"What if he does collapse?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the running water.
Lorenzo's fingers tightened slightly against my skin. "Then we catch him. But we let him stand first."
The memory of those words burns as I stand behind the bar, rubbing circles into the same spot with a damp rag. Ten minutes of polishing the same six inches of wood while Wilson disappears into the room behind the bar to make a call.
Through the glass partition, he settles into Lorenzo's chair with his back to the door, phone pressed against his ear. The moment the call connects, something shifts in his spine, a tightening that travels up vertebra by vertebra. His free hand rises to his collar.
Behind that soundproof glass, Wilson speaks words I cannot hear, but his body tells stories in a language I've learned to read fluently. His shoulders climb toward his ears within thirty seconds. His knuckles whiten around the phone. He leans forward until his elbow braces against the desk, forehead sinking toward his palm. His mouth moves rapidly, words tumbling out until suddenly they stop. His body freezes completely before he puts the phone on the desk.
Someone on the other end of that call has said something that penetrated every defense Wilson constructed this week.
His hand moves from his collar to cover his eyes. A single hitch disrupts the smooth line of his shoulders. His back curves forward over the desk as his forehead comes to rest against his palm. He remains frozen like this while whoever called him continues speaking. When he finally pulls his hand away, I can see that he’s crying.
One minute passes and then another as I watch his hand drift to his neck, pressing through the fabric against the scar. It stays there.
Then his hands begin to tremble.
Something tugs in my chest. My body has spent weeks tuning itself to Wilson Ashford’s frequency, and right now his frequency is off. His steady, guarded pulse is erratic, spiking and dropping. His scent must be souring behind the glass in ways I can’t detect out here.
My hand is on my phone before I even realize it.
I type:I can feel you spiraling. Go to the nest. The one behind the stockroom. Please.
Wilson’s phone lights and he stares at it for a long beat. His hand reaches for the device, picks it up, reads the screen. His eyes lift and lock onto me behind the bar.
Wilson’s gaze drifts back to the phone. He reads the message again, then sets it down on the desk. Ten more minutes pass. He doesn’t move from the chair and I watch him wage the same silent battle he’s fought since he walked through this club’s doors: alone, and determined to hold everything together by sheer force of will.
“Please,” I whisper to myself, hoping Wilson will take to the comfort I always use when the world gets too loud.
When he still doesn’t move, I take a step toward the office before he stands and heads right toward me, the door falling shut as he returns to the chaos. I hold my breath, waiting for his next move when he drags my face toward his and kisses me.
I melt against him, someone removing the rag from my hands, the salt of my Beta’s tears finding my tongue. “Hey, Wilson.”
“Can you just… hold me for a little while?”
His question breaks me as I pull him toward the nest I showed him before. We don’t speak, his shoulders falling as I strip off his clothing and then lay him in the middle of the blankets before crawling in next to him.
“Who was on the phone?” I ask as soon as Wilson relaxes. “Was it a good call?”
“Yeah. It… was long overdue. I… Luca called. I think Nicholas called his Alpha and then…” He trails off as I wrap myself around him. “I never expected them to say anything for me.”
“Who?” I press a kiss to Wilson’s temple before pulling a blanket up over us. “Who’s making a statement?”
“Luca Keller, the Omega I helped. Nicholas called their pack. I never asked him to do that and then I… Nicholas told me to call. That Luca just wanted to know I’m okay.” His fingers dig intomy back as he slots himself further against me. “I’m not okay, Oliver. Not yet.”
His sobs gut me, another picture of Wilson’s past building itself together. “You will be, Wilson. You’re going to be okay. Everything is and then we’re going to start on our pack with babies and chaos and…” I stop myself before I get too excited and just kiss his head again. “It’ll all work out. I promise,” I tell him and I fucking hope that I can back that up.
27
Oliver
Luca Keller's statement hits the internet at 9 AM on a Tuesday. By noon every business publication that ran the original article scrambles to update their coverage.
Behind the bar, I refresh Lorenzo's laptop every three minutes while pretending to count bottles on the top shelf. The statement reads like expensive legal poetry, words arranged to reveal everything without liability.
Luca portrays Wilson as a champion for Omegas trapped in Hearthstone's "care" program, someone who fought the system from within and provided essential support to residents during their darkest moments, including Luca himself.
Comments populate beneath the article in real time. A few voices challenge the narrative, but most accept it readily. The weight of a named survivor speaking for Wilson crushes the anonymous editorial implications that tried to bury him.
