Chapter 21
By the time Friday rolls around, the house has turned "trying to love me" into a full-time sport.
Every morning, there's some new little adjustment.
A mug of tea left at my usual spot on the counter, exactly how I used to like it.
Drake switching out the soft soap in the bathroom for the brand I prefer.
Marie announcing loudly that she's "totally fine" with me having more time with the alphas, as if she's granting me visitation with someone else's kids.
Ragon's trying the most obvious angle (to him anyway): structure.
"Rotation goes back to normal," he declares over breakfast, like a judge banging a gavel. "We all do better when there's a schedule."
Marie hums, stirring honey into her yogurt. Drake's fork freezes halfway to his mouth. Eli looks at his coffee. Jasper just watches.
I put my plate in the sink and dry my hands thoroughly before I turn back around.
"Understood. Where would you like me tonight?"
Ragon blinks like he was expecting resistance. "Drake's. We'll start where we left off." He glances at Drake. "You're on early shift tomorrow, right? You can handle the first night."
Drake nods, relief and hope threading his scent. "Yeah. Of course. If you want."
I hold his gaze, feel nothing shift inside me. The old ache, the old anticipation, isn't there.
"I actually think I should sleep alone. I've got a headache coming on and I don't want to keep you up tossing all night. You've got a long day ahead of you with work."
Drake's face falls. "Vee..."
"It's one night. It's better for everyone if you're rested."
"It's been a lot of nights," he says softly.
Ragon's jaw tightens. "We're not letting you withdraw indefinitely. You're part of this pack. You belong with us."
"I am with you. I make your coffee. I do your laundry. I cook your food. I keep the house running. This isn't withdrawal, Alpha. It's redistribution of resources."
Jasper snorts under his breath. Eli kicks him; Jasper doesn't even pretend to be sorry.
Ragon's eyes narrow. "You're deflecting."
"I'm explaining. But if you'd prefer, I can just say I'm not up to sharing a bed yet and leave it there."
Marie makes a faint scoffing sound. "Still? It's been weeks."
"Marie," Eli warns.
"What? I'm just saying. At some point, you need to move on and stop milking it."
Milking it.
I stare at the faucet handle rather than her face.
Ragon inhales slowly. "Enough. She's not sleeping in with you tonight so it isn't your concern."
Marie glowers. "Didn't ask."
He looks back at me. "You've refused nest nights every night this week."
"Yes. I've done my chores and I haven't caused any trouble. I don’t think I need it anymore. It's working for me."
"It's not working for us. Omegas don't thrive alone. Besides, alphas need omegas too."
"You have Marie. And I'm not exactly thriving with company either. But I hear you. That's why I asked to look at a club, remember? I'm not avoiding people. I'm curating them."
"Ragon," Eli cuts in quietly. "Forcing proximity right now is going to backfire. She's holding it together. Don't yank at the threads."
Drake sets his fork down. "I don't want her in my bed if she doesn't want to be there. Not like this. I'd rather wait."
That hurts and comforts at the same time.
Ragon's gaze flicks between us. His scent pushes up, then he reins it back with visible effort.
"Fine. Tonight, you sleep alone. But this isn't permanent, Verena. You don't get to opt out of being ours."
"I know," I say, because arguing that point right now won't do anything but set off dynamite.
He eyes me, dissatisfied but outvoted. "We'll revisit this after your first class. Speaking of which. Eli's taking you tonight."
I nod.
"Gym at seven. Dance fusion class at seven-thirty. We leave at six-forty-five."
I wipe my hands, hang the towel just so, and walk out before anyone can try to add affection onto the end of logistics.
They're trying harder.
I'm still slipping further away.
By six-forty, I'm standing in the entryway with sneakers laced and a hoodie zipped halfway up. Leggings, sports bra, t-shirt I don't care about sweating through.
Eli appears with his keys and a water bottle. He holds the bottle out without comment. I take it.
"Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
In the living room, Marie lounges across Drake's lap playing with his hair. Ragon pretends to scroll through his phone. Jasper sits in the armchair, pen scratching. No one says anything as we leave. No good luck, no have fun.
The evening air is cool as we step out. Eli unlocks the car and opens the passenger door for me.
We pull out of the driveway in silence.
A few blocks later, Eli tries.
"I'm glad you found a class you liked. The studio has good reviews. Owner's a bonded beta, specializes in adaptive choreography. Feels like a safe choice."
"I know. I looked over it with Finn. He did good research."
He huffs. "Of course he did."
The car hums around us. Trees blur past. Streetlights flick on.
"I'm happy Ragon followed through. On the club thing. You deserve something that's just yours."
"Mm."
He glances at me, then back at the road. "You don't have to talk. But this doesn't have to be a silent ride every time."
"I know."
Silence stretches.
"Do you feel safe? About going? If at any point it feels wrong, you message me and I will be at the door before you can finish typing."
"I feel fine. If I suddenly stop feeling fine, I'll let you know."
"Okay. Good."
We pass a small park where kids shriek on swings. A dog drags its human toward some smell. A couple sits on a bench sharing a milkshake, shoulders pressed together.
Eli's fingers tap the steering wheel. "You seem more at ease after you come back from next door. From Alex and Malcolm and Finn's. You stand differently."
"They're nice to me. They don't have any history with me to be disappointed by."
"I'm not disappointed in you."
"You're disappointed in what happened to me. Same difference."
"No. Not the same."
I don't answer.
The gym's neon sign appears at the end of the block. Eli pulls into a parking spot near the entrance.
"I'll walk you in."
"I know where the door is."
He gives me a look. "Humor me."
I unbuckle, slide out. The evening smells like asphalt and someone's fast food. Bass thumps faintly from inside.
At the door, he pauses.
"I'll wait in the car. Unless you want me inside. There's a lounge area."
"The car is fine."
"It's not about my comfort."
"I know. It's okay. If anything weird happens, you're twenty seconds away."
He looks like he wants to argue. "Right. Okay. Ninety minutes. Text me when you're done."
"I'll text you."
For half a second, he hesitates, like his body wants to lean down and press his mouth to my hair the way he used to before shifts. He doesn't. His hands stay firmly in his pockets.
"Have fun," he says.
The words land in my chest like something unfamiliar.
"I'll try."
Inside, the gym smells like rubber, metal, sweat, and artificial citrus. The front desk beta scans me in, slaps a visitor sticker on my shirt, and points me toward Studio C.
The music's louder down the hall. Studio C is mirrored all along one wall, wooden floor polished smooth. People filter in with gym bags and water bottles.
A woman in her forties with a high ponytail and megawatt smile stands at the front, adjusting a speaker.
"Hi, hi, come on in! Welcome to Intro Fusion!
If this is your first time, don't worry, we're not auditioning for anything.
If you have two left feet, that's fine—we're not looking for Rockettes, just people who'd rather sweat than scroll through Instagram for another hour. "
A few people laugh.
"Shoes off if you like. We'll do warm-up barefoot, then see what your joints prefer. Names?"
She goes around the circle. When it's my turn: "Verena. Vee is fine."
"Hi, Vee. Welcome. Any injuries I should know about?"
"Bruised knees," I say before I can stop myself, then quickly add, "From gardening. It's okay. I'll modify."
Her gaze lingers a half-second on my face, but she just nods. "Listen to your body. No heroics."
I nod.
Warm-up starts. The music's mid-tempo, some pop remix.
We roll shoulders, stretch arms, bend and sway.
My body complains at first—hips tight, back stiff—but as the minutes tick by, things slide into alignment.
Blood moves. Muscles remember they exist for something other than crouching and holding tension.
On my left, a girl about my age with bubblegum-pink nails and a messy bun bounces in place, grinning. "I'm Jess," she whispers between stretches. "I signed up drunk. I'm regretting it sober."
I huff a laugh. "Too late now."
"Exactly. If I die, tell my mom I went doing jazz hands."
On my right, a compact, curly-haired guy in a tank top shifts nervously. His scent is unmistakable omega: warm honey, something floral, threaded with nerves.
"First time?" I ask.
He nods, chewing his lip. "Yeah. Uh. My name's Noah. My alpha wanted me to get out of the house more. I think this isn't what he meant."
Jess leans across me. "Dance class is exactly what he meant. We're going to be graceful and coordinated and hot by the end of this."
"I tripped over my own sweat towel earlier," Noah says bleakly.
"Progress is not linear," I say, and he snorts.
We start learning the actual combo. Nothing crazy—step-touch, cross-step, a little body roll, arms sweeping. The instructor breaks it down. One and two and three and four, hips this way, arms that way, don't lock your knees, breathe.
The mirror is a sea of moving bodies. Jess keeps losing track of her left foot and running into my shoulder. Noah jumps sideways and nearly collides with someone.
I should be overwhelmed. Mirrors everywhere, strangers, music pounding. For a second my chest tightens.
I breathe. My body keeps moving. Step, cross, slide, turn.
Sweat beads along my spine. My lungs burn pleasantly.