Drake's voice drifts from the hallway, worried: "Vee..."
Ragon's face goes very still.
"Yes," he says. "I'm going to restrict your freedoms until you can act like a member of this pack again."
The words hit like a slap.
"What?" I demand, my voice rising.
"You want to act like a feral teenager, you can handle some very basic boundaries," Ragon says calmly. "For the next three days, you will not leave the house. You will not speak to Drake unless it's necessary. And you will not come within ten feet of Marie's room unless accompanied by Eli or me."
The unfairness crashes over me so hard I actually sway.
"That's—" My voice breaks. "That's not— You can't—"
"I can," he says. "I just did."
Tears sting my eyes. The restrictions feel like a cage slamming shut. No walks to the bakery with Ragon. No slipping out to the corner store with Eli when the walls close in. No venting to Drake in the kitchen at midnight where the others can't hear.
Eli's voice comes from the doorway, careful and diplomatic: "Ragon, that maybe—"
"She needs structure," Ragon says, not looking at him, blue eyes still locked on me. "Her instincts are flailing. You know I'm right."
Heisright. That's the worst part. My instincts latch onto the boundaries even as my brain screams. Contained. Defined. Protected.
Owned.
It makes me want to bite him.
"You're punishing me for being hurt," I say, voice shaking. "You're punishing me for not swallowing it down and being grateful you're not dropping me at the registry doorstep tonight."
His scent softens a fraction. "I'm correcting behavior that will hurt this pack. That includes you. You don't get to rip everything apart just because you're terrified we'll do the same."
Tears spill down my cheeks. I hate that he can see them.
"This is bullshit," I whisper.
Drake takes a step forward from the hallway, his athletic frame filling the doorway. "Ragon, maybe we can just—"
"Drake," Ragon says sharply. "Stand down."
Drake stops like he hit an invisible wall.
The alpha order in Ragon's tone is so strong it makes my knees go weak.
My throat makes a sound I don't intend—a high, soft, miserable keen that feels ripped from somewhere deep in my chest.
An omega sound.
All three alphas freeze.
Shame floods me so fast I choke on it. I clap a hand over my mouth, trying to swallow it back.
I hate that I made that noise. Hate that my body betrayed me. Hate that every instinct I have still wants to curl into the very people who are making me feel like this.
Ragon's expression flickers. Something in those blue eyes aches. For a heartbeat, his hand lifts, like he's going to touch me, soothe me, rub the back of my neck the way he does when I'm sick.
He drops it again.
