Chapter 20 #2
Ragon's hair falls loose around his shoulders today—unusual for him.
He typically keeps it pulled back in a tight knot, practical and controlled.
There was a time when I treasured those rare moments it came undone, when I'd wind it between my fingers in the aftermath of our entanglement, that intimate reminder of his claim over me still warm inside.
Now I simply notice the dark strands framing his face with the detached interest of someone observing a changed routine, nothing more.
I set the tablet on the desk and turn it so the screen faces him. "I found a fitness class I'm interested in. A dance one. Twice a week in the evenings. Safe neighborhood. They scan IDs and keep doors locked after start time."
His eyes flick to the screen, then my face. "A gym."
"I like movement. And music. And not being here for an hour would be nice."
He sits back. The alpha in him gets prickly with objections. Stares. Strangers. Unbonded omega.
"I can send you the waiver and safety policy. If it's a no, it's a no."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't like it."
"Okay."
"I don't like thinking about you leaving the house at night to go sweat in a room with people I can't vet. Especially a gym. It’s probably teeming with alphas. The kind that don’t form packs with betas."
"So it's a no."
He shakes his head. "It's a conditional yes. I don't like the way you've been acting more than I dislike the idea of a dance class. If this gets you even an inch of yourself back, I'll figure out how to live with it."
The tiny lift in my chest threads into something steadier. "Conditions?"
"One of us drives you. Every time. We wait in the car. No walking the parking lot alone."
"That's not necessary."
"It is. It's not just about you. It's about optics. An unbonded omega at a night class? I won’t risk you getting snatched up by some neanderthal alpha. Plus OPA will write me a letterhead if something goes sideways. If you want to go, you accept the terms."
I fold my hands. "All right. I accept the conditions."
His gaze searches my face for the catch that isn't there.
"Thank you."
He stands, like his body decided to move before his brain finished. For a second I think he's going to sit back down. He doesn't. He rounds the desk, slow, palms open, approaching a skittish animal.
"Vee," he says quietly. His hand lifts—aimed for the back of my neck.
I step to the side to pick up the tablet.
It's a small motion. Not a flinch. Functional. His fingers skim air where my throat would have been.
The air between us chills.
I keep my eyes on the home screen. "I'll send you the class link."
"Verena," he tries again, closer now. He reaches for my cheek and I angle my head to scratch at an imaginary itch, shoulder lifting, cheek turning, body tilting out of his reach.
My hands find the tablet. My gaze fixes on the corner of his desk. My smile is polite customer-service.
His fingers hover a breath from skin, touch nothing.
The sound he makes isn't a growl. It's a breath collapsing.
"Send me the link. That'll be all."
"Yes, Alpha."
I'm out of the room before the next inhale.
In the hallway, my pulse is racing. I don’t want to anger him but I don’t want him to touch me more.
I text him the class information with hands that shake.
A moment later, my phone vibrates.
Ragon: Received. I'll take Tuesday. We'll sort the rest.
A second bubble appears, hangs, disappears.
I slide the phone into my back pocket and keep moving.
***
Friday arrives, and with it, card night.
This week, though, Drake and Finn collaborated. The neighbors are coming instead the hospital crew.
I spend the day in the kitchen.
Not because anyone asked.
Because when Malcolm texted—Can we bring anything?—I caught myself typing, I'll bake.
Butter softens on the counter; sugar pours in bright granules. I move through the motions like a dance my body remembers even after forgetting nest-building and scent-chasing.
I haven't baked for my pack since the nest incident.
I bake for the neighbors though.
By late afternoon, there are two kinds of cookies cooling on racks, a lemon loaf, and a tray of stuffed mushrooms. The kitchen smells like comfort.
I don't feel love exactly. But I feel right. Settled. Purposeful.
It's the closest thing to contentment I've had in weeks.
Drake wanders in and leans on the doorjamb. "You're in a good mood."
"I'm baking. It's not that deep."
"It is for you."
I don't answer.
"You could make something for us sometime, too."
"You live here. You can eat these."
"That's not what I—" He breaks off. "Never mind. These smell amazing."
"Thank you, Alpha."
He winces.
He leaves with one cookie and tight shoulders.
The doorbell rings at seven.
Alex's scent hits first. Deep pine, clean and cool. Malcolm follows—cedar and citrus. Finn is a blaze of ginger and tea.
They fill the doorway with easy smiles. Finn's hair looks like he walked through a windstorm. Malcolm carries two bottles of wine. Alex has a small bakery box and a potted basil plant.
"We come bearing offerings," Malcolm announces.
"It's my basil," Finn says. "You're fostering him until my window gets more light."
"He was dying," Alex says. "Vee will fix him."
I take the plant automatically. Its leaves are drooping. "He'll live."
Finn grins, full and delighted. "See? Told you she'd save him."
Ragon steps forward, shaking hands, exchanging polite barbs. Eli offers drinks. Drake hovers behind Marie, who's turned herself into curated domestic bliss. She watches the neighbors, cataloguing what they see and don't say.
Alex's eyes catch mine, relief crossing his face. Finn wiggles his fingers in a little wave. Malcolm breathes deeply. "God, your kitchen smells like heaven. Lead me to carbs."
"Come on," I say, and before anyone can redirect me, I guide them toward the food.
Ragon watches me walk away, mouth tightening.
We gather around the dining table with cards, bowls of snacks, plates of cookies.
I take the chair between Alex and Malcolm. Finn plops down across from us. Eli sits near the end, flanked by Jasper and Drake. Marie claims the seat on the arm of Ragon's chair until he pulls another chair close.
The first round is chaotic. Finn can't remember if we're playing rummy or some hybrid game he invented. Malcolm keeps forgetting to discard. Alex quietly arranges his hand with ruthless efficiency.
I laugh once—actually laugh—when Finn dramatically flops over the table after losing.
The sound startles me. It startles everyone.
Drake looks over, eyes wide.
Eli's fingers twitch. Jasper's mouth softens.
Ragon goes still.
Marie stiffens, scent tightening with instinctive alarm.
"Your laugh is nice," Finn says, beaming. "You should do it more."
"Work on your material," I reply, and he clutches his chest in mock offense.
Alex's gaze flicks between us. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asks quietly.
"Yes. I am."
His shoulders ease. "Good."
Across the table, Ragon's eyes darken.
His scent shifts: smoke and pine and the brittle edge of someone whose territory feels threatened.
Malcolm wins a hand and crows. We swap partners. I end up teamed with Malcolm, who leans in conspiratorially. "If we lose, we blame it on Finn's basil. If we win, we take full credit. Deal?"
"Deal," I say, smiling again.
Ragon's fingers flex on the arm of his chair.
Marie, noticing where his attention is going, ups her performance, leaning into him, stroking his jaw, whispering against his ear. He gives absent responses. His eyes keep straying back to me.
Not heated or fond.
Puzzled. Irritated. Uneasy.
He's watching me be okay without him.
He doesn't like it.
When Finn switches seats, he taps my knee gently under the table. "Hey. Thanks for coming. I know you could've hidden in your room."
"I don't forget card night. It's loud."
"And tonight?"
"Still loud." But the edges are softer.
He brightens. "Progress."
Alex smirks. "You're very proud of every crumb of joy she admits."
"I am. Shut up and play your card, pine tree."
Ragon's scent spikes again. A storm building.
Jasper notices. His gaze flicks to Ragon, then to me, then away.
The next hand plays out. I watch how I lean toward Finn and Malcolm to share a joke, how I don't look down the table to see if my own alphas are watching.
Marie tries twice to hang bait.
"Ragon and I were talking about bonding timelines earlier," she says airily, tracing circles on his wrist. "It's so special, you know? Being a scent match."
"Mmm," Ragon says.
I straighten my cards. Don't rise. Don't look. Don't care. The words slide past like water against stone.
Marie tries again later, leaning forward to snag a cookie. "It's wild you're still unmarked. Especially after five years. But I guess not everyone can be permanent."
Finn chokes on wine. Malcolm kicks him.
I take a slow breath, feel nothing. "Sugar's a little uneven on that one. Take the one underneath."
She blinks, wrong-footed. "Oh. Okay."
Ragon's eyes narrow. Eli looks like he wants to disappear. Drake's gaze sinks.
Finn whispers, "Holy shit," and Alex covers it with a cough.
By the time the second bottle of wine is half gone, the energy is a complicated tangle: the neighbors' warmth, my quiet calm, my pack's confusion and jealousy.
Ragon lets it run another hand.
Then he snaps.
It doesn't look like snapping. It looks like adjusting his posture, setting his cards down, brushing Marie's hand away.
"Verena," he says.
There's something in his voice that makes everyone look up.
I don't. I'm mid-play. I lay a card down carefully.
When I do glance over, his eyes are on me, dark and intent.
"Come sit here," he says, patting his thigh.
The table freezes.
My spine prickles. Not with instinctive obedience. With awareness of being used as a demonstration.
"I'm fine. Thank you."
Finn's fingers tense. Alex's jaw tightens. Malcolm's foot taps.
Ragon's gaze hardens. "Come sit here," he repeats, slower, control wrapped tight.
"I'd prefer to stay in my seat. We're mid-game."
"Verena. Come. Sit. Here."
His dominance pushes out, pressure through the room.
It slides over my skin and finds no purchase.
But I move anyway, because the neighbors don't deserve to watch him escalate.
The chair scrapes as I stand. "Excuse me," I murmur to Alex and Finn. Finn touches my hand as I pass. Alex's gaze brushes my profile like a shield.
I walk around the table, breathing evenly. Marie glowers. Eli looks sick. Drake's scent is a mess of conflict and longing.
Ragon looks almost relieved as I approach. Like he believes once I'm in his lap the old pattern will click back into place.
He takes my waist and draws me down.
My body lands lightly on his thigh, muscles braced so I don't fully settle. His arm comes around my middle, heavy and familiar; his chest meets my back; his scent wraps around me.
Nothing in me yields.
Not my neck. Not my shoulders. Not the small omega place under my heart.
If anything, I go quieter inside.
The alphas feel it.
Finn's eyes go wide. Alex's hand clenches. Malcolm looks like he wants to walk out.
Eli stares at where Ragon's hand rests on my hip, knuckles white.
Drake won't look at me at all.
Marie watches like someone set a fire in her lap.
Ragon nuzzles at my temple. "There. Better."
I sit perfectly still.
"Please," I say quietly, so only he can hear. "Let me go."
His hand tightens reflexively. "You're mine. You belong here."
My throat closes around a bitter sound.
"I don't feel like I do."
He inhales sharply.
The game stalls around us: half-played cards, full glasses, held breaths.
Eli shifts like he might intervene. Jasper's gaze darts to him, a warning shake of his head.
"Vee," Drake starts, helpless.
"I'm not going to make a scene. I just want to sit in my own chair."
"You are sitting," Ragon insists, harder now. "You're sitting where you're supposed to be."
Supposed to be.
I close my eyes briefly. Open them again.
I am not shaking. I am not panicking.
I am simply done.
"Please. Let. Me. Go."
Something in my tone finally cuts through.
His fingers loosen. His arm drops.
I stand.
The absence of his touch feels like taking off a coat that never fit.
"Excuse me."
No one stops me.
No one calls me back.
I walk away without looking over my shoulder.
I walk down the hall one hand gliding along the banister, and let the voices dissolve behind me.
In my room, the chair waits. I close the door, shut out the buzzing tension, and sink into the only place that's held me without agenda.
My muscles release as the cushion molds to my body.
I pull the blanket up and try to find any echo of longing for the man downstairs who just tried to stage me like a prop.
Nothing answers.
No ache. No yearning.
Just a tired, distant sadness for the person I used to be—the one in the photo on his desk.
Somewhere between the gorilla enclosure and my ruined nest, that girl was pushed off a ledge.
She hit bottom.
And whatever part of her got back up doesn't want to climb back into the same cage.
Downstairs, laughter resumes in stuttering starts. Someone shuffles cards. Marie reclaims her spot. The neighbors will leave with more questions than answers.
Up here, the porch light from next door spills a faint glow onto my ceiling.
Ragon lifted the ban.
He thinks it means I'm free to come back.
What he doesn't understand is that I already left.
I curl tighter in the chair and let the realization settle:
I don't want their attention.
I don't want their approval.
I don't want to be theirs.
I just want out.
Of this house.
Of this dynamic.
Of this version of myself they built and then broke.
The idea of the registry no longer feels like a threat.
It feels like a door.
Across the yard, someone laughs in the neighbors' kitchen.
But it sounds like warmth.
I tuck my chin down, close my eyes, and breathe.
I don't know what tomorrow will look like.
But I know it won't look like sitting in Ragon's lap pretending that hurt never happened.
That, at least, feels like a beginning.