"Thank you," I say, standing by my car in the parking lot. The night air is cold against my heated cheeks. "For tonight. For all of it."
"Thank you for coming." He kisses me again—soft this time, tender. A promise rather than a claim. The cold air wraps around us, but I barely feel it. "Get home safe. Text me when you're there."
"I will."
I watch him walk back into the firehouse, his silhouette framed by the industrial lighting. He turns at the door to wave, and I wave back, something warm blooming in my chest.
I'm just settling into my car when my phone buzzes.
Unknown number. Incoming call.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, watching it ring. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then I hit ignore.
The call goes to voicemail. A minute later, a notification pops up:New Voicemail.
I should delete it. I should just delete it without listening, the way I deleted the text. But some masochistic part of me wants to know. Wants to hear what they have to say. Wants to face it head-on instead of pretending it doesn't exist.
I press play.
The voice that comes through is cold and controlled—professional, even, in the way people are professional when they're delivering threats they expect to be taken seriously.
"Come home, or we'll bring you."
That's it. No greeting, no identification, no pleasantries. Just six words that are meant to strike fear into my heart.
I roll my eyes.
Come home. As if that place was ever home. As if home is a mansion full of people who see me as property rather than person. As if I'd willingly return to a life of being auctioned off to the highest bidder, my value measured in business deals and breeding potential.
I delete the voicemail with a firm press of my thumb.
The past isn't going to control my unfolding present. Not anymore. Not ever again.
I start the car, pulling out of the firehouse parking lot into the quiet streets. The night is cold and clear, stars visible even through the ambient light of town. My lips still tingle from Elias's kisses. My skin still holds the warmth of his embrace. My heart still carries the laughter of an evening spent with people who wanted nothing from me except my company.
Let them come, if they want. Let them try to drag me back to that gilded cage. I'm not the same Omega who ran scared in the night. I have people now. I have Alphas who see me as something worth protecting. I have a taste of what life could be like—real life, chosen life, free life.
And I'm not giving that up without a fight.
I think about Tank in his cabin, teaching me to build fires and sharing his scars. I think about Julian in his office, fighting battles I don't fully understand. I think about Elias in his apron, kissing me in a fire truck like we were the only two people in the world.
Three Alphas. Three different worlds. Three men who looked at a runaway Omega with a bounty on her head and saw something worth keeping. Something worth protecting.
Fake or not... it's becoming a better chance than what I left behind.
CHAPTER 23
Penthouses And Paper Walls
~ROSEMARIE~
The address doesn't exist.
I'm standing on a corner in what I think is the right neighborhood, staring at my phone like it's personally betrayed me. The GPS keeps spinning, recalculating, spinning again. The little blue dot that's supposed to represent me bounces around the map like it's having an existential crisis. The winter wind cuts through my coat, reminding me that standing motionless on a street corner in February is not ideal.
Julian invited me to his place. His sleek penthouse overlooking Oakridge Hollow, he said. Very specific. Very Julian. And yet somehow, his address refuses to appear in any navigation app known to humanity. He texted it to me exactly as written, I double-checked three times, and still—nothing.
