Chapter 5
I wake up to the feeling of being held.
For a few seconds I don't remember why my thighs ache, or why my nest smells so heavily like Eli that it's practically saturated with his scent instead of my usual blend. I just lie there, face buried in a pillow, breathing him in.
Tea and clean cotton and that subtle warm sweetness that always makes my chest loosen.
His arm is heavy around my waist, hand resting low on my stomach. His chest presses to my back, breath slow and deep, the steady rhythm grounding me.
Then my body shifts and tenderness flares between my legs, a tug of soreness in my hips, the ghost of his hands on my skin, his voice in my ear last night telling me I’m here, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.
Right.
Reality.
Marie. Her scent. Her bags in the spare room. Drake's guilt. Ragon's rules. The way everything in my life tilted in one sharp, ugly moment.
My eyes sting before I even open them.
Eli stirs behind me, his arm tightening for a second like his instincts sense my mood before his brain catches up. His nose nudges the back of my neck; I feel the brush of his lips in my hair.
"Hey," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. "You awake?"
"Unfortunately."
He huffs a quiet laugh that warms something inside me despite everything. "How's your body?"
"Rude question." I shift and wince. "I've been better."
His hand slides up, fingers splaying over my stomach, touch careful now. "Too rough?"
The way he asks it—soft, worried, like he's ready to apologize all over again—makes the ache worth it.
"No. You were what I needed."
There's a pause. His breath catches just a little.
"What you needed," he repeats quietly. "I can live with that."
I roll onto my back so I can see him. His blond curls are flattened on one side, his eyes puffy without his glasses, expression soft and unguarded. Just Eli, the man who sat in a hard chair in the registry lobby for three hours just so I wouldn't go in alone.
"Thank you. For staying. For all of it."
His gaze scans my face like he's searching for cracks. "You're not regretting it?"
"No." I bite my lip. "I liked feeling like I still matter."
His expression twists—pain and fondness and something darker all tangled. "You matter. Every day, in ways that have nothing to do with who else is in this house."
"But it's getting more complicated."
He exhales slowly. "Yeah. It is."
We're quiet for a second. The house creaks around us—the faint murmur of voices down the hall, the clink of something in the kitchen, water running. Marie's scent drifts faintly under the door—sweet jasmine and cream over the deeper, familiar base of my alphas.
I grimace. "She's up."
"Mm." He brushes a thumb along my cheekbone. "We should be too."
I swing my legs over the edge of the nest and immediately feel the pull in my muscles again. He sees the flinch even when I try to hide it.
"Slow. You're not being graded on how quickly you pretend you're fine."
"I'm absolutely being graded. Just not by you."
He makes a quiet sound that might be a protest but doesn't argue.
I tug on leggings and an oversized black hoodie, running my fingers through blonde hair until it looks less like "crying, sex, and heartbreak" and more like messy on purpose.
When I glance at the mirror, there's a faint mark at my throat, low enough to be hidden by the hoodie but high enough that I can see it.
Not a bond mark. Just a bruise from Eli's mouth.
Pathetic that it makes me feel a little steadier.
"Ready?"
"No," I say honestly. "But let's go anyway."
He opens the door, and the house hits me all at once.
Scents. Sounds. The faint hiss of a pan on the stove. A soft laugh that isn't mine.
Her.
We walk down the hall together. My bare feet are silent on the wood, but my heart is loud.
When we step into the kitchen doorway, I stop so abruptly Eli nearly runs into me.
Marie is at the stove, barefoot in my grey t-shirt—the one that hangs off one shoulder, thin and soft from years of washing. The sight makes something ugly pinch behind my ribs.
Drake stands just behind her, chest almost brushing her back as he reaches around to adjust the heat on the burner. He says something low, and she tips her head up to look at him, brows knit in concentration. Her dark hair is half-braided, the rest falling in loose waves down her back.
She looks pretty. Soft. Omega. Comfortable.
Drake smiles at her, bright and warm and stupidly fond.
Then he leans down and presses a quick kiss to her forehead.
The sound inside my chest is small and sharp and stupid.
Marie blushes, ducking her head, a little pleased flutter in her scent.
Eli goes still beside me. Ragon leans against the island, arms folded, watching the scene with his usual quiet intensity.
His dark brown hair is pulled back in its neat man bun, the strong line of his jaw clean-shaven, the black ink on his arms stark against his skin.
He looks like he belongs in some painting of warriors and kings, not my ordinary kitchen with its cheap cabinets and chipped countertop.
For a flickering second, it all looks like it's already settled.
My alphas. Their new omega.
And me—extra.
Marie turns her head and sees us.
"Oh—good morning."
Drake follows her gaze and brightens. "Hey! Sleep okay?"
He doesn't come over. Doesn't touch me. Doesn't ruffle my hair or press his hand to the back of my neck the way he did a hundred other mornings when it was just us.
"Fine."
Eli steps past me to the coffee maker, his scent turning more neutral, professional even, like he's putting on scrubs. "Coffee. Want some?"
"Please."
Marie picks up the spatula and stirs the eggs. "I tried to make them the way Drake said you like them. I hope that's okay."
"Sure. You're already learning the menu. Impressive."
It comes out flatter than I mean. Her scent flickers—uncertain.
Ragon pushes off the island. When he moves, the room shifts with him like it always has. His presence fills space in a way that has nothing to do with how broad he is and everything to do with the way he carries himself.
"Sit."
I drop into the farthest chair by habit, shoulders tense.
His brows lift. "Closer."
"I'm fine here."
Eli's scent pinches. Drake glances between us like he's watching a match hover near a gas line.
"Verena."
The way he says my full name is a weight. Not loud. Not sharp. Just undeniable.
My instincts flinch. My pride bristles.
I scrape my chair two spots over so I'm not at the opposite end like some distant cousin. "Happy now?"
He doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. His scent eases a fraction.
We eat.
Marie's eggs are fine. They're eggs. I focus on the texture more than the taste because my stomach is too tight to want food.
Marie picks at her plate, taking small, careful bites, like she's afraid to be seen as greedy. She keeps reaching for fruit instead of bread.
I guess she really is one of those high-end omegas.
I shove a piece of egg into my mouth so I don't say what I'm thinking: that my life looks like a stranger rearranged all the furniture while I was asleep.
Ragon wipes his mouth with a napkin and sets it neatly beside his plate. That little gesture is as clear a signal as a gavel.
"House meeting. Living room. Five minutes."
Marie straightens instinctively, back going a little too straight.
I roll my eyes. "Can't wait."
He doesn't comment on the sarcasm. He just stands, collects his mug, and walks out.
Drake gathers plates. "Come on. You'll want a comfy spot. Ragon gives long speeches."
Marie glances at me, nervous, then follows him.
Eli lingers. "You can still opt to participate instead of fight."
"I can do both. I multitask."
His mouth tugs like he wants to smile and wants to sigh at the same time. "Try not to pick the option that ends in everyone stressed and you crying."
"You say that like that isn't my brand."
He places his hand on the back of my neck for one brief, firm second. Just enough to anchor. Just enough to remind me I'm not drifting in space, no matter how it feels.
"Come on. Let's get it over with."
We file into the living room like it's some kind of tribunal.
Ragon sits in his usual chair, solid and unmovable. Drake claims one end of the couch, Marie the other, curled into the corner with her hands wrapped around a throw pillow. Eli perches on the arm of my chair, leaving me the option to sit on the cushion or on the floor.
I choose the floor, knees drawn up, back against the chair so I can feel Eli's leg warm along my shoulder. It makes me feel a little less like I've been called to the principal's office.
Ragon's gaze moves from Marie to me, assessing.
"Now that the household has changed, we need to set expectations clearly. We all know what happens when unspoken rules build resentment."
My throat tightens. I am intimately familiar with that particular flavor of disaster.
Marie nods quickly. "That makes sense."
I drag a nail along the seam of my leggings. "Do we get a handbook? A little orientation packet?"
Ragon steeples his fingers. "Rule one: Shared spaces stay as scent-neutral as possible. Your omega instinct will want to mark things. That's natural. Nests are for that. Hallways, living room, bathroom—aren't."
Marie's cheeks flush. "Of course. I wouldn't— I mean, my last pack didn't even let me—" She cuts herself off, glancing at me. "I understand."
My fingers curl against my knees. "So no rubbing my face on the couch cushions. Got it."
"Verena." Threaded through my name is a gentle warning. "You know what I mean."
"Yeah. I know. I can't help that my shirts smell like me, though."
Marie stiffens and glances down at the shirt she's wearing. "Drake said I could borrow it."
"He probably did. Boundaries aren't a thing in this house apparently."
There's a beat. Her scent twists. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize."
Guilt pricks me. I hadn't meant to make her look inconsiderate.
"It's fine. Keep it. It looks better on you, anyway. I'm sure the alphas agree."