It rattles through the speaker, deep and primal, the kind of sound that makes every alpha within earshot tense.
“Thatfucker,” Robert snarls. “I’ll gut him. I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill him.”
Skyla flinches at the volume, but before I can say anything, Alex—who’s been standing near the grill, beer in hand—mutters, “Fuck yeah,” under his breath, then takes a long swig.
It shouldn’t make me smile. But it does.
“Skyla,” her mother says again, voice cracking but gentle, desperate. “Sweetheart, do you need us to come get you? We’ll leave right now. There are clinics for rejected omegas. We can get you help, baby.”
Skyla shakes her head quickly, swiping at her cheeks. “No,” she says. “I’m okay. I have a new pack now. They’re…they’re all really good men.” She pulls in a deep breath, then says, “I can’t wait for you to meet them.”
And something in my chest tightens and expands at the same time. Pride. Pure and heavy. It pounds through my ribs in rhythm with my pulse.
Good men.
The sound of her mother’s crying fills the speaker again—soft, relieved, the kind that breaks you open and puts you back together all at once.
And then they talk.
They talk for hours.
Not about what Skyla’s been through. Not about the scars on her neck or the abuse she endured. Just… life.
The kind of simple, happy things Skyla’s been starved for.
Her parents tell her about the new house they’re fixing up. About her grandparents still arguing over who cheats at cards. About a cousin who had twins and a family trip to the coast that turned into a disaster when one of her dads fell asleep in the sun and came home lobster-red.
Skyla laughs. Not the careful, polite sound I’ve gotten used to hearing the last few days—but a real laugh, bright and full, bubbling around the phone until we’re all smiling like idiots.
She stays firmly in my lap, legs dangling, the phone held up to her face while her mom tells her about a new garden that’s “absolutely thriving, baby—you’d love it.” Every now and then, Sky hums in agreement, murmuring soft questions.
I cling to the omega, keeping my arms wrapped around her waist. The pure bliss radiating off of her is addictive, and lovely, making her floral scent edge so sweet it makes my teeth hurt.
I fucking love it.
The conversation drifts easily from one story to the next. We eat when the burgers are done, Skyla taking little bites between stories, until, inevitably, her mom insists, “Now let me hear thesegood menyou’ve found.”
Knox straightens immediately, clearing his throat like he’s preparing for a board meeting. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, taking the phone when Skyla hands it over.
He does most of the talking, voice warm and steady. He introduces us one by one, peppering a few random details. My job as CFO at a small startup, Dakota and Alex doing atremendous job caring for Skyla during the day, but he skims over his own job, simply stating he does some freelance work when he can. But her parents don’t press. I get the feeling all they care about is that Skyla’s happy.
I really hope she is.
On the Couch
Skyla
The air feels lighter tonight—likesomething in my chest finally loosened after years of being wound too tight.
I didn’t realize just how much I needed to hear my mom’s voice until that call ended.
Knox promised my dads that we’d plan a trip soon—once I’ve settled in fully with the pack. He told them the truth, that our bond was still new and we were still finding our rhythm. My parents immediately understood.
Then Knox gave them not only our address, but the whole pack’s phone numbers. Every single one. “That way, Sky’s mom can call her anytime she wants,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. My heart nearly cracked right in half at that.
Now, the house hums with the kind of quiet that feels safe. The living room windows are open, letting in the smell of crisp autumn and distant rain. The sun’s dipping low, and I can still hear the faint sound of laughteroutside—Dakota and Alex arguing over who grills better while Tadeo pretends to care.
I sit on the couch in my portable nest, fingers wrapped around a mug of tea that’s already gone cold, staring at Knox’s phone sitting in front of me. It’s stupid, maybe, but I keep half expecting it to ring again.
