The threat lingered in the air long after they'd disappeared into the darkness, the dogs trotting at their heels like loyal guardians.
I stood on the porch watching their retreat, arms wrapped around myself as if I could somehow hold together the pieces they'd so thoroughly shattered. The cool night air raised goosebumps on my skin, but the chill I felt went much deeper.
They were right about one thing: this was just the beginning. And some part of me—the part I'd spent years trying to deny—was already counting the hours until tomorrow night.
twelve
. . .
I woke to sunlight assaulting my face like a particularly vindictive spotlight operator. Blinking against the brightness, I immediately regretted consciousness as memories from last night crashed back with brutal clarity. The garden. The videos. The ultimatum.
The art of avoiding your problems requires three essential elements: selective amnesia, world-class denial, and the ability to pretend last night's nightmares were just bad sushi. I was failing spectacularly at all three as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and replaying every humiliating moment from the garden.
My hand flew to my neck, fingers finding the tender spot where Matteo had bitten me. The skin throbbed beneath my touch, a physical reminder that I hadn't hallucinated the entire horrifying episode. Perfect. Physical evidence of my complete inability to maintain boundaries around three alphas with the moral compass of a particularly ambitious mafia movie villain collective.
"Ten o'clock," I muttered, glancing at the bedside clock with dread. Fourteen hours until their deadline. Fourteen hours to figure out a way around this colossal mess that wouldn't end with my father receiving HD footage of his disappointing omega son begging for alpha attention like it was oxygen and he'd been underwater for an hour.
"You're completely screwed," I informed my ceiling. "Figuratively now, possibly literally later."
My lips still felt swollen from their attention, and when I dragged myself to the bathroom mirror, I looked exactly like someone who'd been thoroughly claimed by three alphas the night before. Flushed cheeks, puffy lips, and the unmistakable red mark on my neck that would definitely raise questions if Aunt Akiko spotted it.
"Fantastic," I told my reflection. "Day hasn't even started and you're already sporting the 'thoroughly debauched' aesthetic. Maybe complete the look with some smoky eye makeup and a Property of Alpha Kidnappers t-shirt?"
I spent an excessive amount of time in the shower, as if hot water could somehow wash away the memory of their hands on me, their mouths claiming mine, the humiliation of watching myself surrender on video. I scrubbed until my skin was pink, as if I could somehow erase the ghost of their touch through excessive exfoliation.
I dressed with strategic precision—jeans that wouldn't easily slide down if someone got handsy, a thick sweater with long sleeves to minimize skin contact, and socks despite the warming spring air. The ankle monitor—my father's electronic leash—felt heavier than usual as I adjusted my sock around it. Seven years of this glorified tracking device, and today it felt particularly like a mockery of freedom.
"Morning plans," I muttered to my reflection. "Avoid three alphas with questionable ethics, figure out how to neutralize blackmail threat, possibly fake own death and flee to Nicaragua."
First step: reclaim some semblance of normal routine. Show them I wasn't cowering in my room waiting for nightfall. The garden seemed like the safest bet—my small vegetable patch had always been therapeutic, the simple act of tending growing things somehow soothing even when everything else was a complete dumpster fire of alpha-induced complications.
The cottage was quiet as I made my way downstairs, the usual morning sounds of Aunt Akiko preparing breakfast noticeably absent. A note on the kitchen counter explained why: "Gone to village for supplies. Back by noon. Breakfast in fridge. –Akiko."
Perfect. At least I could have my existential crisis in private, without having to explain why I looked like someone who'd spent the night being tormented by memories of alpha hands and mouths and blackmail threats.
I nuked the covered plate Aunt Akiko had left—rice, fish, the usual Japanese breakfast that normally would have been comforting but now felt like stones in my stomach. Each bite was mechanical, my mind racing through increasingly implausible escape scenarios.
Could I delete the videos somehow? Unlikely, given they probably had multiple copies. Tell my father first? That might be worse than the alternative. By the time I'd finished eating, I was no closer to a solution and the clock was one hour closer to my deadline.
The morning air hit my face as I stepped outside, carrying the scent of pine and soil and growing things. For one brief, glorious moment, I felt almost normal again. Then I spotted them by my vegetable garden.
Stefano and Matteo, casually helping Uncle Jiro with what appeared to be heavy lifting—moving bags of mulch, rearranging planters, acting like they belonged here. Like this invasion of my safe space was completely natural and not a calculated siege on the last shreds of my independence.
Apollo and Zeus bounded toward me the moment they spotted me, tails wagging with that particular enthusiasm dogs reserve for people they consider part of their pack.
Apollo nudged my hand for pets. Uncle Jiro looked up from the garden bed, his weathered face breaking into a delighted smile. "Leo-kun! Come help with the garden work. Your friends brought some special fertilizer for the tomatoes!"
Friends.The word landed like a slap. These weren't friends—they were blackmailers, predators, alphas who had backed me into a corner and were systematically dismantling every safe space I had constructed in my isolated existence.
I stalked across the lawn, fury building with each step. "This is private property," I said when I reached them, not bothering to hide the venom in my voice. "You can't just show up uninvited and start rearranging my garden."
"I invited them," Uncle Jiro said, confusion crossing his face at my hostility. "Matteo-san knows quite a lot about traditional Japanese vegetable cultivation. And Stefano-san has been helping with the heavy lifting these old bones can't manage anymore."
The casual betrayal stung more than it should have. Not Uncle Jiro's fault, really—he had no idea he was welcoming wolves into our sanctuary. But still, the way they'd wormed their way into my guardians' good graces made something sharp and painful twist in my chest.
"How… thoughtful," I managed, the words tasting like battery acid.
Stefano straightened, those cobalt eyes finding mine with laser precision. Even in the morning light, his gaze carried the weight of last night's promise. "Good morning, little prince. Sleep well?"
