“Tomatoes. Peppers. Espie wants herbs too. Basil and rosemary and...” I trail off. Wait for the stutter that always comes. The catch in my throat, the way my voice breaks and stumbles over simple words.
It doesn't come.
“And?” Ezra prompts.
“Mint. Espie talked about mint.”
I'm talking. Full sentences. The words come out and they sound like me, like the person I used to be before Axel broke my voice along with everything else. I'm sitting in a kitchen with a male alpha and the words are just coming. My voice is still here.
Ezra slides a plate in front of me: eggs, toast, sliced fruit. He comes around to my side. Sits down next to me, shoulder to shoulder, and opens the laptop that's been sitting on the kitchen table.
“I've been looking at some flowers to buy. Espie likes the marigolds. I thought you guys might like some other varieties. For your ne— For the patio,” he says.
He was going to say nest. I look out at the patio and the frame they've built around the chair. They haven't moved it. Haven't touched it. It's piled with blankets and clothing and things we've taken from the alphas. I scent us through the cracked window. Me and Espie and Sera.
“Where's Sera?” I keep my voice even.
Ezra goes still. His eyes cut to the window, then back to his coffee. That's answer enough.
“Tell me what's going on.”
“Aubrey, it's—”
“Don't.” The word comes out flat. “Don't tell me it's fine. Don't manage me.” I look at him straight. “I’m a traumatized omega, not an infant. Where’s my alpha?”
And sheismine. That's not a feeling I'm used to yet, that kind of claiming. It sits strange in my chest, big and a little frightening. But Sera's scent is threaded through me whether I'm ready for it or not. Basil first, sharp and green. Blood orange underneath, warmer. Cedar at the base, steady. It doesn't matter that she's shut herself away. The bond doesn't consult me aboutwhat it does. She’s inside me and her absence presses behind my sternum every time I breathe in and she isn't there.
Ezra looks at me. Really looks, the way he does when he's deciding how much to say, weighing me up like I might not be able to take it.
I hold his gaze. “I'm thirty-two years old, Ezra. I can take it. Tell me.”
He sighs. Long and tired. “She's been in her room since yesterday. The door is shut and she won't come out. We've knocked and we've called her phone but it goes straight to voicemail every time.” He shakes his head. “I think we're pushing her away. We want her to know she's wanted. That she fits here. That this pack is hers too.” He wraps both hands around his mug. “And instead she's retreating. She's locked herself in and gone quiet. She is more convinced than ever that she doesn't belong, and I think we are the ones doing that. We think we're helping and we're just making it worse.”
“That's not right.”
The words are out before I decide to say them. Ezra looks up.
“You're not pushing her away. You're a good alpha.” I hold his gaze so he knows I mean it. “The same kind of good my first pack was. You wouldn't push anyone away. That's not who you are.”
He doesn't answer straight away. Just looks at me like he's not sure what to do with that.
The rage comes from nowhere. Hot and clean and so unexpected I almost don't recognize it as mine. I've spent years not being allowed to be angry. Swallowing it. Turning it inward because the alternative was worse. This doesn't feel like that. This feels like something waking up.
“Give me your phone.”
“Aubrey—”
“Ezra. Your phone. Please.”
He doesn't argue. Just slides it across the table.
Her name is saved. I hit call. It goes straight to voicemail, her recorded voice brisk and clipped, and I hang up before it finishes. I open the messenger app. My fingers are steadier than I expect.
SERA
It's Aubrey. I know you're in there hiding from us.
Whatever you think you're protecting us from, you're wrong.
