Dylan's expression tightens, his jaw clenching as he fights to keep his temper under control. When he speaks, there’s a fire simmering underneath. "She's been through more than you can imagine. Her ex, Vincent, he's all but stalking her. She left in the middle of the night a few weeks ago and showed up at our doorstep at like two in the morning. Bruised and beat to hell, freaking the fuck out."
The fading marks I noticed on her wrist during the interview suddenly make horrible sense.
Dylan continues, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "She sleeps with all the lights on because she's terrified of the dark. Loud noises terrify her because they meant violence was coming. She's always looking over her shoulder, jumping at shadows, and expecting him to appear out of nowhere. She's been doing better these past few weeks, but he fucked her up. Really, truly fucked her up in ways I'm still discovering."
Wyatt's head comes up, his blue eyes dark with anger and concern. He doesn't interrupt, though, just lets Dylan keep talking.
"She doesn't think we know the full extent of it," Dylan says, something bitter crossing his face. "She tries to hide it and act like she's fine. But I've looked up the guy. Whatever he's into isn't good. Works in law enforcement, which makes this whole situation even more fucked because who's going to believe her over a cop? I can't imagine what the hell she endured with him, and I keep telling myself every single day that I should have never let her go off with him in the first place."
The self-recrimination in Dylan's voice is palpable. He's blaming himself for not protecting his sister from a monster, and I understand that guilt on a fundamental level. It's the same guilt I carry about not protecting Evie from a drunk driver. The guilt of being unable to save someone you love from the cruelty of the world.
"What's his full name?" I ask, my voice dropping into a dangerous register. Protective rage builds in my chest, demanding action. Someone hurt Dylan's sister, the woman who made my kids laugh for the first time in months. "Vincentwhat?"
Wyatt snorts, the sound lacking any humor. "You aren't going to do shit about it. I'm sure Dylan is handling it through proper channels. However, it's good to know. We need to be a little more careful around her. Be aware of potential triggers. Got it?"
His words are directed at me, a warning and a reminder that we can't go Alpha on this situation, no matter how much we might want to. We have kids to think about. A pack to protect. We can't risk doing something stupid that would land us in jail and leave Riley and Isaac without any parents at all.
But that doesn't stop the rage burning in my gut or the desire to find this Vincent and show him exactly what happens to Alphas who abuse Omegas.
Dylan nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders now that we understand the situation better. "I'm working on gettinga more comprehensive restraining order, but these things take time, and in the meantime, she's terrified. Every unknown number could be him. Every person walking behind her on the street could be him. She's living in constant fear, and I hate it."
A question has been burning in my mind since Dylan first suggested his sister for this position, and now seems like the time to ask it. I straighten up from the counter, meeting Dylan's eyes directly. "Why did you think it would be a good thing to bring her into our house? That seems like adding more stress to someone who's already drowning."
Wyatt grins suddenly, the expression so unexpected given the heavy conversation that I actually blink in surprise. He gestures at the table, at the dishes that still need to be cleared, at the evidence of the dinner we just shared. "We all fucking sat down at dinner together, and we all ate. When's the last time that happened? When's the last time you cleaned your plate without someone literally forcing you? When's the last time we had a meal that wasn't takeout or cereal?"
He's got a point. I can't actually remember the last time we all sat down for a proper meal or the last time I ate without Wyatt standing over me like a disapproving mother hen. Tonight I ate because Amelia looked at me with those concerned eyes and asked if the food wasn't good, if she should make something else. The vulnerability in her question, the genuine worry that she'd somehow failed, had made something in my chest crack open.
I couldn't bear to see that look on her face, so I ate. And the food was good.Reallygood. The kind of home-cooked meal I haven't had since Evie died and Silas found solace in the office rather than the kitchen.
Dylan manages a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "She's like this little ball of sunshine when she opens up. When she's not drowning, she's bright and caring and so genuinely kind it almost hurts to watch. I thought being around your kids mighthelp her. Give her something positive to focus on, something good to pull her out of her shell. And your kids, they need someone who understands grief and pain but can still find joy in the small things. They need someone who won't treat their sadness as inconvenient."
The explanation makes sense. Amelia understands suffering and what it's like to have your world shattered. But she's still trying, still fighting to find moments of happiness. She had my kids dancing in the living room, actually laughing and smiling. She let them talk about Evie without trying to redirect or minimize their grief.
She's exactly what we need, even if she comes with her own complicated trauma.
"You guys need the help," Dylan adds, his voice gentler now. "And she needs the purpose. She needs to feel useful, to know that she's capable of taking care of people even after Vincent spent years tearing down her self-worth. It seemed like it could be good for everyone."
I sigh, running a hand through my hair, feeling the exhaustion of the evening settle into my bones. The sound of footsteps on the stairs draws my attention, Silas heading down to us. He got the kids down faster than I expected, which means he probably promised them some extra stories or pushed bedtime back a bit. Whatever works.
Wyatt catches Silas' eye and makes a subtle gesture. "I'll explain later," he says, saving us from having to rehash the entire conversation right now.
Silas nods, accepting that, but his eyes are worried when he looks at Dylan. "Is she okay?"
"She will be," Dylan says with more confidence than I would have in his position. "I'm sorry. I know this stress isn't what you guys need right now."
Silas actually laughs, though it's a bit strained. "As long as she's okay. We've dealt with worse, trust me. A broken glass and a panic attack are manageable."
Dylan nods, some of the guilt easing from his expression. Then he says something that makes all three of us freeze. "I'm sure she'll show up tomorrow."
"What?" Silas’ voice cracks, and I'm pretty sure my face is showing the same disbelief. The woman just had a complete breakdown in our kitchen. She screamed and hid under the table, and looked absolutely devastated when she left. There's no way she's coming back tomorrow.
But Dylan just laughs. "She's a fighter. Always has been. She doesn't give up easily, even when maybe she should. She'll probably spend tonight beating herself up about it, convince herself she can handle it, and show up at your door tomorrow morning with her game face on."
The certainty in his voice makes me want to believe him, but I'm skeptical. I've seen people break before. But if she’s going to push past it, the least we can do is welcome her back into our home. "We'll be more mindful of things," I say, because whether she comes back or not, if she does give us another chance, we need to do better. "Maybe, give us a small list of what we need to watch out for, and we’ll do our best to work around it.”
Dylan nods, seeming satisfied with that. "Appreciate it. She really does want this to work. She needs it to work."
He heads toward the door, and we follow him to see him out. After the door closes behind him, Wyatt sags into a chair at the kitchen table. The energy that's been keeping him upright through dinner and the aftermath seems to have finally run out.
