twenty-seven
Vespera
Thelakehouselookssmaller in daylight as we pack up. Less like a prison, more like... a place where things happened. Where everything changed.
I'm folding one of Dorian's shirts—the one I've been sleeping in—when Oakley appears in the doorway.
"Need help?" he asks, and there's something different in his voice. Lighter than it's been in weeks. Like some weight has lifted.
"I've got it." I add the shirt to my bag, then pause. Hold it up. "Actually, do you think Dorian would mind if I kept this one?"
A flush creeps up Oakley's neck. Not embarrassment exactly. Something softer. "I'm sure he won't mind," he says, a small smile tugging at his lips.
I study him. He does look different. Happier, maybe. There's been something between him and Dorian the last few days—nothing I can name, but they move around each other differentlynow. More settled. Like whatever tension was there before has eased.
"You okay?" I ask.
His smile widens slightly. "Yeah. Actually, yeah. Things are... better. Between all of us."
I don't push. Whatever's happening between them is their business. But I'm glad for it. Glad that something good came out of these six weeks, even if it's them figuring out how to be a real pack instead of three Alphas competing for dominance.
Dorian's voice carries from downstairs, something about loading the car. His Aston Martin is parked in the circular drive, sleek and expensive and so perfectlyhimit almost hurts. The car he still has because his family doesn't know yet. Doesn't know he claimed the scholarship Omega they spent months trying to break.
The claiming marks on my neck throb dully. I touch them without thinking, feeling the raised skin where teeth broke through. Three sets. Three Alphas. Three permanent reminders that I belong to them now, whether I chose it or not.
Except I'm starting to wonder if maybe I did choose it. In some fucked up way. If maybe fighting them for weeks, making them work for every inch, forcing them to see me as a person instead of biology—maybe that was its own kind of choice.
Or maybe I'm trying to make myself feel better about surrendering.
"You okay?" Oakley's still watching me, cedar scent warm with concern.
"Yeah. Thinking about going back. Facing everyone."
"We'll figure it out." He crosses to me, movements careful like I'm something fragile. "Together."
Together.Another word that feels different now. Not a threat. Not a cage. A fact. We're together now, for better or worse,because biology says so and because somewhere in the mess of heat and claiming and six weeks of captivity, something shifted.
I'm not ready to call it love. Not sure I ever will be. But it's something.
Downstairs, Corvus is already loading bags into the trunk, tablet tucked under one arm because of course he can't be separated from technology for thirty seconds. Dorian's directing the operation like we're staging a military evacuation instead of driving back to campus.
"We should stop halfway," Corvus says, not looking up from his screen. "Give everyone a break. There's a rest stop in—"
"I know where the rest stops are," Dorian interrupts, jaw tight. He's been on edge all morning, sandalwood scent sharp with tension. Probably thinking about what happens when we get back. When reality hits.
I slide into the back seat without being told, noting how they've already arranged themselves—Dorian driving, Corvus in passenger seat, Oakley beside me. Pack hierarchy on display. The Alpha in charge, the strategist navigating, the gentle one keeping the Omega company.
Except I'm not any Omega anymore. I'mtheirs. And they're learning—slowly, painfully—that I don't fit neatly into the box biology says I should.
The drive starts quiet. Tense. All of us processing what comes next.
"We need to talk about living arrangements," Corvus finally says, breaking the silence about twenty minutes in. "Where you'll stay when we get back."
My stomach clenches. Right. Because I can't go back to my shitty dorm room and pretend the last six weeks didn't happen. The bonds won't allow it. Already I feel the pull of them in the car, the way my body relaxes with all three close. The thought of being separated by even a building makes my skin itch.
"The pack house," Dorian says, like it's obvious. "With us."
"That's not—" I start, then stop. Because what's the alternative? Suffer through separation sickness while trying to maintain some illusion of independence? "What about my stuff? My roommate?"
