I stared at the words, my chest aching, my eyes burning.
Then I wrote one more line:
I'm so afraid of who I'm becoming.
I closed the journal and pressed it to my chest, curling into my nest, surrounded by soft things that smelled like the four men who were slowly, methodically, inevitably stealing my heart. Through the bond, I felt them settling into sleep around the cabin. Mason's steady warmth. Ethan's cool calm. Leo's restless dreams. Caleb's patient vigil.
My pack. My Alphas. My monsters.
Mine.
The word should have horrified me.
It didn't. That was the most terrifying thing of all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AVA
I woke in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, the word "mine" still echoing in my skull. The journal lay open on my pillow where I'd fallen asleep reading my own words. I'm so afraid of who I'm becoming. The sentence stared back at me, an accusation written in my own handwriting. I sat up slowly, pushing tangled hair from my face, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
My pack. My Alphas. My monsters.
Mine.
I'd written that. I'd meant it. Some part of me, some treacherous, broken part, had looked at the four men who had kidnapped me, claimed me, caged me, and thought: mine. The horror of it crashed over me like ice water.
No. No, no, no.
I scrambled out of the nest, my bare feet hitting the cold floor, my whole body shaking. This wasn't me. This soft, yielding creature who almost smiled at Leo's jokes and felt safe under Caleb's watchful gaze and craved Mason's gentle questions, this wasn't who I was. They were conditioning me. Breakingme down, piece by piece, replacing my hatred with something softer. Something weaker. And I was letting them. The carved bird sat on my nightstand.
Caleb had given it to me three days ago, the wood pale and smooth, the wings spread wide in frozen flight. He'd spent weeks on it. I'd seen his massive hands working the knife with impossible gentleness, coaxing beauty from raw wood, all for me. When he'd handed it over, something warm had kindled in his ice-blue eyes, and I'd felt his love through the bond like sunlight breaking through clouds.
I'd accepted it. Thanked him. Held it like something precious. I picked it up now, feeling the weight of it in my palm, the smooth grain beneath my fingers. It was beautiful. He'd made it beautiful, for me, because he loved me. That was exactly why it had to go.
I hurled it against the wall as hard as I could.
The bird exploded on impact, weeks of patient work shattering into a dozen pieces. The delicate wings snapped. The carefully carved feathers splintered. The body cracked down the center, falling to the floor in broken halves. I stared at the destruction, breathing hard, waiting to feel something. Triumph, maybe. Satisfaction. Proof that I was still the woman who had fought them, who had refused to break, who had sworn she would never stop hating them.
Instead, I felt sick.
I shoved the feeling down, buried it deep. This was war. In war, you did what you had to do. You couldn't afford softness. Couldn't afford to let carved birds and gentle questions and almost-smiles erode your defenses until there was nothing left. I had to remind them, and myself, who I really was.
The nest was next.
I tore it apart with my bare hands. The soft blankets they'd given me, the pillows that smelled like all four of them, thecashmere sweaters and silk sheets, I ripped and shredded and threw until the room looked like a storm had torn through it. Feathers floated in the air from a pillow I'd destroyed. Fabric hung in tatters from the bed frame.
It wasn't enough.
I moved to the living room, my feet silent on the cold floor. The books. My precious library hour, the privilege I'd earned through compliance. I pulled volumes from the shelves and tore pages from spines, scattering paper across the floor like snow. Poetry, novels, histories—I destroyed them all without discrimination. Then the kitchen. I swept dishes from the counter, ceramic shattering against tile. Glasses followed, exploding into glittering shards. I upended a bowl of fruit, sent a vase of fresh flowers crashing to the ground. The sound was glorious. Violent. Impossible to ignore.
Through the bond, I felt them jolting awake, their confusion rapidly shifting to alarm, then to something colder. Something darker. I stood in the center of the destruction, surrounded by broken glass and torn paper and scattered debris, my chest heaving, my hands shaking at my sides.
Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy and fast.
Mason appeared first, his golden hair disheveled from sleep, his honey-brown eyes scanning the devastation. He wore only sleep pants, his broad chest bare, muscles tight with tension. I watched his expression shift, watched the warmth drain from his face like water from a broken cup.
"What did you do?" Mason asked, his voice quiet and controlled, more frightening than shouting would have been. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white with the effort of restraint.
