"What—Julian, this is too much?—"
"Get your nails done," he says, closing my fingers around the cash. "Have breakfast. Get a spa massage if you can find somewhere that's open. The full experience." His expression softens. "You deserve to be taken care of today. Let someone do that."
Let someone take care of me. Such a simple concept. Such an impossible thing for someone who's spent her whole life taking care of herself.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice thick. And then, before I can overthink it, I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
I don't hug people. Not really. Not casually, not comfortably. Physical affection has always been something I've had to perform rather than genuinely feel—something my family demanded as proof of my compliance, something my ex-pack used as a tool of control. Initiating a hug, actually wanting to hold someone and be held in return, is not something I do.
But I'm doing it now. Pressing my face against Julian's chest, breathing in his bergamot-and-sandalwood scent, feeling his arms come around me after only a moment of surprised hesitation.
He hugs me back. Properly, firmly, like he means it. One hand cradles the back of my head, and his lips press against my hair—a kiss so gentle it makes my throat ache.
"It's going to be okay, Rosemarie," he murmurs against my hair. "I promise."
This isn't normal for him either. Julian doesn't do comfort. He does sarcasm and distance and carefully constructed walls. But here he is, holding me on a sidewalk covered in broken glass, trying his best to make me feel safe. Because that's what pack does. That's what family does. That's what love—or whatever this is—looks like when it's real.
Ruby is pretending to be very interested in her phone when we finally separate, giving us a thin veneer of privacy that I appreciate more than I can say.
"Text me when you get home," Julian says. "And tell Tank and Elias I'll call with updates as soon as I have them."
"I will."
"And try to relax. At least a little."
"I'll try."
He watches us go, standing sentinel on the sidewalk as Ruby leads me to her car—a cheerful yellow Beetle that looks completely out of place against the grim backdrop of the vandalized bakery. I climb into the passenger seat, buckle my seatbelt, and force myself to take a deep breath.
"So," Ruby says as she starts the engine, "nails and breakfast as stress relief? Or would you rather just go straight home?"
I think about it for a moment. The responsible thing would be to go home, to be with Tank and Elias, to help figure out who's behind this. But Julian gave me cash and told me to take care of myself. And Ruby is looking at me with hopeful eyes, clearly wanting to help in whatever way she can.
"Nails," I decide. "And breakfast. And maybe that spa massage if we can find somewhere."
Ruby grins. "That's my girl. I know just the place."
As we pull away from the curb, I twist in my seat to look back through the passenger mirror. Julian is still standing there, but he's turned now, gesturing toward the broken window as he gives instructions to the officers. His posture is all business—shoulders squared, spine straight, the investor and the model and the Alpha all rolled into one commanding presence.
He's handling it. He's taking care of things so I don't have to.
This is what it feels like to have people in your corner. This is what it means to not be alone. This is—god, this is everything I never had before and everything I didn't know I needed.
My ex-pack never would have done this. When trouble found me—and it found me often, because being an Omega in a household that saw you as property meant trouble was inevitable—I was always left to deal with it myself. My problems were my problems. My fears were weaknesses to be exploited. My pain was inconvenient.
I remember once, years ago, getting cornered by an aggressive Alpha at a family event. Someone my father wanted to impress, someone with money and connections and absolutely no concept of consent. He'd backed me into a corner, his hands too familiar, his scent overwhelming and wrong. And when I'd finally escaped, shaking and sick and desperate for someone to care?—
No one did. My mother told me I'd probably done something to encourage it. My father asked if I'd at least been polite. My pack told me to stop being dramatic and making a scene.
That's what "family" meant to me for most of my life. That's what I thought I deserved.
But this—Julian's tenderness, Tank's protectiveness, Elias's unwavering support—this is something different. This is real. This is what I should have had all along.
Ruby is chattering about nail polish colors and the best spots for breakfast in Oakridge Hollow, her voice a pleasant background hum that doesn't require much response. I make appropriate noises at appropriate intervals, but my mind is elsewhere.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, expecting a message from Tank or Elias—Julian probably called ahead, warned them that he sent me with Rose, away from the scene. But the notification on my screen isn't from anyone in my contacts.
