Chapter 41
forty-one
VARMA PACK CHAT
Ryker
Finn and I have a whole surprise thing happening today—can one of you keep Violet busy while we set up?
Gideon
I’m sorry…
Ryker?
You’re… texting us??
And setting up a surprise with FINN???
Is this really you? Have you been abducted?
Did Finn steal your phone again?
Atlas
Behave, little prince. I just saw them walk outside together.
Why don’t you take Violet up to your craft room for a few hours?
Gideon
Because I refuse to admit I *have* a craft room.
Finn
Giddddddd pleeeeeeeeeease
Gideon
Well you fuckers are in luck. Vi and I are already on our way upstairs.
Ryker
Thanks
Gideon
Ok seriously, Finn. What have you done with the real Ryker? I want proof of life.
Ryker
Gideon
Nevermind.
“Motherfucker.”
Across the small, whitewashed craft table, Violet does everything she can not to laugh. She ducks her head, rolling her lips together and mashing them so hard, the pink curves blanch.
As with everything else, even though all of this is her fault—our self-imposed house arrest, the fact that my alpha and I can’t go out without causing him pain, me setting foot in this Godforsaken craft room—I can’t find it in my heart to blame her for chortling.
I’m sure I do look ridiculous.
Glaring, I grouse, “This was your stupid idea. Stringing beads? I went to Columbia.”
Violet rolls her green gaze up from our task. The sassiness sparkling in her irises is a new development—something she’s only had the courage to flash a few times, so far.
“And yet,” she replies, her tone light and airy, “you can’t string beads.”
I see her point. I sound like a pompous prick, talking about my Ivy League education like it has any bearing on… well. Anything.
I was never under any illusion that I was a genius. I mean, for fuck’s sake, if Finn also got in… But two weeks with Violet has proven what I always suspected—just because someone has no formal education, doesn’t mean they aren’t whip-smart.
Because she is.
As she’s settled into a routine here—gardening, painting, sketching, eating meals with silent Ryker and un-shut-up-able Finn—I’ve seen more glimmers of her sharpness and depth. Pieces that remind me of her sister… and make me feel like shit for asking her to wait to reconnect with Briar.
That’s why I’m here, now.
Making bracelets.
I feel… bad.
It’s been nearly two weeks since The Incident. When it happened, requesting time to sort out how to present this to Cillian seemed more than fair. Violet had done something unforgivable, right?
Only…
Did she?
Haven’t I forgiven her, as much as anyone ever could?
It wasn’t her fault.
My Omega loves to whisper that reminder. He doesn’t dare say much else, but he certainly makes sure to repeat that gem whenever Violet goes out of her way to make me more comfortable.
It happens all day, every day. Atlas’s Alpha and her Omega are naturally magnetized by the half-bond—their bodies subconsciously move toward one another, without thought. The fact that Violet just happens to walk into whatever room Atlas is in… or vice versa.
They can’t help it.
But, goddamn, does Violet try.
She never lingers. If Atlas wanders into the living room while she’s scribbling in her sketchbook, she silently walks out with her head down.
If the two of us come into the kitchen while she’s baking, she abandons her baking until we leave or turns the oven off altogether.
She’s never whined for his attention, attempted to sit next to him, or so much as raised her eyes to his without prompting—even during the delicious dinner she made for us last week.
At first, I thought she was just meek by nature. Now that I know her better, I see her behavior for what it truly is:
One big, ongoing apology.
Sitting with me right now might be another one, actually. I thought I was doing her a favor when I promised Ryker and Finn I’d keep her busy for a couple of hours while they planned a surprise…
But Violet has half a dozen other hobbies she’s snapped into seamlessly. Gardening, cooking, drawing, playing the manor’s majorly out-of-tune piano. This woman is an actual artist. She doesn’t need this lame-ass, kindergarten version of art therapy.
She thinks I do.
Hell, maybe she’s right.
Atlas would agree. He’s an expert on helping omegas regulate their nervous systems. To him, the thought of me slowing down long enough to bake a loaf of bread or string a stupid bracelet is medicine, of sorts.
So why does it feel like torture?
Or is that just… being here? Close to Violet, but not touching. Sitting across the table from this other omega whose scent still makes me hard for reasons I refuse to examine.
Because—God help me—I think I might like Violet.
As a person.
Not… like that.
Despite the cock-teasing sweetness of her scent. How it’s every bit as gentle as the emerald patterns spun through her jade irises. The way it matches the delicate curves that fill out her frame more and more every damn day.
But, no. No. Being attracted to her would be insane. After all, if Atlas—her mate—can studiously ignore Violet’s most alluring qualities… Surely I should be able to.
Surely, I am.
Obviously.
When I curse again, Violet finally gives in to her giggles. “Oh boy,” she tuts, keeping her eyes on her own project. “Someone is spoiled.”
I freeze. A twinge touches my left eye. “Excuse me?”
Violet tosses her thick hair over her shoulder and slants me A Look. “Yeah,” she chuffs. “You’re totally spoiled.” She gestures around my unused art studio—which is, in fact, the one room of the house Atlas insisted on fully setting up before we moved in. Her eyebrows arch. “Is that news?”
Um, yes.
“Me?!” I burst. “What about Finn?”
She shrugs one shoulder, effortlessly adding three beads to her strand without any issue. This brilliant little—
“No one said he wasn’t,” she replies diplomatically. “But I was talking about you. And I think you’re deflecting.”
My mouth drops open. Is Violet seriously psychoanalyzing me? Who does she think she is?
Atlas’s mate, my Omega mutters.
And, you know what?
He totally has a point.
But I really do not appreciate it.
Oh, now you’re talking to me? I demand, glowering internally.
For the first time since my teens, he sends me the mental equivalent of a middle finger. As if you ever listen, he cuts back, then blinks offline.
Violet watches me sputter. Her expression sobers as her scent shifts to salted honey.
Sadness.
“Sorry,” she peeps, dropping her attention back to her craft. “I know none of this is my business.”
It is, though. She’s here, in my pack. Well, former pack. Because when she leaves? I’m pretty sure she’s going to take Finn and Ryker with her, whether she likes it or not.
The urge to deflect from my own dysfunction is truly too strong to overcome, damn it. Atlas wouldn’t let me get away with it, but Violet doesn’t call me out again when I change the subject.
“How is it going?” I ask, trying for a casual tone I don’t achieve. “With the guys?”
Violet gets a goofy grin on her face. Her gaze slides to the kitten currently winding his way between our feet.
He is cute. And I still can’t believe she named him Pascal just so I could mess with Atlas. When she fixes her beaming expression on me, my heart forgets how to beat.
Such a sweet girl.
These alpha-holes better count their lucky fucking stars that they got a mate like her.
Oblivious to the sunshine gilding her golden hair and green irises, Violet offers me a shy smile.
“They’ve been… getting along,” she whispers, “I’ve caught the two of them writing notes to each other and texting about today a bunch of times.
And I think Ryker might be improving. He almost said my name yesterday. ”
Ha. I bet.
I wasn’t, like, listening or anything… but I could still hear the orgasm she drew out of him from across the damn manor. With attention like that, I’m not surprised his Alpha is getting closer to loosening his chokehold.
Their make-out sessions have progressed steadily into true hook-up territory. I try not to think about what I overhear—or scent—but I know for a fact they’ve been stuck at second base for a while.
Omega senses don’t lie.
As much as I might attempt to ignore mine.
Violet goes back to her bracelet, stringing four white squares—F-I-N-N—onto the strand of hunter-green and gold beads. I admire the colors; they’ll look good against his tan skin. Just like the one she made for her other alpha—all navy , along with five letters. R-Y-K-E-R.
I narrow my eyes as she plinks the last sphere onto her current piece. “And Finn has been good to you? Not too… rogue-ish?”
Violet smirks. “I’m not sure that will ever change, but…” Her teeth sink into her lower lip as she skirts her eyes to mine. “I think I like it. And he’s been so sweet and honest. Instead of presents, for the last week, he’s given me a story or secret every day.”
Lord knows Finn has a million of each. I can’t help my fond chuckle, imagining all the delightful ways he might scandalize her. “Has he told you about the time he ‘borrowed’ the dean’s Aston Martin for spring break?”
Violet tries desperately not to laugh, her canine biting the corner of her mouth harder. “Yes,” she admits. “And he told me about the time you gave away Atlas’s car.”
I grimace. Oh yeah. “That was an emergency,” I argue. “And, trust me, I was thoroughly punished.”
Nearly five hours of edging. And still worth every second.
“I believe you,” Violet peeps, flashing me a comically wide-eyed look. “I would not want to make your alpha angry.”
That doesn’t surprise me. For all her wit and sometimes sly humor, Violet definitely isn’t a brat. As I watch her carefully tie my best friend’s bracelet, a pang strikes my stomach.
“Has he… told you about this house?”
If he hasn’t, maybe there’s a way for me to explain and take the blame. I know he acts like he did this for himself, but, deep down… I think it was just as much for me as it was for him.
Violet winces. “He said he… sort of took it? I’m not sure I know what that means. He told me he’d explain more, but honestly? I don’t think I want to know.”