And the worst part? Her ideas were actually brilliant.
I stood there listening to her talk about creating connection, about events that mattered to communities, and something ugly twisted in my gut. Because she was good. Really good. And she was doing it differently than we were, and people were eating it up.
“Everything I plan starts from that premise,” she was saying. “Real connection. Not just pretty decorations and expensive food.”
The implied criticism of exactly what we’d just been celebrated for wasn’t lost on me.
When the group broke up and she turned, catching my eye, she smiled. Open. Friendly.
And I—God, I was such a dick.
“That’s a great starting point,” I said, and immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. “But to scale up, you have to create those big, unforgettable moments. That’s what high-end clients are really paying for.”
I watched her face change. The warmth draining out of it. Her shoulders going back.
“I disagree,” she said, and her voice was steady, but I could see I’d hurt her. “I think people are desperate for something real. Not just another forgettable party.”
Forgettable. Like she was calling everything we did forgettable.
It burned.
“Good luck with that,” I said, already turning away.
I didn’t look back. Didn’t let myself see if she was still standing there. Just walked away like she wasn’t worth my time.
And the whole rest of that conference, I felt sick about it.
But I didn’t apologize. Didn’t seek her out. Just told myself she’d been naïve, that I was right, that her little community events would never compete with what we were building.
Told myself anything except the truth: that I’d been threatened by someone who was just trying to do good work. That I’d lashed out because her passion made me feel like maybe we were missing something. That I’d been cruel because it was easier than admitting she might be right.
The memory makes me wince now. I’d been such a dick. And for what? Because her ideas were good? Because she’d threatened my what? My sense of superiority?
No wonder she’d been horrified to find herself stranded with us.
I’d earned every bit of her animosity.
The regret sits heavy in my chest, but then Sierra stirs against me, making a small sound that’s half-whimper, half-purr. Her hand flexes against my chest, fingers curling into my skin like she’s trying to hold on.
Even now, deep in her heat, she’s reaching for us. For me.
I don’t deserve it.
But God, I want to.
Her eyes flutter open, but they’re not quite focused. Pupils blown wide, that glassy heat-haze still there. She blinks slowly, like she’s trying to remember where she is.
“Shhh,” I murmur, running my hand through her hair. “You’re safe, omega. We’ve got you.”
“Alpha?” Her voice is small, uncertain. Vulnerable in a way that makes every protective instinct I have roar to life.
“Right here.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
She makes a soft, confused sound, like the question is toocomplex. Her body shifts restlessly against mine. “I... don’t know. Everything’s... fuzzy.”
Around us, my brothers are starting to wake. I can feel Dax’s awareness sharpening behind Sierra, his arm tightening protectively around her hip. Cole’s breathing changes. Jalen shifts, immediately alert.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Dax rumbles, his voice still rough with sleep. “You with us?”
