"I was twenty-three." His voice was rough, scraping over wounds that had scarred but never quite stopped aching. His dark eyes found mine across the room, something raw and vulnerable flickering in their depths, a glimpse behind walls I suspected few people ever saw past. "Angry as hell. Feral, if I'm being honest—all that rage with nowhere to put it. I wanted to let it all burn. Walk away and never look back."
"What changed?" My voice was barely a whisper, caught up in his story, in the glimpse of the furious young man he'd been.
"Hank." A ghost of a smile crossed Reid's face, there and gone like lightning, softening the hard line of his jaw. His thumb traced the rim of his glass, the motion absent, his mind clearly somewhere else, somewhen else. "He'd worked for my father for years. Stayed on even when things got bad, even when he wasn't getting paid regular. When my father died, Hank looked me inthe eye and said, 'This land doesn't care who your daddy was. It only cares what you do with it.'"
He drained the last of his whiskey in one long swallow, set the empty glass aside on the table with a soft clink.
"So I did something with it." His voice was stronger now, pride bleeding through the old pain like sunrise through clouds. His broad shoulders squared with remembered determination, his dark eyes sweeping over the room, over each of us, warm with quiet satisfaction and hard-earned peace. "Worked myself half to death for five years. Paid off the debts, rebuilt what my father had broken, turned this place into something worth having." His lips curved into something almost like a smile, fond and warm. "And then I started collecting strays."
"Strays." Kol's voice was amused, warm with affection, and he tilted his honey-blond head back against the couch to look up at Reid. A grin played at his lips, his amber eyes dancing with mischief and love. His shoulder pressed more firmly against my leg, grounding us both. "That what we are?"
"If the shoe fits." Reid's voice was dry as dust, but his eyes were warm, crinkling at the corners with obvious affection as he looked at the younger Alpha sprawled at my feet. The hard lines of his face had softened completely now, years falling away in the firelight.
"I'll take it." Kol turned his head, his cheek resting against my knee for just a moment before he pulled back, a fleeting touch that made my heart stutter in my chest. His amber eyes found mine, bright with mischief and something deeper, something tender. His voice was light but his gaze was serious. "I've been called worse."
"Your turn, then." I found myself saying, surprised by how much I wanted to know, how much I wanted to understand each piece of how they'd become who they were. My hand moved without conscious thought, my fingers brushing through the softwaves of Kol's honey-blond hair before I could stop myself, the strands like silk against my skin. "If you want."
Kol's eyes fluttered closed at the touch, his whole body going loose and pliant, a soft sound escaping him that was almost a purr but not quite—something content and vulnerable and trusting. When he opened his eyes again, they were bright with emotion, shining in the firelight.
"I was the youngest of five." His voice was different now—softer, more subdued, the usual manic energy banked to a low simmer, barely flickering. He shifted to face me more fully, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back still against the couch, his hands fidgeting restlessly in his lap. His amber eyes dropped to watch his own fingers twist together, nervous energy with nowhere else to go. "Four older sisters, all Betas, all perfectly normal and well-adjusted and everything my parents wanted. And then there was me."
He laughed, but the sound was hollow, an echo of his usual brightness, like a bell with a crack in it.
"I was... a lot." The words came out self-deprecating, tinged with old hurt that had never quite healed. His amber eyes stayed fixed on his hands, his honey-blond hair falling forward to hide his face. "Too loud, too energetic, too much of everything. I couldn't sit still, couldn't focus, couldn't be what they wanted me to be no matter how hard I tried. When I presented as Alpha at fourteen, it got worse. I had this... need, I guess. This constant ache for something I couldn't name."
"Pack." Nolan's voice was soft from beside me, warm with understanding, his green eyes gentle as they rested on Kol. He'd shifted closer without me noticing, his shoulder almost touching mine now.
"Pack." Kol nodded, his honey-blond hair falling further across his face, his voice rough with old longing, with years of wanting something he couldn't have. "But my family didn'tunderstand. They were all Betas—they'd never felt that pull, that hunger for belonging to something bigger than yourself. They thought I was being dramatic. Attention-seeking. That I'd grow out of it if they just ignored it long enough." His hands clenched in his lap, knuckles going white with old frustration and hurt. "So I left. Bounced around for a few years, looking for something that fit. Nothing ever did."
"Until here?" My voice was gentle, my fingers still carding through his hair without conscious decision, offering what comfort I could.
"Until here." Kol looked up at me, his amber eyes shining with emotion he wasn't trying to hide, a tremulous smile curving his lips despite the tears threatening to spill over. His whole face had softened, vulnerability replacing his usual bravado, letting me see the lonely young man he'd been underneath all that restless energy. "I showed up with a supply delivery three years ago. Just a job, just another stop on the road to nowhere. But Reid took one look at me and told me to come back the next week. And the week after that. And then one day he just—" His voice cracked slightly, and he had to stop, had to swallow hard around the lump in his throat. "He asked me to stay."
"You belonged here." Reid's voice was quiet from his armchair, certain as stone, leaving no room for doubt or argument. His dark eyes rested on Kol with obvious affection, with the pride of someone watching a wounded thing finally heal. He'd picked up his empty whiskey glass again, cradling it loosely in his large hands, the firelight casting shadows across his weathered face. "Could see it the first time you drove up that road. Just took a while for you to see it too."
Kol made a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a sob, wet and broken and grateful—and pressed his face against my knee for a moment, hiding. His shoulders shook slightly, and I felt dampness seep through my jeans. I let him, my fingers neverstopping their gentle motion through his hair, offering silent comfort.
"My turn, I suppose." Nolan's voice was calm, steady, but there was something underneath it—old wounds, carefully tended but never quite forgotten. He shifted on the couch, angling his lean body toward me, his green eyes going distant with memory, looking at something I couldn't see. His hand was still resting on the cushion between us, palm up, and I found myself reaching for it without thinking, lacing my fingers through his. He squeezed gently, a small smile crossing his freckled face, grateful for the anchor. "I always wanted to be a vet. Ever since I was a kid. Animals made sense to me in a way people never did."
He paused, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of my hand, the touch grounding for both of us.
"I went to school, got my degree, opened a practice." His voice was matter-of-fact on the surface, but I could hear the strain underneath, the places where the story turned sharp and painful. His sandy hair fell across his forehead as he ducked his head slightly, his green eyes fixed on our joined hands, on the way our fingers fit together. "But I could never find a pack that fit. I tried—God, I tried. Joined three different ones over the years. They all fell apart. Incompatible dynamics, conflicting personalities, Alphas who couldn't share power or territory or anything else." He shook his head slowly, a rueful smile crossing his freckled face, self-deprecating and sad. "I started to think maybe I was the problem. Maybe I just wasn't meant for pack life."
"You're not the problem." The words came out fierce, surprising me with their intensity, with how much I meant them. I squeezed his hand hard, probably too hard, but I needed him to understand. "You're the gentlest person I've ever met."
Nolan's smile softened, the rueful edge melting away, his green eyes warming as they lifted to meet mine. Something vulnerable and hopeful bloomed in their depths, like a flower opening toward the sun.
"I was about to give up." His voice was barely above a whisper, rough with emotion he usually kept carefully controlled and contained. His fingers tightened around mine, holding on like I was the only thing keeping him from drifting away. "Close my practice, move somewhere remote where it wouldn't matter that I was alone, resign myself to being packless forever. And then one of my clients mentioned a ranch outside of Thornwood that needed a vet. Said the owner was difficult but fair, paid on time and didn't ask stupid questions." He laughed softly, the sound fond and warm despite the tears brightening his eyes. "I drove out expecting to do one farm call and be on my way. That was four years ago."
"He showed up at my door at six in the morning." Reid's voice was dry as old leather, amused despite the roughness, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with the memory. He swirled his empty glass out of habit, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, fond and warm. "Told me my mare had a respiratory infection and I was an idiot for not catching it sooner."
"You were an idiot for not catching it sooner." Nolan's voice was prim, precise, but his green eyes were dancing with barely suppressed laughter, the fondness between them obvious and well-worn, comfortable as an old shirt. His lips twitched, fighting a smile he couldn't quite contain.
"Then he stayed for breakfast." Reid's voice had softened, something tender creeping into his rough tone, his dark eyes finding Nolan's across the room with an affection that made my chest ache. He set down his glass, leaning forward slightly in his chair, firelight painting half his face in gold. "And lunch. And dinner. And the next day. And the day after that."
"The horse needed monitoring." Nolan's cheeks had gone pink, a flush spreading across his freckled skin like sunrise, visible even in the dim firelight. He ducked his head, hiding behind his sandy hair, but he was smiling—soft and sweet and helplessly real. "It was medically necessary."
"For two weeks?" Reid's eyebrow rose, skepticism and affection warring clearly on his weathered face, his lips twitching with a smile he was barely containing.
