She groans—a sound of pure frustration and fear and overwhelm all mixed together. Her lips tremble uncontrollably. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears threatening to spill over and ruin what little composure she has left.
She's going to break. Right here. Right now. On this public sidewalk where anyone could see. And I absolutely cannot let her walk into that office building in this deteriorating condition. Kael would see her weakness immediately. Would use it against her viciously. Would know he's already won the psychological warfare before a single word is spoken.
I need her calm. Need her centered.
Need her able to act the part we need her to play. But first, I need her to not be having a complete meltdown.
I make a split-second decision. Quick mental calculation. Theo and Grayson can absolutely handle the initial confrontation on their own. They'll stall Kael.Buy us time.Create a distraction. They know what they're doing.
I scoop Reverie up without warning or permission—one arm under her knees, one supporting her back, lifting her against my chest like she weighs nothing. She makes a small startled sound, eyes going wide.
"What are you doing?" she asks breathlessly, confused and disoriented as I stride purposefully past Charlotte's building to the office next door—a small accounting firm that I know from previous reconnaissance has a mostly empty ground floor and conference rooms available.
Yes, I did reconnaissance. Checked out every building on this street.
"Getting you somewhere private where you can break down properly without an audience," I say simply, matter-of-fact, pushing through the door of Montgomery & Associates Accounting with my shoulder. The small brass bell above the door chimes our entry.
The receptionist—middle-aged Beta woman with reading glasses on a chain—looks up from her computer, startled by my abrupt entrance carrying an Omega.
"Conference room," I say firmly, using my command voice. The one that doesn't allow for questions or argument. "Emergency. Pack business. Five minutes maximum. We won't touch anything."
She points wordlessly to a door on the left side of the lobby, eyes wide.
Smart woman. Knows when not to ask questions. Knows pack business takes precedence.
"Thank you," I say sincerely, already moving. I carry Reverie inside the small conference room, closing the door firmly behind us with my foot. Lock clicks automatically.
Good. Privacy.
The room is basic but functional—rectangular wooden table taking up most of the space, six rolling chairs with worn fabric cushions, whiteboard on one wall with faded marker stains, window overlooking the parking lot with basic venetian blinds. Generic office smell—paper, coffee, cleaning products. Neutral territory. Anonymous. Perfect for what we need.
I set Reverie down gently on the edge of the conference table, positioning her carefully so her legs dangle, feet not quite touching the floor. Non-threatening position. Makes her feel secure but not trapped. Then I step back slightly, giving her space but staying close enough to catch her if she falls.
"What are you doing?" she asks again, confusion mixing with mounting panic in her expression. Her hands grip the table edge. Knuckles white.
"We're not going in there with you about to have a full-blown panic attack in front of your ex-pack leader," I say bluntly, no sugarcoating. She needs to understand what's happening to her body. Needs to recognize the signs. "You're hyperventilating.Your pupils are dilated. Your hands are shaking. Your scent is spiking distress. These are textbook panic attack symptoms."
She tries to counter, opening her mouth to protest my assessment, but she can barely get the words out properly.
"I'm—I'm fine—I can handle—I need to?—"
"Breathe," I interrupt firmly, using my Alpha command voice but keeping it gentle. Not forcing. Suggesting strongly. "Sugarplum, I need you to actually breathe properly. Deep breath in through your nose. Count of four. Can you do that for me?"
She tries.Genuinely tries.But fails.
Her breath hitches partway through. Stutters. Catches.
"Again," I coach patiently, keeping my voice calm and steady and rhythmic. Giving her something to anchor to. "In through your nose. One, two, three, four. Good. You're doing good. Now hold it. One, two, three, four. Excellent. Now out through your mouth slowly. One, two, three, four."
She follows my breathing pattern as best she can, her chest rising and falling with deliberate effort. First breath is shaky. Second is better. Third is almost normal.
But on the fourth exhale, everything breaks completely.
She breaks down crying—sudden and complete and devastating. Tears streaming down her face in hot tracks. Shoulders shaking violently. Sobs tearing from her throat, raw and painful. No more holding back. No more pretending. Complete emotional collapse.
"I'm sure I did everything right," she chokes out between sobs, voice breaking. "I'm so sure, Nash. I promise I did. I triple-checked everything. Every single document. Every form. Every signature. Every filing. I went to three different pack lawyers to verify it was all correct. Three! Paid good money for consultations. They all said the dissolution was complete and legal and binding!"
I step closer, letting her continue. Letting it all pour out. She needs to get this out of her system. Needs to vocalize the fear. Needs to be heard.
