Ranier gambled for fun. Crashed more than one car and a motorcycle. ButI’mthe one who can’t have a summer away? Old childhood wounds burn bright. Especially since they carried on far into adulthood.
Cole scoots closer. “Is there anything we can do?”
I look at both him and Lucas, and for the first time, I see how utterly out of their depth they are. They care, but they don’t know how to fix this. High society is far removed from Seamuse Village. But maybe a high society fix isn’t what I need, anyway.
I shake my head. “This is my mess. I’ll clean it up.”
Lucas taps my arm. “We’ve got your back, though. If anyone tries to mess with you, they’re going through all three of us.”
I smile, but it’s brittle. My heart is pounding, not from fear, but from this wild, blooming determination.
I do not want to go back home. Not to face Omega Selection Day and any pack prospects that aren’t these three men. Until coming to Seamuse, I hadn’t wanted any of it at all.
When Zane comes back in, he looks even more closed off than before. His eyes flick to me, then to Cole and Lucas, then back to me. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.
I can feel the weight of it—the expectations, the ancient machinery of our family’s legacy grinding into gear. I’m supposed to obey. That’s what omegas do. That’s what I was trained for.
But sitting here, with three people who see me as more than a pawn in someone else’s game, I realize I’m not going anywhere.
I squeeze Zane’s hand under the table. “I’m not leaving.”
He looks at me, the sternness in his face cracking and melting away. “Then neither am I.”
I nod. There’s nothing left to say.
Somewhere outside, the gulls start up their racket, as if the whole world were gossiping about me. I let them.
I’m not running away from this.
But I do wonder, as I take another bite of the vegan pasty, if my father just sealed my fate—or set me free.
CHAPTER 16
Cole
Morning comesin blue haze and the slow shudder of the bakery’s rolling gate. I wake to the familiar ache behind my eyes. The house is dead silent, save for the hum of old radiators and the far-off squawk of seagulls that always sound like they’re arguing. But next door, some of my bakery staff have already arrived.
By 5:30, I’ve got the ovens going and the dough for the pasties resting under clean towels. I am elbows deep in cinnamon scone batter when the bell over the front door jangles. It’s a needy sound, a sharp contrast to the hush of early morning. I don’t need to check to know it’s Lucas. He always forgets I keep the door locked until six to customers.
“Hang on, mate,” I yell, not unkindly. I scrape my hands off on my apron and make my way around the corner to unlock the door with a twist. Lucas stands in the entry, hair wet from a morning swim and sticking up in wild tufts. His lifeguard windbreaker is only zipped halfway and he’s wearing shorts that leave most of his legs to the breeze. His eyes are impossibly blue, slightly bloodshot from salt or lack of sleep. He’s carrying a box of fancy coffee pods like an offering to the gods.
“You look like shit,” he greets me, stepping inside and not waiting for permission. The ocean is always on him, clinging to his skin, turning the mundane air in the shop into something sharper and fresher. It’s hard to stay annoyed.
“Good morning to you, too.” I roll my eyes. “You want a scone or just come to tell me I look like shit?”
“Both.” He drops the pods on the counter. “Brought these for the other lifeguards and was hoping to grab some pastries, too.” He lingers, watching me for a half-beat before adding, “Saw the light on. You bake even on your day off?”
“There are no days off.” I grab a mug from the rack and pour him some of the good stuff from the French press. He takes it, hands big and warm around the chipped pottery.
I break off two scones from the fresh tray and slide one onto a plate for him and one for me. We perch at the far end of the counter, backs to the storefront window, the world outside still mostly shadow.
Lucas tears into the scone, eyes rolling back, and makes an appreciative noise that verges on an animalistic growl.
I stifle a laugh. “That good, eh?”
“Everything from your bakery always is.” He swallows down the food still in his mouth. “Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t win Helena over quicker with it.” He licks crumbs off his thumb then leans in. “How is she, by the way? Have you heard from her since the press stuff?”
“No. You? She seemed pretty adamant on not letting it get her down.”
