Chapter 5 #2
Eli's hand drops to my shoulder, squeezing once: enough. Ragon watches us all like he's cataloguing every fracture.
"Borrowing clothing is allowed. With consent. Nest items stay in nests. That's all."
He continues. "Rule two: If there is conflict, it gets addressed quickly. No silent treatment. No simmering resentment. You come to one of us. We mediate if needed."
"So we tattle."
"So you don't let this house turn into your last one." His voice suddenly sharpens. "Either of you."
That shuts me up.
Marie's eyes shine a little, memory spiking bitter-salty in her scent. She swallows hard and nods.
"Rule three: You do not enter each other's rooms without explicit permission. Nests are private. We treat them that way."
"I won't touch her nest," Marie says. "Ever. I know what that feels like."
Ragon's gaze pins me. "And you?"
"I'm not going to go roll in her blankets. I barely want to roll in my own right now."
His expression softens for a blink. "Nevertheless. Say it."
I clench my jaw. "I'm not going to touch her nest."
"Rule four: Neither omega undermines the other. You don't speak for each other. You don't speak over each other. You don't intentionally provoke each other."
"Our job is to protect both of you," Eli adds quietly. "Not watch you tear each other apart because your fear keeps coming out sideways."
I look up at him. His green eyes are tired and kind and a little sad.
Ragon continues. "You also don't undermine us. If an alpha gives a reasonable instruction, you follow it. We can discuss later. We don't argue about safety in the moment."
My spine bristles. "Define reasonable."
"Not leaving the house alone. Not baiting the other omega into a meltdown. Not verbally shredding Drake when he's trying to de-escalate a situation, for example."
My face burns. "I didn't—"
"You did," Drake says softly.
I flinch.
Ragon's gaze doesn't waver. "You are not being punished for having feelings. But you are responsible for what you do with them."
"Feels like the same thing."
He gets up.
He moves slowly, deliberately, but he's still too big, too solid.
He stops in front of me and crouches down so we're on the same level (or closer anyway), his forearms resting on his knees.
Up close, his scent is stronger—pine smoke, faint citrus, something darker underneath that has always made my instincts purr when I let them.
"Look at me."
I do. I can't not.
He lifts his hand and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, firm enough that I feel the command in it but not so hard it hurts. The calluses on his fingers are rough against my skin.
"You are not disposable. Not even a little bit. You were not 'outed' in front of Marie so she would know you're easy to replace. Drake made a mistake with timing, not content. Do you understand the difference?"
The words hit an exposed nerve. Tears sting my eyes before I can swallow them back.
"I guess."
His grip tightens just a fraction, drawing my gaze back when it tries to slip away. "Not guess. Understand."
It's not just words. My body recognizes the cadence, the tone. My omega instincts push against my resistance, urging compliance, craving the structure.
Humiliation prickles against relief.
"I understand."
His hand lingers a heartbeat longer, then lets go. The ghost of his touch stays on my skin.
"Good. Then we can move forward."
He straightens, dominance rolling back like a tide. The air feels lighter. My muscles unclench slowly.
Marie is watching me with wide eyes. There's no gloating there. Just observation. Maybe empathy. Maybe envy at the familiarity in that kind of correction.
I look away first.
Ragon glances at Drake. "Grocery list?"
Drake perks up, grateful for the shift. "Already on the counter. We're running low on fruit, snacks, a few basics."
"You'll take them both."
"Us?" I say.
Marie startles. "Me?"
"You need to see the neighborhood," Ragon says, looking at Marie. "And the two of you need to prove you can exist in a public space without drawing blood."
Drake grins. "Field trip."
"I don't want a chaperoned playdate."
"Too bad," Ragon says. His mouth curves, humor less. "I'm testing the 'no bloodshed' rule. Drake supervises."
"You realize I could take her in a fight."
Marie's head jerks toward me, eyes wide.
Eli makes a low sound that might be a strangled laugh.
Ragon's gaze cools. "You will not talk like that. Not even as a joke."
"Wasn't a joke."
He crosses the distance between us again and this time he doesn't touch my chin, doesn't lean down. He just takes one step inside my space, scent intensifying, voice dropping.
"Verena. You will be civil. You will be as kind as I know can be. You will be silent if you can't. Do you understand?"
The command wraps around my ribs like warm steel. My pulse kicks. My mouth opens on a retort and nothing comes out.
"Yes, Alpha."
"Say it without pouting," he adds, because he's an ass.
Despite everything, a weak laugh wants to burst out. I clamp my teeth on it.
"Yes, Alpha," I repeat, steadier.
He watches me for another second, then nods. "Good. Drake—keep them both in sight. No wandering off."
Drake nods, suddenly more serious. "Got it."
***
The outside air is cool and damp. The world smells different out here—cut grass, car exhaust, somebody's laundry detergent from next door. Underneath it all, the faint echo of our home clings to my skin.
Marie falls into step beside me, too careful to walk in front, too anxious to lag behind. Drake brings up the rear, keys jangling as he locks the door behind us.
We pile into the car—Drake driving, Marie in the passenger seat, me in the back like a sullen teenager.
For a few seconds, we sit in silence, the hum of the motor filling the space.
"So," Drake says, too cheerful. "Everyone ready for the most exciting grocery run of their lives?"
"Thrilled," I mutter from the back seat.
Marie twists to glance at me, then quickly faces forward again.
Drake catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "You okay back there?"
"Perfect. Love being babysat."
"We're not babysitting," he says. "We're... collective shopping."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
Marie's fingers twist in her lap. She's quiet, uncertain, probably wishing she could disappear into the upholstery.
Drake pulls into the grocery store parking lot and finds a spot. "Alright, team. Let's make this quick and painless."
The grocery store smells like coffee, detergent, and too many people. My instincts twitch at the new scents, at all the unfamiliar alphas and betas moving around nearby. Marie's scent curls in close to her skin, tight and watchful.
Drake grabs a cart, positioning himself between us like a referee. "You have the list?"
She pulls the folded paper from her pocket. "Um. Fruit, yogurt, bread, milk, snacks, Eli's tea, Drake's granola bars, Ragon's protein powder..."
"Yeah, that sounds right."
We walk the aisles.
It's not awful.
It's awkward, but not to the level of bloodlust.
Marie hesitates over brands, clearly worried about choosing wrong. I want to be annoyed, but some part of me remembers my first weeks with my pack, terrified of putting the spoons in the wrong drawer, and I can't quite get there.
"Just grab the yogurt that doesn't look like it tastes like regret."
She huffs a small laugh. "What about this one?"
She holds up the kind Drake likes. I nod. "That one."
"You knew immediately."
"I've been feeding him for years. It's not a superpower."
"It kind of is."
We keep going.
She reaches for strawberries, fingers hovering. "Is this okay?"
"Do you like strawberries?"
"Yes."
"Then get them."
She looks at me like I've said something profound. "My last pack always picked. What we ate. Where we went. What I wore. It feels wrong to just choose without approval."
A familiar ache flickers through me. "Yeah. It feels wrong the first dozen times. Then it feels like breathing."
Her shoulders loosen a fraction.
In the tea aisle, she pauses. "Do you like chamomile? I thought maybe we could both drink some at night. If it's been a bad day."
"You planning on a lot of those?"
She winces. "I didn't mean—"
"I'm kidding. Eli's obsessed with chamomile. He'll be thrilled if you join his crusade to replace all beverages with warm plant water."
Her lips twitch. "I'll grab some, then."
Drake appears around the corner, arms full of his beloved granola bars. "Found them. The good kind was hiding behind the cardboard."
At checkout, the cashier scans our stuff and gives us that bright, curious smile strangers reserve for people they want to put in a box. Her eyes linger on Drake, then flick between me and Marie.
"You two sisters?"
"No," Marie says at the exact same time I say, "Sister wives."
Marie chokes. Her face goes crimson. Drake nearly drops the bags.
The cashier laughs, a little uncertain now. "Oh. Well. You all have a good one."
I push the cart out without explanation. Marie trails behind me, still half-laughing, half-mortified. Drake catches up, shaking his head.
"Sister wives," he mutters. "You're going to give someone a heart attack one of these days."
"Her assumptions annoy me. Might as well entertain myself."
Marie glances at me. "You're funny."
"Don't tell them. They'll start expecting me to be charming at breakfast."
She smiles. Real, small, fragile.
For a moment, I can almost see a version of this where we could have been friends if the circumstances were different. If she had shown up as someone's cousin, or a temporary houseguest, or literally anything other than "the scent match that rewired my pack."
But reality is what it is.
We load the car. Drake slides into the driver's seat. We drive home.
***
The house smells like them the second we step inside. Eli's gentle warmth, Ragon's heavy pine. Underneath, Marie's sweetness, my sharper floral, all tangled with Drake's citrus that clings to all of us from the car ride.
They're in the living room—Ragon and Eli—looking up when we enter.