Chapter 8
The next real crack shows up in my pantry.
Not a metaphorical crack. An actual, physical rearrangement of my carefully organized shelves that I discover on a Tuesday morning when I go to grab flour for pancakes.
Everything is... different.
The spices are alphabetized now instead of grouped by use.
The baking supplies have been consolidated to one shelf instead of spread across two.
Someone—and I know exactly who—has added little labels.
Neat, printed labels with Marie's looping handwriting underneath: All-Purpose Flour. Brown Sugar. Vanilla Extract.
I stand there with the fridge door still open behind me, cold air spilling across my ankles, staring at my pantry like it's a crime scene.
It's not wrong, exactly. It's more organized, technically. Efficient.
It's just not mine anymore.
"Oh good, you found it!"
Marie's voice makes me jump. I turn to find her in the doorway, hair still damp from a shower, wearing one of Drake's old hospital shirts like a dress. She looks pleased with herself.
"I reorganized yesterday while you were napping," she says brightly. "It was kind of a mess, no offense. I figured it would help everyone if things were easier to find. The guys are always asking me where stuff is, so I thought—well, labels just make sense, right?"
The guys are always asking her.
Not me. Her.
"Right," I hear myself say. "Makes sense."
She beams. "I knew you'd appreciate it! I also moved the olive oil closer to the stove. You had it way over by the vinegar, which seemed inefficient? Since you use it for cooking more than dressing."
My olive oil. That I placed there. In my kitchen.
"Thanks," I manage.
"Of course!" She's already moving past me, opening the fridge, pulling out eggs and butter like she's choreographed this. "I'm making breakfast this morning. Ragon mentioned he loves French toast, so I thought I'd surprise him. You don't mind, right?"
It's phrased as a question. It doesn't feel like one.
"No," I say. "Go ahead."
I grab the flour—from its new location—and retreat to the corner of the kitchen with my mixing bowl. I can make pancakes quietly. I can share the space. I'm an adult. I can handle this.
Marie hums while she cooks.
It's not an annoying hum. It's actually kind of pretty, melodic, the kind of unconscious sound that signals contentment. The kind of sound that fills a space and says I belong here.
I measure flour with more focus than it requires.
"Oh, Vee?" Marie glances over her shoulder. "Do you know if Eli likes cinnamon in his coffee? I know he takes it black usually, but I read that cinnamon can help with focus, and he mentioned having a long shift, so..."
"He likes it black," I say. "Just black."
"Right, but I mean, would he be open to trying it? Since I'm trying to learn everyone's preferences." She smiles. "You know them so well. I'm still catching up."
There's nothing mean in her tone. Nothing sharp. She sounds genuinely earnest.
It still feels like me being replaced in slow motion.
"I don't know," I admit. "You could ask him."
"I will!" She turns back to her pan. "I just want to make sure I'm taking care of everyone properly. They all work so hard, and as their scent match, I feel like I should understand what they need on a deeper level, you know? Like, instinctively."
The words land with the subtlety of a sledgehammer wrapped in velvet.
As their scent match.
Instinctively.
I crack an egg into my bowl with slightly more force than necessary.
Footsteps on the stairs signal incoming alphas. Drake appears first, hair wet, shirt only half-buttoned, grinning before he even fully enters the room. His citrus scent blooms ahead of him, bright and warm and—
He makes a beeline for Marie.
Not consciously, maybe. But his trajectory bends toward her like gravity, his hand landing on her lower back as he peers over her shoulder at the stove.
"Smells amazing," he says. "What're you making?"
"French toast for Ragon," she says, tilting her head back to smile up at him. "And scrambled eggs for you, since you mentioned liking them fluffy."
He lights up. "You remembered."
"Of course I did."
I stir my pancake batter and pretend I'm not watching them in my peripheral vision. Pretend it doesn't sting that Drake used to come to me first in the mornings, pressing a kiss to my temple while stealing bites of whatever I was cooking.
Eli arrives next, already dressed for his shift, glasses slightly fogged from the shower steam still clinging to him. His path into the kitchen is more deliberate than Drake's, more controlled.
But his eyes still track to Marie first.
Just for a second. Just long enough for his expression to soften before he catches himself and glances my way.
"Morning, Vee," he says.
"Morning."
"Pancakes?"
"Yeah."
He nods, pours himself coffee, and settles at the kitchen table with his tablet. Professional. Distant. The same way he's been since the sleep schedule got implemented and our nights together became rationed.
Marie plates her French toast with a flourish just as Ragon enters.
He's the worst—or best, depending on how you look at it. His self-control is tighter than the others, his awareness of his own instincts more acute. But even he can't quite help the way his attention shifts toward Marie when she turns with the plate, face bright and eager.
"I made this for you," she says. "I hope it's okay."
Ragon's expression doesn't change much. But his scent warms. Just slightly.
"Thank you," he says, taking the plate. His eyes cut to me, holding my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Checking in. Making sure I see him seeing me.
I look back down at my pancakes.
"Vee's making pancakes," Eli offers, like he's trying to balance the scales.
"I can see that," Ragon says.
No one asks if they can have one.
The afternoon finds me in the garden with dirt under my nails and the sun hot on the back of my neck.
It's my space. The only area of the house that's still completely mine.
Marie doesn't garden. She told me once that she's allergic to something in the soil, that it makes her hands break out.
So this—this small patch of earth with its tomatoes and herbs and the basil I've been nursing since spring—is safe.
Or it was.
I'm on my knees pulling weeds when I hear the back door open.
"Vee?"
Marie picks her way across the grass in sandals, careful to avoid the mud. She's carrying a glass of lemonade, condensation dripping down the sides.
"Thought you might be thirsty," she says, offering it.
I sit back on my heels, wiping my forehead with the back of my wrist. "Thanks."
She hovers while I drink, arms wrapped around herself even though it's not cold. After a moment, she sits on the porch steps, just at the edge of the garden.
"This looks really nice," she says, gesturing to the plants. "You've done an amazing job."
"Thanks."
"I wish I could help." She sighs. "But my hands swell up like balloons if I touch dirt for too long. It's so frustrating."
I make a sympathetic noise and turn back to my weeding.
"Can I ask you something?" Her voice goes quieter. More careful.
I brace myself. "Sure."
"Do you think... I mean, do you feel like the guys are adjusting okay? To having both of us?"
I glance at her. She's picking at the hem of her shorts, not quite meeting my eyes.
"They seem fine," I say neutrally.
"Yeah, but do you think they're happy?" She looks up then, and there's something raw in her expression. Genuine worry. "Sometimes I feel like I'm... I don't know. Taking up space that's not mine. Or like I'm making things harder."
The honesty catches me off guard.
"You're their scent match," I say, and I can't quite keep the edge out of my voice. "You're not making things harder. You're what they're supposed to want."
"But you've been here for five years," she says. "You know them. You know how they like their coffee and what they need and... I'm just trying to catch up. I don't want you to think I'm trying to push you out."
It would be easier if she was malicious. If she was doing this on purpose.
Instead, she's just... there. Existing in the spaces I used to fill, rearranging things to fit her understanding, learning my alphas with the confidence of someone who knows biology is on her side.
"I don't think that," I lie.
She smiles, relieved. "Good. Because I really want us to be friends, Vee. We're going to be pack sisters. We should be close."
Pack sisters.
The phrase sits wrong in my mouth.
"Yeah," I say. "We should."
She stands, brushing off her shorts. "I'll let you get back to it. Oh—I was thinking of making dinner tonight. Ragon mentioned loving pot roast, and I found this recipe that looks amazing. Do you think he'd like it with carrots or without? You probably know better than me."
"He likes carrots."
"Perfect! It’s crazy how much I want to cook now. I never used to care or have an interest in it at all before, but everything has changed for me so much since I met the alphas. Even my own desires. Thanks, Vee. You're the best."
She heads back inside, leaving me alone with my garden and the distinct feeling that I just gave away another piece of territory without meaning to.
I yank a weed hard enough to scatter dirt across my knees.
When I come inside an hour later, the kitchen smells like roasting meat and herbs. Marie has taken over the entire space—cutting board covered with vegetables, pots on every burner, recipe pulled up on her phone propped against the backsplash.
She's wearing an apron.
My apron.
The faded blue one with the coffee stain on the pocket that I've had since the registry.
"Oh!" She notices me staring. "Sorry, I borrowed this. I don’t have one of my own. Hope that's okay?"
"It's fine."
"Great! Hey, since you're here—can you taste this sauce? I want to make sure the seasoning is right."
She's asking for my help. Being friendly. Including me.
It feels like being erased with a smile.