"She doesn't get to—" he started, his hands curling into fists on the table, knuckles going white, a vein pulsing in his temple.
"She doesn't get anything," I cut him off, my own voice sharp as a blade. "She lost the right to have opinions about my life when she shipped me off to Aunt Marguerite the moment I presented. When she decided having an omega daughter was too embarrassing to deal with. When she?—"
I stopped. Breathed. Gumbo's head pressed more firmly into my lap, grounding me.
"When she what, sweetheart?" Harper asked, his voice gentled, though the growl still lurked beneath the surface, his gray eyes soft with concern.
"When she told me—before she sent me away—that wanting more than one mate was a sickness," I said quietly. "That there was something broken in me. That proper Omegas didn't have thoughts like that, didn't want things like that. She couldn'tget rid of me fast enough." I looked down at the letter, at my mother's perfect penmanship, her perfect words designed to make me feel small. "Aunt Marguerite was the one who told me there was nothing wrong with me. That I was exactly who I was supposed to be. And my mother hated her for it."
Silas's hand tightened on my knee. Remy made a sound like he'd been punched.
"You're not defective," Harper said, his gray eyes fierce, his voice rough with emotion as he reached across the table and took my hand, his massive palm engulfing mine. "You're perfect. You're exactly what we need. What we want. She's the one who's broken if she can't see that."
"Harper—" I started, my voice cracking, not sure if I wanted to argue or cry or both.
"No," he said, his grip tightening, not painful, just firm. Certain. "I need you to hear this. Your instincts aren't wrong. Wanting all of us isn't wrong. The only thing that's wrong is anyone who made you feel ashamed of what you are."
I blinked back the sudden burning in my eyes. "That's... surprisingly eloquent for a man of few words," I managed, my voice thick with emotion, a watery laugh escaping despite myself.
"I save them up for when they matter," he said, his thumb stroking over my knuckles, his gaze never leaving mine, steady and sure. "You matter."
I took a shaky breath, then looked at the letter one more time. My mother's voice echoed in my head—years of disappointment, of corrections, of being told I was too much and not enough all at once.
Then I stood up, crossed to the stove, and lit the burner.
"Chere, what are you—" Remy started, half-rising from his chair, confusion and curiosity warring on his face.
I held the letter over the flame and watched it catch. The paper curled and blackened, my mother's perfect cursive disappearing into ash. I held it as long as I dared, then dropped it into the sink and watched the last of it burn.
"That's what I think of being 'proper,'" I said, turning back to face them, feeling the heat of the flames still warm on my fingers. Something had shifted in my chest—a weight lifting, a chain breaking. "I spent years trying to earn back their approval from a distance. Trying to prove I wasn't the embarrassment they thought I was. I'm done."
Remy was staring at me with something like awe, his amber eyes bright and shining. Silas had a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, approval radiating from his still form. Harper just looked proud, his gray eyes soft with emotion.
"That's our girl," Remy breathed, his voice thick with emotion, his hand coming up to press against his chest like his heart was too full.
"Damn right," I said, squaring my shoulders. I picked up the second envelope—the one from Crescent Holdings—and slit it open with more force than necessary. "Now let's see what fresh hell this is."
The letter was dense with legal jargon, but I'd dealt with enough contracts in my life to parse the meaning. Words like "boundary dispute" and "easement rights" and "failure to properly file" jumped out at me.
"They're claiming part of my land isn't actually mine," I said slowly, reading through the mess of whereases and heretofores, my brow furrowing deeper with each line. "Something about unclear property lines from a survey done in nineteen fifty-two. They want to 'resolve the matter amicably' before taking 'appropriate legal action.'"
"That's bullshit," Silas said flatly, his voice cold in a way that reminded me he'd been a soldier before he was a healer, his paleeyes going hard as flint. "Your aunt's paperwork was pristine. I saw it when you were doing the estate stuff—she had surveys going back to the eighteen hundreds."
"So did I," I said, setting the letter down, my mind racing. "Which means either their lawyers are incompetent, or..."
"Or they're hoping you are," Harper finished, his gray eyes narrowed, jaw tight with barely suppressed anger. "They're betting you don't have the documentation to fight back. Counting on you being some helpless Omega who'll fold at the first sign of legal pressure."
A growl built in my throat—and this time, I let it out. The sound that emerged was nothing like the soft, submissive noises "proper" Omegas were supposed to make. It was feral. Primal. A warning that I had teeth and wasn't afraid to use them.
Three answering growls filled the kitchen. Harper's was deep and rumbling, a bass note that shook the dishes. Remy's was higher, sharper, edged with that Cajun temper I'd glimpsed before. Silas's was quiet but dangerous, the growl of a predator who'd learned to hunt in silence.
Gumbo added his own sound—a prehistoric rumble that seemed to come from somewhere deep in the earth.
"They want a fight?" I said, baring my teeth at the letter like it could see me, feeling something wild and fierce rising in my chest. "They'll get one. But not the kind they're expecting."
"What do you need from us?" Harper asked, already shifting into Head Alpha mode, his shoulders squaring, spine straightening, ready to mobilize at my word.
"I need you to pull the paperwork my aunt left so we need to fight this." I said, already pushing back from the table. "And I need to do a reading."
