Unknown number. Single text message.
"Are you paying attention now?"
My blood runs cold.
I stare at the message, reading those five words over and over until they stop looking like words and start looking like a declaration of war. Because that's what this is, isn't it? The vandalism wasn't random. Wasn't about Julian's enemies or society gossip or anything else we tried to rationalize. This is targeted. This is personal. This is my past reaching out with clawed hands, trying to drag me back into the darkness.
Are you paying attention now?
Yes. Yes, I'm paying attention. I'm paying very close attention to the fact that you think you can scare me into submission. That you think a broken window and some spray paint will make me come crawling back. That you still believe I'm the same frightened Omega who ran away in the middle of the night with nothing but the clothes on her back.
I'm not that person anymore.
I have a pack now. I have people who will fight for me. I have a life worth protecting.
My thumb hovers over the delete button for a moment, considering. Then I change my mind. Instead of deleting themessage, I screenshot it. Evidence. Ammunition. Proof that someone is actively trying to intimidate me.
You want to play games? Fine. We'll play games. But you don't know the rules anymore. You don't know what I've become. You don't know that I'm not alone, that I'm not afraid, that I'm not going to bow down to your threats no matter how many windows you smash or how many warnings you send.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, my jaw set with determination.
"You okay?" Ruby asks, glancing over. "You went quiet."
"Fine," I say, and my voice comes out steady. Calm. "Just thinking."
"About the bakery?"
"About the future."
She accepts this with a nod, turning her attention back to the road. The cheerful yellow Beetle carries us away from the crime scene, away from the broken glass and the angry words, toward whatever comes next.
I look out the window at Oakridge Hollow passing by—the quaint shops and friendly faces, the Valentine's decorations still hanging from every lamppost, the life I've built in this place where no one knows my past. This is my home now. These are my people. And I'm not going to let anyone take that from me.
CHAPTER 34
Sweat, Sparkle, And Surrender
~ROSEMARIE~
The gym smells like testosterone, determination, and slightly questionable life choices.
That's my first observation as I push through the main doors of Iron Wolf Fitness, the premier gym in Oakridge Hollow that caters exclusively to Alphas and the occasional brave Beta. The scent hits me immediately—sweat and metal and that particular musk that comes from dozens of Alphas pushing their bodies to the limit. It's overwhelming in a way that should probably be unpleasant but instead makes something primal in my Omega hindbrain sit up and take notice.
Down, girl. We're here for specific Alphas, not the entire menu.
The main floor is packed with impressive specimens of Alpha masculinity—bulging muscles, grunting exertion, the clanging of weights being lifted and dropped with varying degrees of control. Several heads turn as I walk past, nostrils flaring as they catch my scent, eyes tracking my movement with that predatoryattention that used to make me uncomfortable. Now it just makes me want to roll my eyes.
Yes, I'm an Omega. Yes, I smell nice. No, I'm not available. Move along.
I navigate through the maze of equipment toward the back of the building, where a series of private training rooms are separated from the main floor by floor-to-ceiling glass walls. The setup is designed to give serious athletes privacy while still allowing the gym to maintain visibility—and, I suspect, to let the general membership ogle whoever's impressive enough to book the premium spaces.
Today, that impressive someone is Tank.
I spot him through the glass before I even reach the room—laid out on a bench press, massive arms straining as he pushes what looks like an absolutely obscene amount of weight toward the ceiling. His muscles ripple with each movement, tattoos shifting across his skin like living art. Sweat glistens on his bare chest—because apparently Tank doesn't believe in workout shirts, which is a choice I fully support—and his face is set in that focused concentration that suggests he's somewhere between deep meditation and casually defying the laws of physics.
Elias stands at the head of the bench, hands hovering near the bar in the classic spotter position, ready to intervene if Tank's arms decide to give out. Which, knowing Tank, has probably never happened in his entire life. The man could probably bench press a small car without breaking a sweat.
My Alphas. Working out. Being ridiculously attractive while doing it. This is the content I signed up for.
