Chapter 24
I don't remember the last time I baked without being asked.
Not gently encouraged, not praised for it afterward, not watched like the act itself was proof of something soft and useful inside me that needed to be maintained.
But Finn texts me mid-morning—come over if you want, we've got apples that are going to turn if we don't use them—and when I read it, something in my chest loosens instead of tightening.
I tell Ragon where I'm going, because I always tell him where I'm going. He looks up from his tablet, studies my face for a moment like he's checking for cracks, then nods.
"Don't be late," he says, not unkindly.
"I won't."
He doesn't offer to walk me over. He doesn't assign anyone to shadow me. He never does when it's the neighbors.
That, in itself, is strange.
Most alphas wouldn't allow it. An omega wandering freely into another pack's territory—another alpha pack's territory—would be asking for trouble. Territorial instincts run deep, even in well-adjusted packs. Especially when the omega in question isn't bonded yet.
But Ragon trusts these men.
Or maybe trust isn't the right word.
I step out into the yard, the late afternoon sun warming my shoulders, and I think—not for the first time—that Ragon doesn't see them as competition at all. He sees them as lesser. As a curiosity. A pack that took in a beta like it was nothing, like it didn't disrupt the natural order.
Weak, by his standards.
Harmless.
The gate between our yards creaks softly. Finn is already watching through the kitchen window, his grin breaking wide the second he spots me. He lifts a hand and waves like I'm a celebrity instead of someone who crosses this strip of grass a few times a week.
"There she is!" he calls, muffled through the glass. "Save us from produce-based tragedy!"
I laugh before I can stop myself.
The sound surprises me. It feels rusty.
The door swings open before I reach it, and Finn's scent washes over me—warm, clean, a little sweet, but faint—like watercolor instead of oil paint.
"You're a saint," he declares, ushering me inside with a hand at my back. It's light, familiar, not claiming. "Malcolm was about to suggest apple curry."
"That's slander," Malcolm says from the kitchen island, where he's chopping nuts.
Alex snorts from the counter, arms crossed, eyes already on me. "It's a cry for help."
I kick my shoes off by the door, muscle memory putting them neatly against the wall, and roll my sleeves up.
It smells like cinnamon and coffee and something faintly toasted. Homey. Lived in. There's music playing quietly—old rock, the kind you sing along to without realizing it.
No one moves to block me from anything. No one redirects my path or corrects my reach.
That, too, is strange.
"What are we making?" I ask, washing my hands.
"Dealer's choice," Finn says. "You're the expert."
I arch a brow. "I'm not—"
"You bake," Alex says simply, like that's the end of the discussion. "And you look like you need something to do with your hands."
I still at the sink for half a second.
Then I dry my hands and turn back to the counter.
"Apple bars. Simple. Forgiving."
Malcolm nods approvingly and slides the chopped nuts toward me. Alex pulls out flour and sugar like he's done this before. Finn hovers at my elbow, already peeling apples with more enthusiasm than skill.
They hover. That's the thing. It's a kind of choreography: Finn orbiting and darting in close, then away, then back; Malcolm's movements precise but unpredictable; and Alex just there, unmoving, an anchor point.
The three of them always keep to their own elliptical patterns, but the gravity is set so that I'm at the center.
They graze against me, sometimes deliberately and sometimes not.
Finn's elbow jostles my ribs when he tastes an apple slice and yelps at the tartness.
Malcolm's knuckles brush my wrist as he sprinkles cinnamon.
Alex's hand grazes my shoulder blade when he sidesteps behind me, warm and solid through my shirt.
And they are always careful to leave a gap. No one boxes me in. No one blocks my path to the exit, or to the sink, or to the wide window where sunlight pours through. If I wanted to run, I could.
I catch myself analyzing it, tracing the patterns as I whip eggs and vanilla. How Finn's laughter pings off the walls and makes Malcolm smile, how Alex only speaks when the others have run out of words, how they all check in with their eyes before touching me.
Finn is the most obvious about it. He gets his hand in the mixing bowl at every opportunity, sneaking tastes, licking batter from his finger with a performative "mmm" that's for my benefit. When I scold him lightly—"Raw eggs, Finn"—he grins and says, "That's how you build your immune system."
Malcolm is subtler. He lines up the ingredients I need before I realize I've run out; he wipes down the counter before flour can settle; he hands me a clean dish towel when I inevitably make a mess. His jokes are quieter, but they're sharp, and he always watches my face after, looking for a smile.
Alex is the one who sits back, observing. He's not cold—not at all—but he's reserved. When I ask him to measure out the brown sugar or to watch the timer, he does it with a gentle precision that borders on reverence.
There is a moment, as I reach across Malcolm to grab the cinnamon, that I realize I'm not anxious. Not even a little. My body is calm, my heart steady.
They all laugh, but it's not at me. Not ever at me.
"So," Finn says, slicing an apple too thin. "How's the class going?"
"It's fun."
Alex's eyes flick to my face, sharp and assessing. "You don't look overwhelmed."
"I'm not. It's just movement. Music. No expectations."
Malcolm hums thoughtfully. "Sounds healthy."
Finn grins. "See? We're excellent influences."
I smile back, but something twists low in my stomach.
I catch it then, all at once.
Malcolm watching my hands like I'm doing something magical. Alex's attention tracking me even when he pretends it isn't. Finn's eyes lighting every time I laugh, like it's a reward. They look at me like I hung the moon.
And the realization lands cold and sharp: I don't want them to.
Not because I don't like it.
But because I know exactly how this would look to the wrong alpha.
I swallow and focus on the bowl, forcing my breathing steady.
"I hope you don't think I'm—" I start, then stop, unsure how to finish.
Finn tilts his head. "Think you're what?"
I shake my head. "Never mind."
Alex studies me more closely. "You okay?"
"Yes. I just—"
You're allowed to be here because Ragon thinks you're safe, my mind supplies. Because he doesn't see them as a threat. Because he thinks any pack that took in a beta is inherently weaker.
Because he doesn't think they could take you from him even if they wanted to.
I scrape the batter into the pan and smooth the top. Finn slips the tray into the oven, brushing my fingers as he does. I don't pull away. I don't lean in, either.
We wait for the bars to bake, leaning against counters, sipping coffee. Finn talks about a ridiculous work story. Malcolm listens with quiet amusement. Alex watches me like he's memorizing something.
"You know," Finn says suddenly, bumping my shoulder, "you're always welcome here. You know that, right?"
I nod. "I know."
And I do. That's the problem.
Because I can see it now, clearer than ever: Ragon will never let me go.
Not to the registry. Not to another pack. Not even to myself.
And standing here, wrapped in warmth that isn't his, I understand exactly how dangerous that makes me.
The timer goes off. The smell of baked apples fills the room. Finn whoops and pulls the pan out.
"Worth it," he declares.
I smile, but it feels fragile.
Because somewhere deep down, something in me recognizes this for what it is:
Not temptation.
Not betrayal.
But a glimpse of a life I was never meant to touch.
And I know—I know—that the moment someone decides I want it, everything will change.
***
Arden arrives the next day.
Not with a dramatic knock, not with heavy alpha presence. He arrives the way professionals do—on time, prepared, quietly certain that the work matters.
I know he's here before anyone tells me, because the air changes.
Not with dominance.
With difference.
The house has its own smell now. Smoke and iron and citrus and vanilla—Ragon, Drake, Eli, Marie—threaded into wood and fabric.
Arden's scent doesn't try to overwrite it.
It slides in like paper under a door.
Clean. Neutral. A faint warmth beneath it, like sun on stone. Something that could be raging dominant alpha if it wanted to be, but isn't pushing.
I'm in the kitchen, rinsing a mixing bowl I don't need anymore because I've already cleaned it twice.
My hands pause under the water.
I hear voices in the hall.
Ragon's, low and tight. Arden's, mild and even.
"...my study. Door stays open. You keep it professional."
"I will. And I'll be alone with her, as requested."
A beat of silence—thick with territorial frustration.
Then, through his teeth: "Fine."
Footsteps move. A door opens.
I turn off the faucet and dry my hands slowly.
Two weeks ago, I would've been shaking.
Two weeks ago, I would've been nauseous.
Now I just feel steady.
Not calm.
Just turned down.
When I step into the hallway, I find Arden waiting near the study doorway—not blocking it, not leaning into it. He's holding a slim case and a clipboard.
"Verena," he says, and the way he says it is different. No possessive weight. No correction. Just my name.
"Arden."
His gaze flicks over me with quiet efficiency—the way I'm standing, the way my hands fold at my waist. Then he nods once.
"Are you still okay meeting today?"
It's such a simple question. It shouldn't feel like something I'm not used to.
"Yes."
He steps aside, letting me enter first. The door stays open, just like Ragon demanded, but Arden doesn't look back down the hall to check if Ragon is watching.
He doesn't need to.