My own pack, though—
When Ragon enters a room, my first instinct is to find the exit. When Drake's laugh echoes from the living room, I take my book outside. When Eli tries to catch my eye across the kitchen, I suddenly remember something I need to do in the garage.
I don't hate them.
I just don't want to be near them.
My omega instincts—the ones that used to hum with wanting, with needing, with the desperate ache to be close to my alphas—have gone silent. I don't want to build a nest. I don't want to scent-mark my space. I don't want to curl up in anyone's lap and purr while they pet my hair.
I want to be left alone.
I bake at Finn's house when my hands need something to do. I plant bulbs in the garden when my head gets too loud. I've learned to comfort myself, to soothe my own stress, to exist without the alpha presence my body was supposedly built to crave.
Turns out I don't need them as much as everyone said I did.
Turns out I'm fine.
Aren’t I?
***
Ragon's study smells like paper and ink and the last ten years of his life pressed between file folders.
I pause in the doorway, spine straight, hands folded at my waist. I don't step over the threshold until he lets me. The overhead light is off; his desk lamp throws a warm gold circle over the mess of contract stacks and forgotten tea.
He doesn't look up right away.
That's fine. I can wait.
I let my breath settle into something quiet, eyes on the bookshelf over his shoulder instead of his face. The clock ticks. The house hums. Marie's laugh drifts from somewhere distant.
Finally, he signs something with a decisive stroke and glances toward the doorway.
"Verena."
Permission.
"Alpha." I dip my head. "Do you have a moment?"
His eyes narrow, assessing. "I'm in the middle of quarterly reports. Make it quick."
"Yes, Alpha."
I step forward two paces and stop. Far enough in to show respect, not enough to crowd. My heart is slow and obedient in my chest. It's almost funny, how easy that is now.
"I wanted to ask if I might join a club or activity outside the house. In the evenings."
He leans back in his chair. "Why?"
"To be out of everyone's way. Especially at night. It would give you more time with Marie. Our routine has changed. I thought it might be useful. Less crowded."
His scent doesn't spike. It settles, pleased.
"You feel crowded."
"I feel like an extra chair. It seems practical to move myself somewhere else for a few hours."
He huffs a breath that might be amusement. "What kind of club?"
