That stopped being funny ten times ago,” Leo says.
“Never.”
“So,” Jeremy says, holding the truck door for me and distracting me from the bickering men. “How do you feel about axe throwing?”
“Never done it before,” I admit.
“First time is always the best,” he says.
I climb into the truck and wait for Jeremy to get in and pull out.
The axe throwing place is a barn about twenty minutes out of town.
Corrugated metal walls, string lights tangled across the rafters.
It smells like sawdust, beer and woodsmoke.
There’s country music coming from speakers I can’t spot.
It’s nothing like the steakhouse the Whitfields dragged me to.
No white tablecloths or private rooms. No snooty guy recommending wine.
It’s wooden lanes, painted targets, and a rack of hatchets lined up like they’re waiting to be picked for a team.
“Ever even watched before?” Jeremy asks as we check in.
“I have literally never been near an axe in my life.”
“Perfect. Clean slate.” He grins. “Theo’s the best. Michael’s the worst but refuses to admit it. Leo’s in the middle, and I’m… let’s say inconsistent but entertaining.”
“He’s being modest,” Theo says. “He nailed a bullseye once and wouldn’t shut up about it for three weeks.”
“It was a fantastic throw.”
“Pure luck,” says Theo.
They all bicker like brothers, every jab is edged with affection. My omega sits up and pays attention. This is what a pack is supposed to sound like. No eggshells, no tiptoeing, no scanning the room for danger.
We get our lane. Theo picks a smaller hatchet for me, offering it handle-first. “This one’s lighter. Good for learning.”
I take it, half expecting it to be heavy, but it’s manageable. Maybe two pounds, handle slick from use. I grip it and instantly feel ridiculous.
Jeremy takes the first throw. He squares up to the target, feet set, hatchet behind his head. “It’s all one motion. Don’t muscle it, just let gravity and the turn do the work. Release at the top, not the bottom.” He throws. It sticks, outer ring, with a meaty thunk.
“See? Easy.” He steps back. “You’re up.”
I mirror his stance. Pull back. Throw.
The hatchet sails off, misses the target entirely, and smacks the plywood wall with a sad little clank. Dead silence for a second.
“That wall had it coming,” Michael says, and I laugh before I catch myself.
“Okay, try this.” Theo steps behind me. His hands land on my shoulders, light, asking permission. I nod. He angles me a little, tweaks my stance. “You’re rotating your wrist. Lock it, like a handshake. And step into it. Use your legs more.”
He guides my arm through the motion, slow, his hand on my forearm. His scent is something green. Cut grass, maybe. My omega notes it, likes it, but doesn’t flip out. Just… nice.
I throw again. This time, the hatchet catches the very edge of the target, barely hanging on.
“YES!” Leo shouts, way too excited, and claps like I won something.
“Does that count?” I ask Jeremy.
“It counts. Any contact counts.”
“Then I’m basically a natural.”
We keep throwing for over an hour. I improve.
Not great, but better. By round five I’m hitting the target more than I miss, and one throw lands close to the inner ring, and I let out a noise so undignified Michael nearly drops his own hatchet laughing.
Theo high-fives me. Leo does a weird little shuffle and acts like it didn’t happen.
Jeremy’s a good teacher. He walks me through the details—the spin, the distance, the timing.
He’s patient, never patronizing. Explains once, then lets me mess up and learn.
He doesn’t hover. When he does touch me—a hand on my back to straighten me out, a tap to my elbow—it’s always with a pause, like he’s making sure it’s all right.
And it is. It’s comfortable. It’s how it’s supposed to be.
Garrett’s touch melts the pain right off me.
This is different. This is more like opening a window in a house that’s been shut too long.
My headache drops from pounding to background noise.
My shoulders unlock. My scent must shift, because Jeremy notices, and his smile goes soft at the edges.
“Feeling better?”
“A little. Yeah.”
“Good.”
Michael keeps score on a napkin, making up new categories every round: “most dramatic miss,” “best comeback from humiliation,” “throw most likely to get you sued,” and, for Leo, “most improved after public ridicule.” The scores don’t matter, and that’s what makes it fun.
Nobody’s posturing. Nobody’s trying to win.
We’re just hurling axes at wood and laughing like idiots.
By the end, my arms are tired in a way that feels earned. The soreness of actually living, not surviving.
We grab pizza from the counter. It’s the real deal—greasy, cheesy, impossible to eat without folding it in half.
We take it out to a picnic table under the string lights.
Cold night air, full of pine and smoke. Michael gets a pitcher of soda and four cups, no pretense, no “what do you want to drink?” I like it that way.
“So tell us about you,” Jeremy says, folding his pizza. “Not the file. The real you.”
It kind of knocks the wind out of me, because nobody’s really asked. The question sits there waiting.
“I don’t even know where to start. I’m twenty-two.
I like reading, mostly romance, don’t judge.
I used to paint before the registry stuff.
Acrylic, watercolor, you name it. I had a beagle as a kid named Chester who ate an entire Thanksgiving turkey off the counter one year and then looked at us like we were being unreasonable. ”