"Our rules keep you healthy," Mason replied, unmoved by my hostility, his expression patient and calm. "The bond-separation symptoms I mentioned? They're triggered by lack of physical contact, not just distance. You can be in the same room as us and still suffer if you don't allow touch."
I thought of the bathroom. Three hours huddled against the tub, my head pounding, my stomach churning. I'd assumed it was stress, grief, the aftermath of the claiming. Maybe it had been the bond punishing me for hiding.
"Five," Mason said, his honey-brown eyes holding mine with unwavering authority. "You obey reasonable commands. We're not going to order you around like a servant. But if we tell you to do something for your own safety or wellbeing, you do it without argument."
"Reasonable commands," I echoed, my voice flat with disbelief. "And who decides what's reasonable?"
"We do," Mason replied simply, no apology in his tone. Of course they did. They decided everything now. What I ate, where I slept, who touched me, what I did with my days. I was a puppet, and they held all the strings.
"What happens if I don't follow your rules?" I asked, keeping my voice flat, my green eyes challenging. "Do you beat me? Lock me in a cage? Withhold food?"
"Consequences," Mason said simply, the word landing between us like a stone. "Not punishment. There's a difference."
"So I've heard," I replied, pushing the untouched plate of eggs away from me, the scrape of ceramic on wood loud in the quiet kitchen. "You keep saying that, but it sounds like the same thing to me."
"Punishment is about causing pain," Mason explained, patient as ever, his voice calm and measured. "Consequences are about teaching. If you refuse to eat, we feed you. If you refuse to sleep in the nest, we carry you there. If you refuse physical contact, we hold you until you stop fighting."
"None of those sound like fun," I muttered, my arms crossing over my chest.
"They're not meant to be," Mason acknowledged, leaning forward slightly, his gaze intense. "They're meant to show youthat fighting is pointless. We're not going to hurt you, Ava. We're not going to beat you into submission or starve you until you comply. But we're also not going to let you destroy yourself out of spite."
"What if I don't want to eat?" I challenged, lifting my chin defiantly. "What if I don't want to be fed? What if I just want to be left alone?"
"Then you'll learn," Caleb said from the doorway, his deep voice rumbling through the kitchen like distant thunder, making me flinch. He hadn't spoken in so long I'd almost forgotten he was there. His ice-blue eyes bore into mine, patient and implacable. "That being alone isn't an option anymore. That fighting us only hurts you. That eventually, it's easier to give in than to keep struggling."
"That sounds like a threat," I said, my voice wavering slightly despite my best efforts.
"It's not," Caleb replied, his massive frame still as stone, his voice calm and certain. "It's a promise. You loved us once, Ava. Before you learned to be afraid. We're going to remind you what that felt like."
There it was again. That phrase. You loved us once. He'd said it last night, through the bathroom door. Said it like it was an undeniable fact instead of a distant memory I'd spent years trying to forget. The problem was, he wasn't wrong.
I had loved them once. When I was young and naive and didn't understand what they were. When Mason's smile made my heart race and Caleb's silent protection made me feel safe. When Leo's jokes made me laugh until my stomach hurt and Ethan's attention made me feel special.
I'd loved them with the pure, uncomplicated devotion of a child who didn't know any better. Then I'd grown up. Presented as an Omega. Seen the hunger in their eyes and understood exactly what they wanted from me. My mother had warned me.Had spent years telling me that Alphas couldn't be trusted, that they only wanted one thing, that I had to stay suppressed and independent and alone. I'd thought she was paranoid.
Now I knew she was right.
"I'm not eating this," I said, standing abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I'm going back to the bedroom."
None of them moved to stop me. Through the bond, I felt their patience—vast and infuriating and completely unshakeable. They weren't worried. They should have been. I didn't go to the bedroom. I went to the bathroom instead, the only room with a lock, even if that lock was electronic and could be overridden at any moment. I turned the knob, heard the click of the mechanism engaging, and leaned against the door.
My heart was pounding. My head was starting to ache. The bond-separation symptoms were already kicking in, just from being in a different room. I didn't care. I needed space. Needed to breathe without their presence suffocating me.
I slid down the door until I was sitting on the cold tile floor, my knees drawn up to my chest. The bandage on my neck itched. Four bite marks, hidden beneath gauze. Four permanent reminders of what they'd taken from me.
Through the bond, I felt them. Mason's calm concern. Ethan's analytical interest. Leo's restless energy. Caleb felt like patience itself, like a mountain waiting for erosion to reshape it. They weren't worried because they knew this was temporary. They knew I'd have to come out eventually. They knew the bonds would punish me for hiding, would drive me back to them whether I wanted it or not.
They'd designed this cage so perfectly that I couldn't even rebel without hurting myself. I sat there for two hours. By the end, my head was splitting. Nausea rolled through me in waves. My hands were shaking, and my skin felt too tight, like something was trying to claw its way out from the inside.
Underneath all of it: the pull. The desperate, animal need to go to them. To let them hold me. To stop fighting and just give in.
I heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Measured. Caleb. The lock clicked open, overridden from the outside, and the door swung inward. He stood in the doorway, massive and implacable, his broad shoulders blocking the light, his ice-blue eyes looking down at me with calm certainty.
"It's time for lunch," Caleb said, his deep voice rumbling through the small space, filling every corner.
"I'm not hungry," I replied, the words coming out weak and pathetic, my voice hoarse.
"I know," he acknowledged, his expression unchanging, his tone matter-of-fact. "But you're eating anyway."
