Chapter 3
The room at the end of the hall used to be nothing.
A place for spare boxes, old clothes, extra blankets I rotated into my nest when I felt restless. It smelled faintly of dust and detergent and the cheap paint the landlord used before we moved in.
Now it smells like possibility. Like loss. Like both at once.
Ragon stands in the middle of the bare floor with his arms folded, feet planted wide in that commanding stance of his, dark brown hair pulled back in its neat man bun. A stack of flattened boxes leans against the wall, and the old dresser I used for overflow clothes has already been moved to the opposite corner.
"We'll put the bed there," Ragon says, nodding toward the far wall with those piercing blue eyes focused on the logistics. "Desk under the window. Shelves along this side."
He talks like this is a logistics problem, an equation to solve. One new omega added without destabilizing existing systems.
My stomach twists.
"Sure," I say, voice flat. "Make sure you leave room for the shrine."
Drake, who is carrying in the mattress with Eli, stumbles mid-step. "Vee..." His wavy dark brown hair falls across his forehead as he steadies himself.
Ragon's gaze cuts to me, those blue eyes narrowing. "Stop it."
"What?" I shrug, tucking blonde hair behind my ear. "If she's the miracle match, you'll need somewhere to put candles and offerings. Maybe a little sign. 'In Scent We Trust.'"
Drake brows draw together, his athletic frame tensing. Eli's scent spikes tight and unhappy, green eyes flicking between us behind his glasses. Ragon's hardens, iron under pine.
"Vee," Eli murmurs, adjusting his glasses with those careful fingers. "That's not—"
"Funny?" I interrupt. "I'm not trying to be funny."
Ragon's eyes narrow further. "Then what are you trying to be?"
Seen, I want to say.Important. Not disposable.
Instead, I toss my hair over my shoulder and give him a brittle smile. "Difficult."
"Mission accomplished," Ragon says dryly. "Help them with the bed."
"I don't want to help with the bed."
His scent flares a warning note. "That wasn't a request."
My instincts twitch. The command threads through my system, tugging. I cross my arms over my chest, nails digging into my upper arms.
"I'm busy," I say.
There is absolutely nothing in my hands. No activity in progress. Just my own stubbornness filling the empty space.
Drake shifts the mattress to lean against the wall and wipes a hand across his forehead, hazel eyes tired. "Vee, come on. I know this sucks, but—"
"This sucks?" I echo. "Wow, thank you for the expert assessment. Truly, I would never have guessed."
He flinches, and his scent sours with guilt. I immediately hate myself, but the words keep coming.
"Maybe you should explain that to her when she gets here," I add. "Tell her it really sucks for your current omega that you brought home a replacement."
"Stop," Eli says quietly, his lean frame tense, but his voice lacks its usual firmness. He's exhausted too.
Ragon, though—Ragon is not exhausted.
