I've seen it happen. Watched good soldiers make terrible decisions because someone threatened their families. Watched men compromise missions, betray brothers, throw away everything they believed in because someone they loved was in danger. Love is a weapon. Attachment is ammunition. Caring is a liability.
And yet here we are. Already attached. Already caring. Already willing to burn the world down to keep her safe.
I stare at the flowers sitting there innocent and beautiful. Those perfect red roses that someone thought would win her over. That someone spent serious money on—premium delivery, same day, to a small town hours away. That someone sent with intentions I can only guess at but absolutely hate.
They piss me off on a level that's completely irrational. Everything about them pisses me off. The presumption that she'd want them. The timing that suggests someone's keeping tabs on her. The fact that someone out there thinks they have a right to court her, to send her gifts, to try to win her attention when she's ours. When she's always been ours, we just didn't know it yet.
I take one last drag of my cigarette, pulling the smoke deep into my lungs. Hold it. Let it burn. Then exhale slowly, watching the smoke dissipate in the cold air.
Then I flip the cigarette into the firepit. Watch the ember arc through the air and land among the dried baby's breath.
For a moment nothing happens. Then a small flame flickers to life. Catches. Grows.
I watch as the fire spreads with hungry efficiency. The delicate flowers ignite easily—baby's breath going up first like kindling, those tiny white flowers turning black and curling inward. Then the roses themselves catch. The petals curl and blacken, releasing smoke that smells faintly sweet and chemical. The cellophane wrapper melts. The ribbon burns with an acrid smell. The card with its unknown message and unknown sender turns to ash without ever being read, secrets lost to flame.
The crystal vase cracks from the thermal shock—a sharp pop that echoes in the quiet courtyard. The water inside boils and steams. Glass fragments scatter, catching the firelight like tiny diamonds before going dull.
I stand there and watch it all burn. Watch three dozen expensive roses—probably three hundred dollars worth of flowers—become nothing but ash and smoke and broken glass. Watch someone's carefully planned romantic gesture get reduced to char and destruction. Watch whatever hope the sender had that Reverie would be charmed by their attention go up in flames.
It's petty. Possessive. Completely irrational and probably concerning from a psychological standpoint. Everything burns in that pit—flowers, intentions, whatever message was on that card, whatever dreams the sender had about winning her back or starting something new or maintaining some kind of connection.
But I don't care. Can't bring myself to care. She's ours now. Even if she doesn't know it yet. Even if it's temporary. Even if it's just for a contract. Even if she never actually wants us the way we apparently already want her. Right now, in this moment, standing in this cold courtyard watching expensive roses turn to ash, she belongs to us and we're going to protect that claim with everything we have.
The flames continue to burn long after the flowers are gone, fed by the dried stems and wrapping paper. I turn away once they're reduced to nothing but a pile of ash and broken glass, leaving the fire to burn itself out naturally. The smoke follows me for a few steps before the wind carries it away.
I decide right there, standing in that cold courtyard with smoke on my clothes and ash on my hands and the smell of burnt roses in my nose, that I'm going to do my job. I'm going to protect her this holiday season.
Six weeks. However long this contract lasts.
However long she'll let us stay in her life.
Because clearly someone out there doesn't want her to be with anyone else. Someone is keeping tabs on her. Tracking her movements. Knowing her address. Sending expensive flowers from hours away with same-day delivery. Trying to maintain some kind of connection or control or claim that they think they still have.
And I have a hunch—more than a hunch, really—who it is. Her ex-pack. The ones who treated her like a transaction instead of a person. The ones she ran from. The ones whoused her for business licenses and government regulations and whatever other benefits an Omega provides without actually caring about her wellbeing or happiness. Kael. Jasper. Ross. Harold. The names Nash mentioned last night after Grayson punched one of them in the alley.
They're not letting go. They think they still have a claim. They think expensive flowers and romantic gestures will remind her of what she's 'missing' and bring her back to where she 'belongs.' They think she's property that can be won back with the right approach.
They're wrong. So incredibly, dangerously wrong. And if they push this—if they keep trying to contact her, keep sending things, keep making moves that suggest they think she's still theirs—they're going to learn exactly what happens when you threaten something three Alphas have decided to protect.
Military training. Legal expertise. Paramedic skills and ranch-owner resources. We're not some random pack. We're capable. Dangerous when we need to be. And we're absolutely not going to let anyone hurt her. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not in any way.
This holiday season, Reverie Bell is under our protection. Whether she knows it yet or not. Whether she wants it or not. Whether it's real or just for a contract. She's ours. And we take care of what's ours.
CHAPTER 17
Comfort & Cuddles
~REVERIE~
I'm floating.
That's the first thing I'm aware of. Not pain, not cold, not the usual anxiety that greets me when I wake up wondering if I can afford rent this month. Just this strange, warm feeling of floating in something safe. Something comfortable. Something that smells absolutely incredible.
I'm enveloped in aromas that create this odd sense of calm I've never experienced before. Multiple scents layered over each other like a complex perfume, each one distinct but somehow working together in perfect harmony.
I don't know why they feel so familiar. Don't know why my hindbrain is purring with contentment instead of screaming danger like it usually does when I'm surrounded by Alpha scents. But all of them are familiar in different ways that make my chest feel warm and my body relax deeper into whatever I'm lying on.
I'm dancing somewhere between unconsciousness and consciousness. That liminal space where you're aware you'redreaming but can't quite force yourself awake. Where reality and memory blend together until you're not sure what's real and what's imagination.
