Chapter thirty
Lily
Iwake up bracing for that awful awkwardness where I wish I could turn invisible, but today it’s not there.
Not even a little bit. The nest is empty except for me, and for a second I think Miles left because he regrets having me here, but then I hear him in the kitchen.
There’s clattering, the rush of water, and the soft, burnt sugar trace of his scent.
He didn’t bolt because he needed distance. He’s making breakfast.
It’s such a small thing, but it feels like our whole dynamic has shifted somehow.
I slide out of the nest carefully, not wanting to mess up how he built it.
The layers are perfect, tucked and folded with that same precision he uses in his sketches.
He diagrammed exactly where every blanket and pillow should go, and I was part of the blueprint as of last night.
The thought makes my heart skip. Some part of me is aware I’m dancing in dangerous territory but I can’t seem to stop.
When I walk into the kitchen, Miles is at the counter with two plates. Toast, eggs, fruit sliced so neatly it looks like it belongs in a magazine. Coffee for both of us, black with two sugars. He even made mine identical to his, which is almost intimate in its own way.
He doesn’t even look up at first, just points at my plate. “Eat.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Good morning to you too.”
“Eat first. Pleasantries after.”
So I do. And it’s good, simple and hot. My stomach accepts every bite without protest. Miles sits next to me, sketchbook closed for once, picking at his own food like maybe he’s not used to eating with people either.
The alphas filter down in their own time. Cyrus first. He pours his coffee and gives us a nod. Then Garrett, who actually looks surprised to see me and Miles at the table together, and his face goes so soft it’s almost embarrassing. He looks relieved, like we’re all finally doing something right.
Gabriel is last. He stops in the doorway, reading the room with those eyes that see everything. He notes the plates, the coffee, me and Miles sitting side by side, daylight and no one bleeding or crying or mid-meltdown. Doesn’t comment. Just pours his own coffee.
Then it’s the goodbye ritual, and I brace for the ache. Cyrus goes to Miles, hand on his neck, a kiss to his temple. Garrett gives him a quick peck on the lips. Gabriel cups Miles’s jaw and kisses him, slow and sure, like he means it. He always does.
I watch. It hurts, but not like it used to. This time, it doesn’t feel like someone’s twisting a knife in my chest. Today, it’s more like a bruise healing. Still tender, but manageable.
Because today, I know something I never knew before: they leave, and Miles stays. He chooses it. He’s choosing me.
Gabriel kisses Miles one last time, then looks my way as he heads out. There’s warmth in his eyes this time, like seeing us at the table did something to him he can’t quite explain.
“Be good,” he says, to both of us.
And then they’re gone.
Miles puts down his fork, looks at me, and stands up.
He walks over, no hesitation, and kisses me.
Not the rough, biting kind from yesterday.
A solid, deliberate kiss that says I want this, I want you, and you need to know it.
His hand on the back of my neck, holding me a little longer than maybe he has to.
He doesn’t say anything. He heads for the couch, picks up his sketchbook, and starts drawing like nothing happened.
I follow, sitting at the other end of the couch. Today it’s closer than before, our knees almost touching. He doesn’t move away.
I watch him draw. For once, he doesn’t mind. Usually, if I even glance at his sketchbook, he tenses up and shields the pages. Today, he lets me see. His pencil moves quick, confident, building something I can’t quite make out yet.
“How long were you at the registry?” he asks, still sketching.
The question catches me off guard. Maybe because he asks like he actually wants to understand.
“Six years,” I say.
His pencil stops, then starts again. “That’s a long time. Omegas tend to get snatched up quickly.”
“Felt longer.”
“What happened? Why didn’t you get matched sooner?”
“Most packs didn’t even bother. Maybe once a year I’d get a meet and greet, but they’d take one look at my file and bail. Or they’d pretend to be interested and pull out before the second meeting.”
“That doesn’t add up.”
“I thought maybe it was my scent. It didn’t read right, or wasn’t strong enough, or…”
Miles cuts me off. “That’s not a real thing, Lily. Your scent is normal. Sweet, deep, omega as it gets. The sample in your file should have pulled plenty of interest alone. It wasn’t your scent.”
“Then what?”
He shrugs, but he’s so certain it’s almost physical. “I don’t know. But it wasn’t you.”
He says it like a fact, not a comfort. I feel lighter for a second.
I shrug back. “Doesn’t matter now. The Carrs want me, and I think I’ll be fine with them when it happens.”
“You sure?”
“They’re nice. And I’m out of options.”
He goes quiet after that. The pencil keeps moving, but slower, like he’s chewing on something he’s not ready to share. I let it go. I’ve learned that pushing Miles just makes him shut down.
“What technique is that?” I ask, watching how he shades with the side of the pencil.
“Cross-hatching. You layer the lines at different angles for depth. Darkness depends on how close the lines are.”
“Who taught you?”
His hand pauses, then keeps going. “Someone in my old pack.”
I tread careful. “You don’t have to talk about them.”
“I know.” He keeps drawing. “They thought male omegas were a mistake. Faulty wiring. Every day, they reminded me I was lucky anyone wanted me at all.”
“Then why take you?”
He glances over. “We were scent matched.”
That lands hard. His old pack, the ones who broke him down, they were his match.
“But how could they think that of you if you were their literal match?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re mistaking biological compatibility with mental state. Scent matching is simple biology, Lily. It doesn’t always mean the brain is hardwired to accept.”
I guess he’s right. But most people that are matched are drawn in all ways, not just physically. I watch his face—how his features have changed, the darkness in his eyes.
“Miles, what did they–?”
“Go wash the towels.” The wall slams into place so fast it almost echoes. Any warmth gone, replaced by that brittle edge that means he’s done. “Every bathroom. All of them. Now.”
I freeze, startled by the switch, but I get it. The abrupt orders are his escape hatch. He needs me to move so he can breathe.
“Yes, Miles.”
I go. I gather towels from every bathroom. Main, guest, pack room, half bath. Carry the pile to the laundry room and sort them the way Garrett showed me. Darks, lights, load the washer.
I’ve got the last towels shoved in the drum, pouring in the detergent. It smells too strong, chemical and fake-clean, and for a second I wonder if I used too much—fingers grab my hair.
Miles. He’s behind me, silent and fast, and his grip is rough, pulling my head back.
His other hand pins my lower back, bending me over the washer.
My fingers claw at the metal edge and my heart pounds.
I don’t even process that it’s him at first—just heat, pressure, the shock of it—then it clicks and something in me drops instead of fighting it.
He shuts the lid and bends me further. He covers me, weight solid, his scent spiking from sweet to something dark and addictive. His teeth bite into my neck, deep enough to make me gasp.
“Miles–”
“Shut up.” His hand slides from my hair to my hip, yanking down my sweatpants and underwear in one impatient move. Cold air rushes over my skin.
He palms me from behind. I’m soaked, my body ready before my brain catches up, slick pooling, my omega melting for his touch. He growls, a sound so satisfied it vibrates through my bones.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and I nearly lose it.
He frees himself. I hear his zipper, then the press of him against me, hot and hard. He doesn’t tease. He just pushes in. I’m sore from yesterday but it doesn’t matter. The fullness, the stretch, his teeth in my neck, the grip on my hips—it’s everything.
He fucks me hard. The washer jolts under us, loud enough that for a second I’m sure something’s going to break. My grip slips on the edge—I have to readjust, fingers squeaking against the metal—and the sound that comes out of me is half swallowed, more breath than anything.
He doesn’t slow down. One hand comes up, rough through my shirt, and I arch back into it without thinking, the rhythm knocking everything else out of my head in pieces instead of all at once. He cups my breasts, pinching my nipples, doing everything an alpha would, only with more focus.
I come with his name on my lips, body clenching around him. He groans, bites my shoulder, doesn’t stop until he’s shaking from it.
He pulls out and spins me around. Lifts me onto the washer, the cold metal shocking against my thighs.
He pushes back in, face to face this time, and grabs my hair to bare my throat, staring at the marks he left.
He licks a slow line up my neck, then kisses me, deep and thorough, all while still moving inside me, his body grinding against my clit.
It builds fast. The orgasm snaps through me, and this time we come together, him groaning into my shoulder, hands trembling.
We stay like that, breathing heavy. He’s still inside me, softening. My legs locked around his waist.
He picks me up and carries me to the bathroom, still joined, and finally pulls away to turn on the shower.
He washes us both. Gentle now, all the edge gone. His touch is sweet, almost reverent, cleaning every inch of me, washing the sweat out of my hair, making sure I don’t slip. When we’re done, he dries me off and helps me dress. Clean sweats, one of his t-shirts, too big and smelling like him.
Everything has changed so fast.
Yesterday, he hated me.
Today he’s washing my hair.
Yesterday feels like it belongs to someone else.
I open my mouth like I’m going to say something, then don’t. I’m not sure what the question even is.
Back in the living room, he’s already dragging blankets and pillows onto the floor in front of the TV. A soft landing spot built for doing absolutely nothing for hours.
“Sit,” he says, pointing at the space against the couch.
I sit. He puts on a show, some trashy reality show. TV that’s pure noise. He disappears into the kitchen, comes back with chips, cookies, crackers, sodas, dumps it all between us, and sits down.
“I didn’t finish the laundry,” I say.
“It’ll wait.”
“The towels are sitting in detergent.”
“They’ll survive.”
We eat and watch and he talks like I’m his friend instead of the omega he thinks wants to steal his pack. He tells me about a design project he’s working on—ink drawings inspired by maps of cities that don’t exist. He sketches out his ideas in the air, hands moving, eyes bright behind the glasses.
He’s funny in this dry, vicious way that catches me off guard sometimes. One second he’s insulting salmon-pink bathrooms, the next he’s dissecting how the producers manipulated a scene. Everything with him feels observant and deliberate. Even his warmth.
We’re still sprawled on the floor when the front door opens.
Gabriel comes in first, stops and takes in the mess of blankets, the food, the two of us basically glued together on the floor, the TV blaring. His face softens, a little hope leaking out around the edges.
“Want to order in?” he asks.
“Pizza,” Miles says quickly, as if he’s been waiting all day to say it.
Gabriel pulls out his phone. The other alphas come in. Garrett sees us and grins. “This is cozy.”
“Don’t make it weird,” Miles fires back.
Cyrus heads to the kitchen, then the laundry room. “Why are the towels sitting in detergent?” he calls out.
I freeze, remembering I never started the load. Miles puts a hand on my leg, makes me stay.
He goes, starts the washer, comes back like nothing happened.
“Forgot,” he says.
Garrett raises an eyebrow at me. I look away, face burning.
Gabriel sits in his chair, eyes on me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good.”
“Was Miles good to you today?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He… yeah. He was good.”
No one talks about the sex, but the whole room knows. The scent, the satisfied omega haze. There’s no hiding it but the alphas don’t seem to mind.
Miles sits next to me again and we go back to TV watching.
It doesn’t take long for the pizza to arrive. Garrett brings it in, and the whole pack drifts to the living room. Garrett on the floor, Gabriel in his chair, the table crowded with pizza.
Miles looks at Cyrus. “Come sit with me.”
Cyrus does, folding himself beside Miles, who immediately curls up to him like he’s done it a thousand times because of course he has. Then Miles reaches for me, pulls me into his other side, so I’m tucked against him, shoulder to shoulder, while Cyrus anchors the other side.
It feels right in a way I’m afraid to like too much.
Cyrus starts purring.
It’s strong and I feel it right away, not directly, but through Miles, like a current running through both of us. It calms my nerves, quiets my head, makes my body relax.
The small headache I’ve had for the last hour disappears. My muscles melt. Each wave of purr strips away a little more of the fear and pain I’ve been hauling around. I never knew I could feel this safe.
We eat pizza, watch bad TV, and let the purr, the warmth, the scent of the pack wrap around us. My eyes get heavy. I drift off on Miles’s chest, surrounded by their voices and the quiet hum of feeling wanted.
I don’t dream.