"You're an Omega. The only one we have. Your abilities are essential to the recovery process—we've seen that clearly enough." She straightened. "If you're willing, they want to create a formal position. Something that recognizes your role and gives you the authority to actually make decisions."
I looked at Stone. At the ferals visible through the common room window—Gray sitting quietly, Ben pacing with less agitation than usual, the others going about their routines.
My wolves. Whether I'd planned it that way or not.
"I'm willing," I said.
Rae nodded like she'd expected that answer. "We'll work out the details over the next few weeks. For now, just... rest. You've earned it."
She turned to go, then paused.
"This doesn't fix what was done to them," she said quietly. "You know that, right? Twilson going to prison, the council allocating resources, all of it—it doesn't undo the damage."
"I know."
"The wolves who were broken, the ones who died, the decades of suffering that could have been prevented if anyone had looked closely enough..." She shook her head. "Justice doesn't repair that."
"No." I thought about Stone's exhale when the car disappeared. About Gray's first smile. About all the small victories that felt enormous because they'd been so hard to win. "But it's a start."
Rae held my gaze for a moment. Something passed between us—understanding, maybe. The recognition that we were both carrying weights that couldn't be set down, only shifted.
"Yeah," she said finally. "It's a start."
She left.
The evening settled over the Healing Center like a blanket. Staff completed their rounds. The ferals were guided to their rooms for the night. The building grew quiet, the only sounds the distant hum of equipment and the soft footsteps of night-shift workers.
Stone didn't want to go back to his own room.
"Stay with me," I said. Not a question.
He nodded.
Cole's cabin sounded perfect.
The others were already there when we arrived. James sprawled on the bed, taking up more space than strictly necessary. Neal in the chair by the window, a book open in his lap. Cal on the couch, eyes closed but not sleeping. Cole standing in the kitchen, looking out the window.
Pack.
Stone hesitated at the threshold.
"You sure?" he asked. "I can go back to my room. Give you space."
"Stone." I took his hand, pulled him inside. "You are my space."
We didn't talk much. Didn't need to. The bonds said everything—the quiet pulse of connection, the steady hum of belonging. We piled together on Cole’s bed, a tangle of limbs and warmth that should have been uncomfortable but felt like home.
Stone ended up beside me, his head on my shoulder, his arm across my waist. The position was familiar now—we'd fallen asleep like this during the heat, and after. But something was different tonight.
He was relaxed.
Not the rigid control he usually wore like armor. Not the constant vigilance of a wolf who expected attack at any moment. Just... calm. Present. Here.
"The nightmares," he murmured. "They're always about the facility. The table. The restraints."
"I know."
"Sometimes I'm back there and I can't get out. Can't remember that it's over. Can't find my way back to now."
