No wonder she runs. No wonder she keeps people at arm's length. No wonder she hides her vulnerability behind sass and confidence and refusal to ask for help.
She's learned that needing things gets you hurt.
I tighten my arm around her slightly, not enough to wake her, just enough to feel her presence more fully. She makes a soft sound—almost a sigh—and burrows deeper into my chest.
We could give her that. We could give her a nest. We could give her a space that's entirely hers, filled with books and soft things and everything she's never been allowed to have. We could show her that wanting things doesn't have to end in destruction.
The thought forms fully in my mind, complete with details—the viral bookshelf she mentioned, a cozy reading corner, soft lighting, comfortable seating. Tank's house has space for it. The sunroom off the living room, maybe, with its big windows and warm light. We could transform it into something just for her.
Is that too much? Is that overstepping? We're supposed to be a temporary arrangement, not a permanent pack. I shouldn't be planning renovation projects for someone who might be gone in three weeks.
But even as I think it, I know I'm going to do it anyway. Because she deserves it. Because no one else has ever given her something just because she wanted it, just because it would make her happy, just because her joy has value in and of itself. Because the thought of her leaving without ever knowing what it feels like to have a proper nest—a space that's truly hers, filled with comfort and safety and all the things she's been denied—makes something in my chest ache in a way I can't explain.
Fuck. I'm falling too. I'm absolutely, irrevocably, completely falling, and I can't even be angry about it anymore. I can't muster the energy to fight it. I'm not sure I want to.
My eyes are getting heavy now, finally. The warmth of her body against mine, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the way her scent wraps around me like the world's most expensive blanket—it's all conspiring to drag me toward sleep. The tension I've been carrying for an hour—for days, for weeks, for years if I'm being honest—melts away, replaced by something softer. Something that feels dangerously close to contentment. Something that feels dangerously close to peace.
Could fate actually make this work? Could this temporary arrangement become something real, something lasting, something permanent? Could the woman in my arms be the one who finally fits—not just with Tank, not just with Elias, but with all of us? With me?
I let my mind shimmer on the possibilities as sleep finally claims me. Her weight against my chest. Her scent in my lungs. Her quiet presence filling all the empty spaces I've carried for so long, spaces I'd convinced myself would stay empty forever.
Tomorrow I'll have my shoot. I'll pose for cameras and pretend to be something perfect and untouchable. I'll wear designer clothes and craft expressions designed to sell products. I'll be Julian North, the model, the investor, the grumpy asshole who keeps everyone at arm's length.
But tonight, right now, I'm just a man holding a woman who talks about coffee beans in her sleep and carries sadness in her dreams. I'm just an Alpha finally admitting that maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want to be alone anymore.
Maybe, for once, things will work out the way they're supposed to. For once, we'll get to keep something good. Surely…we won't be deemed the Late Alphas—the ones who couldn't find an Omega, the ones who were too old or too broken or too difficult to match. The ones society looked at and judged and found wanting.
For once... we won't be deemed the Late Alphas.
CHAPTER 26
Ink And Intentions
~ROSEMARIE~
The line stretches around the block.
I stare at the queue of couples wrapped around the corner of Main Street, all of them huddled together against the February chill, all of them presumably here for the same reason Tank and I are: Valentine's Day matching tattoos. The sign in the window of "Midnight Ink & Steel" proclaims "COUPLES INK SPECIAL - 20% OFF MATCHING DESIGNS" in bold red letters surrounded by hand-painted hearts and roses.
This is really happening. I'm really about to get a matching tattoo with an Alpha I've known for less than a month. My mother would have a stroke. My ex-pack would combust.
Which, honestly, makes it even more appealing.
The tattoo parlor is nothing like I expected. From the outside, it's delightfully gritty—exposed brick facade covered in faded band posters and graffiti art, a flickering neon sign that buzzes every few seconds, windows so plastered with flash designs that you can barely see inside. The kind of place thatscreams rebellion and bad decisions and permanent choices made on impulse.
It contrasts beautifully with Tank, who stands beside me looking every bit the intimidating military Alpha—massive arms crossed over his broad chest, tattoos peeking out from beneath his rolled sleeves, face set in that stoic expression that makes people cross to the other side of the street. He looks like he belongs here. Like this is his natural habitat.
And somehow, impossibly, I'm starting to feel like I belong here too. Beside him. In this strange new life I'm building from the wreckage of my old one.
"What do you want?" Tank asks, nodding toward the window display of Valentine's designs. Hearts in every conceivable style—minimalist line art, watercolor splashes, traditional roses, geometric patterns. "Any ideas?"
I chew my lip, studying the options. "I don't know yet. What doyouwant?"
He smirks—that slow, devastating curl of his lips that does things to my stomach I'm trying not to examine too closely. "Whatever we get, it has to have a butterfly. Since you seem to love those."
I giggle, the sound escaping before I can stop it. "Just a little."
"Tell me about them." He gestures to my arm, where the edge of my phoenix tattoo peeks out from beneath my sleeve. "Your tattoos. What do they mean?"
