Lily #3
Nobody says anything. Garrett’s white as a sheet. Cyrus is frozen at the stove. Miles is staring at Gabriel, horror written all over his face, like he can’t believe what just came out of his mouth.
I set my brush down, hands shaking. I gather up the painting, the paints, the brushes, every scrap. I clutch it all to my chest, smearing paint everywhere, and head to my room.
My footsteps are soft on the hardwood. I don’t know if it’s because of my thick socks or because I’m floating like the ghost I’ve finally become.
I close the door behind me. Quiet, barely a click. I don’t have it in me to slam anything. What good does anger do? It changes nothing.
I drop everything on the bed. Spread it out. The painting, the supplies, Jeremy’s card. The things that made today good. The things that made me feel, for just a second, like I was someone with something to give. It hurts to look at it.
I don’t want to hurt.
I don’t want to feel anymore at all.
I hold up the cityscape and stare at it. I painted this while I was happy… or as close as I could get to happy. Sitting with Miles nearby, him not hurting me, the sun coming in the window. Me thinking maybe… the worst was over.
A tear hits the canvas before I realize I’m crying. Then another.
“No—“ I drag my sleeve across it, like that’s going to fix anything. It just smudges the paint. Makes it worse.
The skyline is smeared together, colors bleeding into each other, the buildings going soft and wrong. The orange from the sky streaks down through everything like it’s melting. Like lava burning away everything good and whole beneath it.
I wonder how easily ash can blow away in the wind. I wonder if the ash will find peace in its new life somewhere else.
I stare at it too long, like maybe it’ll settle if I give it a second. Like it’ll go back to how it was before.
It doesn’t.
I let out this short, stupid laugh that doesn’t sound like me at all. “Of course.”
I set the canvas down harder than I mean to.
I could fix it. Probably. If I worked at it. If I let it dry and went back in—
I don’t.
I grab the small pair of scissors that came with the supplies.
The first push doesn’t go through. The canvas just dents inward, stubborn. I have to force it, hand shaking, until it finally gives with this ugly ripping sound.
That’s enough to do it again.
And again.
And again.
I don’t even feel better. That’s the worst part. It’s just… quieter in my head for a second.
I have to make myself stop before the scissors find a new mark.
I gaze at the mess. It’s ruined. The thing I was proud of just a few minutes ago. Now it’s chaos. Broken the way everything I touch ends up broken.
Broken like the omega in me.
I grab the small trash can by the door and start shoving everything in. The brushes, the paints, the really nice card… no, the stupid card that means nothing because I mean nothing. I read it one last time, hesitate for half a second—then shove it in too.
The easel doesn’t fit. I try anyway. It tips, clatters onto the floor, and I swear under my breath before picking it up and snapping the hinge harder than I need to.
“There.” Now it fits.
My chest feels tight. Not even in a crying way. Everything’s… empty. It’s kind of nice.
I look at the trash like something might move in there. Like I might change my mind.
I don’t.
I don’t need it. There’s no point in making nice things if you’re not allowed to keep them.
No point in painting sunsets if you live in the dark.
I crawl into bed and pull the blanket up to my chin. For a second I want to nest. To bury myself in pillows and blankets. Build a wall. A cocoon. I want the illusion of safety. The comfort of being held even when no one will hold me.
But there’s no alpha scent to line the nest with.
No shirts from the hamper. No hoodies. No pillow that smells like cedar and smoke, honey and sage, black pepper and leather.
Not even burnt sugar and iron. A nest without pack scent is just laundry.
It won’t trick my omega body into calm. It won’t do anything but remind me I’m alone. That no one needs me like I need them.
I want my mom. I want her voice, her hands, how she used to smooth my hair and promise the world would make sense someday. I want my sister, her easy life, her baby on the way, her path that followed every rule.
But I can’t go to them. The registry wouldn’t allow it. Even if I got to my mother’s, they’d find me within days. They’d scoop me up, send me back… somewhere. Back to those sterile walls. Back to Brennan’s reach.
Every way forward is just another cage waiting to swallow me up. The only difference is size.
I pull the blanket over my head. The dark is total, fabric pressed against my face. Underneath, I’m small. Spent. Hollowed out.
No tears left. I wasted them all on people who never cared, on a bond that didn’t want me, on a life that keeps taking and taking and taking.
I lie there and think about nothing.
Not because nothing is peaceful.
Because nothing is all that’s left.
And for the first time, I think maybe Gabriel was right.
Somewhere outside my door, the house keeps moving. Like it always does. Like it always will.