Chapter 12 #2
"What are you thinking for the menu?" Eli asks carefully.
I stare into the cup. "Roast chicken. Lemon and thyme. Potatoes. A big salad. Bread."
"Dessert?" Drake asks, hopeful.
"If there's time. Maybe a tart. Or brownies."
Marie perks up. "I could do the dessert. If you want. So you don't have to do it all."
"I'm fine," I say, too fast. "I've got it."
Ragon's gaze clicks to me and holds. "Good. Simple, appropriate. You're making smart choices." He nods once. "That's exactly how I want you. Focused. Calm."
Heat climbs my neck. Calm feels like a new way to say quiet.
"I'll do the wine," Eli says. "And non-alcoholic options."
Jasper hums. "Assume varied tolerances. Keep diffusers off. They're on blockers; don't make them work harder."
Ragon points at me. "You'll greet when they arrive and then return to the kitchen. No crowding the entry. No scent-pushing. No crusades."
"Yes, Alpha."
"Good girl," he says, smooth as breath. "Exactly like that."
The words shock something low in me and immediately curdle it. I look at the table. The tea tastes like metal.
Marie glances between us, then down at her napkin. Drake grimaces. Eli goes still, quiet fury tamped under a polite face. Jasper watches me like the heat signature of the room just shifted.
"I appreciate how you're handling this," Ragon continues. "No arguing, no dramatics. When I say structure is useful for you, this is what I mean." He gestures toward my posture like it's a demonstration. "You're easier. For everyone."
I have to swallow twice. "I'll make a list. Shopping. Timers."
He nods, satisfied. "Excellent. See? Progress."
It lands heavier than any correction.
"Do you want help with the prep?" Marie tries again.
"She won't overextend by delegating," Ragon answers for me, tone that special blend of fond and firm that makes me feel like a child with glue on her fingers. "Let her show us she can manage her lane."
My chest hollows. My lane. Two feet wide and taped in bright fluorescent lines.
"I'll manage. It's fine."
***
Friday comes too fast.
I spend the day in the kitchen because that's what I was told to do and because being elbow-deep in flour is better than sitting alone in my room.
Roast chicken. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Two kinds of bread. Salad. Fruit crumble.
It's too much. It's also the only way I know to say see me without opening my mouth.
The doorbell rings at six.
I wipe my hands on a towel and retreat to the stove, letting the alphas do the greeting.
"Alex Castillo. Thanks for having us."
"Malcolm Holmes. We brought wine. And Finn."
"I brought beer. And dessert from the bakery down the street we haven't traumatized yet."
"Come in. Shoes off, please."
They file into the kitchen.
Alex is tall—maybe even a shade taller than Ragon—broad through the chest, dark hair cut close, beard neatly trimmed. His scent brushes my nose and fizzles: unscented soap, light cologne, something heavier underneath that blockers smother.
Malcolm is leaner but not by much, sharp cheekbones, sleeves rolled to the forearms, tattoos peeking at his wrists. He smells like coffee and bulk-store hand soap. Whatever he really smells like is buried.
Finn I already know, but inside our house he feels more contained. Less jokey, more watchful.
"This is my pack," Ragon says. "Eli, Drake, Marie, Jasper. And Verena."
I turn at my name, towel still clenched.
"Vee," I correct on reflex.
Finn smiles. "We've met. She has very strong opinions about basil."
"You're still wrong about the watering schedule."
Alex's gaze flicks between us, then to the table. "You cooked all this?"
"Yes. It's nothing fancy."
"Smells incredible," Malcolm says. "You must live well here."
The words scrape something raw.
"Very well," Ragon says smoothly. "We're lucky."
He steers everyone into the dining area. Chairs scrape. Bottles clink. Voices rise.
I take my plate to the bar.
My bar.
My high little island.
Alex pauses halfway to the table, frown forming. "You're sitting over there?"
"Yes. This is my spot."
Marie glances at me, then at the empty chair where I used to sit. Her fingers touch the back of it, then fall.
Finn's brows shoot up. "Why? There's space."
Malcolm’s gaze sharpens.
Ragon doesn't miss a beat. "Vee is under discipline."
Humiliation hits so hard I feel faint. My mashed potatoes blur on the plate.
"Discipline," Alex repeats, voice cooling. "For what, exactly?"
Ragon sets his plate down. "She didn't take well to accommodating our new omega while Marie adjusted. It escalated. I'm teaching her a lesson."
Marie goes very still.
Drake's fork hangs.
The space tightens.
"Your lesson is public exclusion?" Alex asks, tone like he's testing a fence for weak spots.
"It's temporary. And effective. She's doing much better. More respectful. More accepting of the fact that she's not the only omega here."
Heat burns up my neck. I clamp my fingers around my fork so hard the prongs dig into my palm.
"Happier, long-term," Ragon adds. "If she accepts that she won't be the only one, she'll be a happier omega."
I want to laugh or scream but I do neither because it's not allowed.
Alex glances at me over his glass—trying to reconcile "happier omega" with the way I'm perched on a bar stool, back rigid, barely touched my meal.
"And does she agree?" he asks.
Ragon's eyes harden. "It's not really about agreement. It's about stability. She's had difficulties before. This is working."
"Is it?"
"Look at her. Calm. Compliant. Doing as she's told. Before, she was fighting everything. This is better."
I feel Jasper's attention like cold fingers on the back of my neck.
Finn's jaw flexes.
Marie looks like she wants to melt into her chair.
"You and I may have different definitions of 'better,'" Alex says. "Forgive me for being blunt, but it looks to me like you're hurting her more than helping."
A pause.
"We're all doing what we think is best in our own houses," Ragon finally replies.
It sits there like a line scored into the tabletop.
Finn clears his throat. "Uh, Vee and I actually met in the backyard. She's got a whole thing going with the garden—herbs, flowers. It's seriously impressive."
"Oh?" Malcolm perks up. "Gardeners unite. Our yard looks like a crime scene."
Ragon huffs. "The backyard has been good for her. Keeps her distracted. She's been easier since she started digging around out there."
I wince when he says easier.
Not happier. Not healing. Just less of a problem.
"It might be good for her to keep that up," he adds. "If you know things, Finn, help her. It gives her something productive to do."
Finn's mouth tightens. "Sure. Happy to help. It's not 'distracting' when it's a hobby, though. It's grounding."
Ragon shrugs, uninterested.
Marie jumps in, voice too bright. "Honestly, it's been nice. Vee having the garden. Means she's not always in the kitchen. The space is free now."
Her words land like dropped china—sharp edges everywhere.
"Marie," Eli says quietly. Warning.
"What? I just mean there's room now for everyone. Before it was kind of... hers."
Drake chuckles, half-hearted. "She's not wrong. You did hoard the oven, Vee."
My mouth tastes metallic.
I swallow the first answer—that the kitchen was the only place I was allowed to take up space.
"Dinner's really good," Malcolm jumps in. "Seriously, this chicken? Amazing."
"Thank you," I say, voice paper-thin.
Alex's gaze tracks the whole exchange. Marie's quip. Drake's chuckle. Ragon's choice to ignore it. Eli's soft, useless correction.
He doesn't say the obvious out loud—that the only person consistently called out in this house is me.
Jasper doesn't either.
He just files it away.
"What do you do, Vee?" Finn asks. "Besides cooking and gardening and haunting spice aisles."
"Haunting?"
"You look like someone who rearranges the paprika when no one's looking and judges strangers for buying pre-made frosting."
"I mean, if you're committing to sugar, you should at least use the real stuff."
Finn smiles. "Exactly. See? Basil. Baking. Good taste."
Alex watches, thoughtful.
"I used to bake a lot. Card nights. Bad shifts. Birthdays. Tuesdays."
"What happened?" Marcus asks.
"The kitchen got professionalized. Marie started reorganizing. Cooking more for her alphas. I backed off."
"Because you were told to," Finn says softly.
I don't answer.
"Well, like I told you before, you're welcome to use our kitchen. Any time. Seriously. We have counter space, an oven that probably isn't haunted, and a stand mixer I fear and respect. You could teach me how not to disgrace dough."
Alex nods. "Open invite. If you need more space."
Ragon's jaw twitches. "As long as she keeps her responsibilities here, I have no objection to her socializing."
Socializing.
Like I'm a pet being allowed to meet other dogs.
"See?" Marie says brightly. "More people for you to bake for. Maybe you can redirect your 'sugar energy.'"
I want to throw the crumble at the wall.
I don't.
I keep cutting my chicken into tiny, perfect bites and swallow them like they're gravel.
The rest of dinner skims along the surface.
They talk about work—Alex and Malcolm run some security consulting outfit. Finn does registry-adjacent data work, which makes Jasper perk up.
Eli and Malcolm bond over broken equipment. Drake and Finn argue about bakeries. Marie laughs in the right places and asks the right questions.
I sit at the bar and answer direct questions and otherwise try to make myself furniture.
When dessert comes, I stand to plate by default. It's something to do.
"Vee," Finn says when I slide a slice in front of him. "This looks insane. In a good way. If you ever want to teach a toasted-bread-level beta how not to ruin pastry, seriously. Our place. Any time."
I meet his eyes for the first time since Ragon said ‘discipline’ like a compliment.
They're kind.
Not pitying. Not nosy.
Just kind.
"I'll think about it."
"I'll hold you to that."
Ragon huffs. "If it keeps her out of trouble, I won't complain."
Alex's mouth flattens.
Jasper takes a slow sip. Eli's hand curls where it rests on his thigh, knuckles whitening.
I clear plates when it's over.
After they leave, the house feels smaller.
Not quieter. Just smaller, somehow, after the glimpse of something else.
I load the dishwasher because that's what I know how to do. Eli hovers in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
"Vee. What Finn said about the kitchen... you should—"
"I know. He has a stand mixer. It's very seductive."
"Not just that. It's neutral. They don't have the history. Or the rules."
"Everyone has rules."
"Yes. But not these."
His fingers twitch, wanting to touch and not allowed.
I shut the dishwasher a little too hard.
"You're allowed to be angry."
"I'm not angry. I'm tired. And no, Eli, I'm not allowed to be angry. Not anymore."
Jasper appears in the doorway behind him.
"Temperature's dropping. Herbs will need covering."
I grab onto the excuse like a lifeline. "Right. Wouldn't want to kill the basil."
I slip past them both into the night.
The air is cold and sharp. I kneel and drape old sheets over the beds, tucking edges so the wind won't steal them.
The house behind me glows and hums—Ragon's low voice, Marie's softer one, Drake's laugh.
Next door, windows glow warm. A tall shape crosses one—Alex, probably. Another passes carrying something—Finn, maybe.
For the first time in weeks, stepping into another kitchen, another pack's space, doesn't feel like betrayal.
It feels like oxygen.
I tuck the last corner of the sheet and sit back on my heels, fingers numb.
Second-hand omega.
Unmarked.
Under discipline.
"Better."
If I can't be whole here, maybe I can at least be something over there.
Even if it's just a set of hands teaching a scent-blocked neighbor how to tell when bread dough feels right.
Even if, for a few hours, all I am is a neighbor who brings pie.