"That is the opposite of what you said."
"You know what, details are oppressive. Vee has spoken. Onward."
He lifts our joined hands like we're leading a parade. I let him. My chest feels light. Hopeful. They've all been different today. Softer. More focused on me.
They're always good to me, but this feels like something extra.
Somethingspecial.
We work our way into the zoo proper, past the first cluster of exhibits. Kids race around with plastic animal hats on their heads. Somewhere, a toddler screeches with the kind of ferocity only a toddler can muster. A trio of teenage boys jostle one another, all alpha-scent and unshaped dominance.
Ragon shifts closer to my back as they pass, his scent thickening, dominance flaring just a little. It wraps over me like a shield, and the teenagers instinctively veer around us without understanding why.
The part of my brain that's always scanning, always wary of unfamiliar alphas, relaxes further.
Omegas can't go anywhere alone. Not legally, not safely. The world outside pack protection is full of uncivilized alphas who see an unbonded omega as anopportunity. I learned that young. The registry taught it to every omega who came through:You need a pack. You need alphas. Without them, you're vulnerable.
My first pack taught me that lesson too, just in a different way.
They were kind when they sent me back. Gentle.It's not you, Vee. You're wonderful. But we found our scent match, and... well, you understand. She’s not willing to share.
I understood.
I went back to the registry and waited in that cold, clinical place until Ragon walked in. Until he looked at me with those blue eyes and said,"You bake when you're stressed, right? The registry coordinator mentioned it."
I'd nodded, confused.
"Good. Our kitchen could use that. The guys and I work long shifts. All three of us have demanding jobs. We come home exhausted and eat garbage. You bake, we eat. Fair trade."
He'd made it sound practical. Logical. Not like charity.
I'd been in his house two days when I stress-baked my first batch of cookies at two in the morning, unable to sleep, terrified I'd mess this up too. Drake had wandered in around three, coming off a double shift, and ate half the batch while telling me terrible jokes until I laughed.
Eli found us an hour later, shook his head at the sugar carnage, and made tea.
Ragon had come home last, taken one look at the kitchen, at me flour-dusted and shaky, and said,"You're staying."
Just like that.
I've been baking ever since. When I'm anxious, when I'm happy, when the week has been brutal and I need my hands to do something useful. The kitchen is mine. My territory. The one place in the house that's always felt like it fits me.
The guys benefit from it, sure. They get cookies and brownies and bread that actually tastes like bread instead of the cardboard they were eating before. But it's more than that.
It's the way Drake lights up when he sees a new batch cooling on the counter. The way Eli brings me tea while I'm elbow-deep in dough. The way Ragon stands in the doorway sometimes and just watches me work, scent going soft and satisfied.
It's the way they make me feel useful. Wanted. Not just tolerated.
"Look." I point as we round a corner.
The flamingo lake opens up in front of us—bright, ridiculous birds preening and wading, their reflections rippling pink in the water.
I step up to the railing and lean forward, bracing my hands on the warm metal. The sun glints off the water, and a soft breeze carries the dusty, grain-scented air toward us.
"That one's got your legs," Drake murmurs, pointing at a flamingo that seems to have more leg than body.
I elbow him lightly. "My legs are not that skinny."
"They're better. But the vibe is there."
