Chapter 2 #4
"Breathe," Eli murmurs, his palm smoothing between my shoulder blades. "In. Out. That's it."
I drag in air. It tastes like pine and citrus and tea and my own fear.
Ragon sits back slowly, reeling himself in. "We are not giving you away. Put that thought down. Right now."
"I can't."
His jaw ticks. "You will."
"No. I can't just pretend my first pack didn't happen.
I can't pretend that hearing 'we found our scent match' doesn't make me feel like I'm about to be packed in a box and shipped back to that place.
To be given to another pack who can use me until they find their something better.
I can't even imagine what I did to end up in this vicious cycle! "
Drake lets out a broken noise. "We would never send you back there."
"You say that like you didn't just prove I don't belong here in the same way she will."
The words hang between us, ugly and true.
"I'm tired," I say suddenly. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired. "I can't… I can't do this anymore tonight."
"Conversation isn't over," Ragon says quietly.
"I know. But I'm done for now."
He holds my gaze. Testing. Pushing.
My instincts are frayed enough that if he orders me to stay, I don't know what I'll do. Obey and crack? Disobey and shatter?
After a long beat, he jerks his chin toward Eli. "Take her to her room."
It's not phrased as a punishment. It feels like one anyway.
Eli rises and offers me his hand. "Come on. Let's get you settled."
I stand on shaky legs. Drake reaches for me. "Vee—"
I flinch before I can stop myself.
His face crumples. His scent casts off a wave of misery so strong it almost knocks me over.
"I'm sorry. I just… I can't be touched by you right now."
He nods quickly, swallowing hard. "Yeah. Okay. I get it."
"We'll talk later," I say, even though I don't know if there will be a later.
Eli leads me down the hallway toward my room. His hand is warm in mine, his scent a thread of calm tugging me through the storm.
The moment we cross the threshold into my space, my instincts surge.
My room is small but soft. My nest is a low platform covered in the new blankets we bought today—the moon one, the weighted grey one, the cream sheets. The moon pillow sits in the center, looking ridiculous and perfect.
Home.
It has always felt like home.
Tonight, there's a fissure down the center of it.
Eli shuts the door gently and turns to me.
I don't let him finish. I crawl into my nest like it's the last lifeboat off a sinking ship and pull one of the new blankets around my shoulders. It smells like fresh fabric and dryer heat. Not like safety yet. Not like them.
I bury my face in it anyway and finally, finally let myself sob.
Huge, ugly, shaking sobs. The kind I never let them see. The kind I swallowed down when my first pack told me they were returning me, excused themselves to "let me process," and I cried into a registry-issued pillow that smelled like bleach.
Eli doesn't speak. He climbs carefully onto the edge of the nest, close enough that his thigh touches my feet, hands resting in his lap.
After a minute, he reaches out—slow, so I can pull away—and lays his palm between my shoulder blades.
I don't pull away.
His scent wraps around me, muted but steady. "Let it out. You're allowed."
"I hate this. I hate her. I hate everything."
"You don't know her yet. You hate the situation. That's fair."
"I hate you." Even though it's not fully true.
His hand stills for a second. His scent wobbles—pain, deep and raw.
"I know. I understand why."
"I hate Ragon."
"I know."
"I don't hate Drake." The confession is small and miserable. "I want to, but I can't."
"That tracks. He's very difficult to hate for long."
I huff a wet, broken laugh. "You're not supposed to agree."
"You're not supposed to bottle this up."
I breathe. In and out. The blanket grows damp under my cheek.
"I thought it was going to be about bonding. When he said we needed to talk. I thought—"
"I know. We should have realized."
"You kept me out. You kept this whole other life you were building in another room and only invited me in once the paint dried."
He exhales. "Yes. And I'm sorry."
The words are simple. They don't fix anything. But they land true.
We sit in silence for a long time. Eventually, he lies back against my pillows and I curl against his chest, wrapped in new blankets that don't smell like home yet.
His hand rests at the nape of my neck, thumb rubbing back and forth in steady, soothing strokes.
"You can be angry. You can throw pillows later. You can scream. You can tell Ragon exactly how badly he handled this. You don't have to be graceful."
"I wasn't very graceful out there."
"No. You were honest. There's a difference."
I breathe. My sobs eventually taper into hiccups, then into little shivery breaths.
"I don't trust him. Not like I did yesterday."
Eli's hand stills for a heartbeat, then resumes its slow pattern.
"I know."
That's the worst part.
He doesn't say I'm wrong.
He just holds me while the first crack in the foundation of my world widens, and my nest—my perfect, safe, warm nest full of beautiful new things—feels a tiny bit less safe than it did this morning.
When sleep finally drags me under, it's not with peace.
It's with the knowledge that no matter what they promise, no matter how many times they say we're not sending you away, something has already been taken.
Something I may never get back.