"Go. She needs you more."
He hesitates.
Then he goes.
Of course he does.
He carries Marie toward her room, murmuring comfort, her fingers fisted in his shirt.
My hands curl into fists.
Ragon stands slowly. "He'll come back around."
"Sure."
Ragon sighs. "I'll have him take her out later. A movie or something. It might help to get her out of the house. They can have some alone time."
"A date," I translate. "To make up for him cheating on her with his other omega."
No one corrects me.
My ribs feel too tight.
"I'm going to the garden."
No one tells me to stay.
The dirt is easier to manage than feelings.
It doesn't talk back. It doesn't ask for balance. It doesn't tell me to share what I don't have enough of.
I kneel between beds, hands buried wrist-deep in soil, pulling weeds that have the audacity to grow where I don't want them.
I'm ankle-deep in my own thoughts when a familiar voice cuts through them.
"Hey, basil witch. You got room for more garden gnomes?"
I look up, startled.
Finn is leaning on the fence, chin hooked over his crossed arms, glasses askew. Behind him, Alex stands with his hands in his pockets, Malcolm a step back with a mug.
All three of them smell like blockers and cardboard and the faint outline of something my instincts want and can't quite see.
"Always. Get in here."
Finn makes a delighted noise and navigates the gate. Alex follows with that measured stride; Malcolm takes a slower route, pausing to glance around the yard.
They step into my patch of dirt and my omega brain does that rude inventory: height, breadth, hands.
Alex is a lot. Broad through the chest, sleeves pushed up. Malcolm is narrower but carved, the kind of fit that comes from actual work. When he squats to examine the calendula, his shirt pulls tight over his back and my mouth goes dry.
My omega, the traitor, hums:good providers.
Guilt hits immediately. I have alphas. Mine smell like pine and tea and citrus and bad decisions.
"Bringing an entourage today?"
Finn spreads his arms. "They were bored. Alex was reorganizing the tool shed alphabetically. Malcolm was about to alphabetize the spice rack. I rescued them."
