Exactly what I was thinking. This wasn't spontaneous. This was planned. Someone keeping tabs on her.
I look to Grayson. "How is she?"
He doesn't look away from Reverie. "She's okay. Pulse is strong, breathing is regular. Hopefully no concussion but we should take her to get checked once she wakes up and is stable, just to be safe. No signs of internal trauma that I can detect."
Good. That's good. My chest loosens slightly with relief I didn't realize I was holding.
I look down at the floor. The hardwood is completely soaked, warped in places from the prolonged water exposure. Dark stains are forming where the water seeped into the wood grain.
"This is all going to have to be replaced," I note, gesturing to the soggy flooring.
Nash nods, wringing out the mop. "Probably. But shouldn't be an issue. I've got contacts who can do the work."
"We'll cover it," I say. Not a question.
"Obviously," Grayson agrees without looking up.
We stand there for a moment in silence. Just the three of us in this tiny apartment with an unconscious Omega on the couch and water damage spreading across the floor.
"Well," Nash says finally, his voice dry. "This was certainly an eventful way to try and tell the Omega we all spontaneously met that she's our temporary Omega for the sake of her contract deal."
Grayson sighs, adjusting the cloth on Reverie's forehead.
"Very Hallmark of you guys. Real romance novel material."
I snort. "Hallmark of hell, maybe. Pretty sure Hallmark movies don't involve unconscious Omegas and flooded apartments."
"Speak for yourself," Grayson mutters. "I've written worse meet-cutes."
Despite everything—despite the worry and the stress and the complete disaster this day has become—I feel my mouth twitch into something close to a smile. This is my pack. This is what we do. We show up. We take care of each other. And apparently now we take care of an Omega who doesn't even know she's ours yet.
"I'll be back," I announce, grabbing the flowers from the table.
Nash and Grayson both nod without questioning it. They know me well enough to understand I need space. Time to process. A moment to myself before I completely lose my shit.
I head back downstairs and around to the back of the building. There's a small courtyard area—concrete mostly, cracked from years of freeze-thaw cycles and neglect. A few scraggly bushes somehow surviving against a brick wall despite minimal care and harsh winters. Dead leaves accumulated in corners. A couple of overflowing dumpsters that probably should have been emptied days ago. And there, in the corner near the back door, is exactly what I was hoping for: a firepit.
Old. Stone. The kind that's been here for years, probably installed by some previous tenant who wanted a place to burn trash or have summer cookouts. There are ash stains on the surrounding concrete. Char marks on the stones. It's been used plenty of times before.
.
I set the flowers down on the pit and I stand here looking at them in the fading afternoon light. Three dozen red roses—the classic choice, the cliché that somehow still works on people.Crystal vase that probably cost more than Reverie's monthly rent. Card attached with a dark red ribbon that matches the roses.
I should probably read the card. Open it. See if there's a name or a message or some clue about who sent them and what they want. Basic intelligence gathering. Know your enemy. But I don't want to. Don't want to see whatever romantic bullshit is written there in fancy script. Don't want to know who thinks they have a claim on our Omega or what sweet nothings they think will win her over.
I pull out my cigarettes—Marlboro Reds in a crumpled pack I keep in my jacket pocket. A habit I picked up overseas when sleep was optional and nicotine was survival. Can't seem to shake it even though I know it's terrible for me. Even though Grayson gives me disappointed looks and Nash lectures me about lung cancer.
I light one with my ancient Zippo—a gift from my unit, engraved with coordinates I'll never forget. The flame catches. The first drag hits my system with familiar burn and immediate calm. Nicotine flooding my bloodstream. Not healthy. But effective.
The December air is cold against my face—sharp and clean, threatening snow that probably won't come. The sky is overcast, heavy with gray clouds that make everything feel muted. Christmas lights twinkle in windows of surrounding buildings, cheerful and oblivious to the chaos happening here. Someone's playing music too loud—Mariah Carey declaring all she wants for Christmas. Kids laughing somewhere. Life continuing.
I think about Reverie. About how she looked unconscious on that floor—so still, so vulnerable, so small. How Grayson's hands were shaking when he checked her pulse even though he was trying to hide it. How Nash's scent spiked with genuine fear—something I rarely see from him because Nash doesn't dofear, doesn't do vulnerability, doesn't let anyone see him rattle except us.
I think about her being ours. Our Omega. Even temporarily. Even just for this six-week contract thing Nash signed us up for without asking. The idea settles in my chest like something inevitable. Like something that was always going to happen and we were just waiting for circumstances to align and give us permission to acknowledge it.
But it's also dangerous. Terrifying, actually. She's already getting under my skin. Under all our skins. One day. Twenty-four hours since Nash met her in an elevator. Less than that since I pulled her onto my lap at the bar. And she's already making us act irrational. Making us protective. Making us care too much too fast in ways that could get us all hurt.
Weakness. That's what this is. That's what she represents. An Omega who could break us. Who could make us vulnerable in ways we absolutely cannot afford. Who could become the thing someone uses against us—the leverage, the pressure point, the way to make us fold.
