"This isn't about hurting you," he says, his voice gentler now, but the steel's still there. "It's about stopping you from hurting yourself by sabotaging everything."
"Don't spin this like you're doing me a favor," I croak.
Eli steps closer, hands open and placating. "Vee, let's take a break, okay? Go get some water. Breathe."
"I don't want water," I snap.
"What do you want?" Eli asks, green eyes searching my face behind his glasses.
I want my old life back. I want to wake up and find out today is some nightmare my instincts conjured up to punish me for being happy. I want the version of this conversation where they saidwe choose you anywayand meant it.
"I want not this," I whisper.
Eli’s lip turn down even further.
Ragon drags a hand down his face. "You can hate me. Plenty of people do. But you will follow pack rules."
I bare my teeth in a humorless smile. "Yes, Alpha."
The word comes out dripping with sarcasm, not respect.
His eyes flash. There's a beat where I think he might actually roar. Then he exhales through his nose, short and sharp, like he's forcing himself to swallow back pure dominance.
"We're done here," Ragon says. "Drake, Eli—finish the room. Vee, go to your nest. Cool down."
"I'm not five," I mutter.
"Then stop acting like it," he replies.
The words slice clean.
Fine. If they want me out of the way, I'll get out.
I spin on my heel and stalk down the hall, vision blurring. Once I'm in my room, I slam the door harder than necessary, even though the house doesn't deserve it.
My nest smells like fresh fabric and lingering tears from last night. I throw myself into it and bury my face in the new rose-colored blanket, letting the sobs I fought back in the other room finally break free.
The sorrowful omega sound happens again, that soft, keening whine that feels like surrender and grief mixed together.
I hate it. I can't stop it.
It takes a long time for the shaking to stop.
***
I don't know how much time passes before there's a soft knock at my door.
"Vee?" Eli's voice, calm and steady. "Can I come in?"
I'm tempted to say no. To tell him to go away, that I'm busy being punished and sulking. But my throat is raw andmy head hurts and his scent is already bleeding under the door, calming.
"Yeah," I mumble.
He slips in, closing the door quietly behind him. He's shed his hoodie and his button-down sleeves are rolled precisely to his elbows, exposing those large forearms. His short blond hair falls in that deliberate way it always does, not a strand out of place even after the work he's been doing. Green eyes track my every movement behind his glasses.
There's a faint smudge of dust on his forearm—evidence he's been working in that room.
Marie's room.
