"Your body's just trying to survive." He hands me my bag. "Go home, Vespera. Go back to your Alphas. Let them give you what I can't."
The words hurt more than they should. Because he's right. They can give me something he can't. Not because they're better or more deserving.
But because biology decided for me.
thirty-two
Oakley
I'mhalf-asleeponthecouch when I hear her key in the lock.
It's almost two in the morning. Dorian crashed an hour ago after pacing the living room like a caged animal, muttering about "boundaries" and "trust" and "that fucking Beta." Corvus never even came downstairs—just sent a single text to the group chat:She made her choice. Let her deal with the consequences.
But I stayed up. Because something felt off about the whole thing. The way she left. The tension in her shoulders. The desperate edge to her voice when she said she could "handle herself."
I know that tone. I've used it myself plenty of times.
It's the sound of someone trying to prove something they're not sure they believe.
The door opens quietly. She's trying not to wake anyone. I stay still, watching through half-closed eyes as she slips inside.
And immediately, I smell it.
Beta. Male. All over her.
And something else. Something that makes my Alpha instincts roar to life.
Sex.
She fucked him.
My chest tightens, but I force myself to stay calm. To breathe through the immediate surge of possessive rage that wants me to storm upstairs and wake Dorian, to let Corvus tear the theater building apart looking for that Beta.
But then I catch the rest of her scent.
Frustration. Shame. And underneath it all—desperation tinged with tears.
This didn't go how she wanted.
I sit up slowly, making just enough noise that she knows I'm awake. She freezes in the doorway, backlit by the porch light, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
"Oakley," she breathes. "I thought you'd be asleep."
"Couldn't." I keep my voice neutral. Non-threatening. "Wanted to make sure you got home safe."
She winces. "I'm fine."
"Are you?"
The question hangs there. She could lie. Could brush past me and head upstairs, shower away the evidence before Dorian or Corvus wake up and smell what I'm smelling.
Instead, her face crumples.
"No," she whispers. "I'm really not."
I'm off the couch in seconds, closing the distance between us. She's shaking—I can see it now that I'm closer. Trembling like she's cold even though it's not even that chilly outside.
"Come here." I pull her into my arms, and she comes willingly, face buried against my chest.
