He'd smiled at me. That rare, beautiful smile that transformed his whole face. And something in my chest had cracked. I didn't stop.
Ethan was exactly where I'd expected him to be: hunched over his computer, three empty coffee cups forming a small army on his desk, his eyes bloodshot and his hair disheveled. He'd been awake for almost thirty hours, running simulations, cross-referencing data, building a case that would tear apart the study that had dared to challenge his theories.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"Ethan," I said softly, moving closer, my footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor. "You need to sleep."
"Almost done," he muttered, his eyes never leaving the screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "Just need to finish this analysis."
"You said that six hours ago," I reminded him gently, coming to stand beside his chair, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.
"Did I?" He blinked, seeming to notice me for the first time, his gray eyes unfocused and exhausted behind his glasses. "What time is it?"
"Almost two," I said, crouching beside his chair so I could look up at him, letting concern soften my features. "You're going to make yourself sick."
He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle despite his exhaustion. "I'm fine. I just need to—" He gestured vaguely at his screen, struggling to find the words. "This is important."
"I know it is," I said, covering his hand with mine, feeling the warmth of his palm against my cheek. "But so is taking care of yourself."
He smiled, soft and tired, the tension around his eyes easing just slightly. "You sound like Mason."
"Someone has to," I said, matching his smile with one of my own, even as guilt clawed at my chest. For a moment, we just looked at each other. His hand was still in my hair, his thumb brushing my cheek, and I could see everything in his eyes, the love, the trust, the absolute certainty that I was finally, truly his.
My throat tightened.
"Finish your analysis," I whispered, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "I'll bring you something to eat in a bit." He nodded, already turning back to his screen, his attention consumed by the data scrolling across it. I watched him for a moment longer, this man who tracked my sleep and my meals and my moods because he couldn't bear the thought of me being anything less than perfectly cared for.
Then I turned and walked out of the room.
I moved through the cabin like a ghost, gathering what I needed. A jacket, warm, waterproof. Boots that wouldn't slip on ice. A small pack with water and a few protein bars, stolen from the kitchen over the past week. I didn't know where I was going. There were no roads for miles, no towns, no safe places for an Omega alone in the wilderness. The cabin was the only shelter, the only warmth, the only refuge.
That was the point. If I made it out and wanted to come back, I'd know this was where I belonged. I could let go of the doubt, the fear, the voice in my head that kept screaming that staying was surrender.
If I made it out and wanted to keep running...Well. That would be an answer too.
I paused at the back door, my hand on the handle.
The bond pulsed in my chest, a five-way thread of emotion that had become as familiar as my own heartbeat. I could feel them, Ethan's focused determination, Caleb's quiet contentment, and somewhere in the distance, Mason and Leo's steady presence.
My pack. My Alphas.
Maybe my home.
I thought about all of it. The nest we'd built together, tangled limbs and shared warmth. Mason's piano in the music room, the way his walls came down when he played. Caleb's carvings, dozens of them now, a menagerie of love in wood. Leo's sharp tongue and soft eyes, the poetry he'd never admit to writing. Ethan's charts and data, his desperate need to understand, to predict, to keep me safe.
They loved me. Truly, deeply, in that all-consuming way that Alphas loved their Omega. And some part of me, a part that grew larger every day, loved them back. Love wasn't the same as choice. And I needed to know that staying was a choice.
I opened the door. Cold air rushed in, biting at my cheeks, carrying the scent of pine and snow. The world outside was vast and white and terrifying. I looked back once. Just once.
Then I stepped through the door and into the cold.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, too quiet for anyone to hear, the words stolen by the wind. "I have to know."
And then I ran.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
AVA
