Especially not with three alphas. Three chances to be rejected. Three opportunities for someone to decide I was too much, too difficult, too independent to be worth the effort.
My phone buzzed with an alert, breaking through the spiral of dark thoughts. Emergency management training conference next month in Denver. Required attendance for all county coordinators.
I saved the notification and moved to my kitchen, pulling out ingredients for dinner with mechanical efficiency. Pasta. Vegetables. Simple protein. The kind of meal that required minimal thought and zero emotional investment. The kind of meal I’d been making for myself for five years because cooking for one was easier than admitting I was lonely.
The suppressant patch on my arm itched, and I resisted the urge to scratch at it. Five years I’d been wearing these patches. Five years of keeping my biology muted and manageable so I could focus on my career instead of my instincts. Five years of proving that I didn’t need a pack, didn’t need alphas, didn’t need anything but my job and my carefully controlled life.
Five years of being exactly the kind of omega Nathan had said I couldn’t be. Independent. Successful. Too much.
And I’d succeeded. Had become the best emergency coordinator in three states. Had built a reputation for being difficult but excellent, which was exactly what I’d aimed for. Had proven that being rejected at the altar wasn’t the end of my life, just the end of pretending to be something I wasn’t.
The pasta water boiled, and I dumped in the noodles with more force than necessary, watching them tumble and settle in the roiling water. Simple. Controlled. Exactly what I needed after a day of fighting my own biology.
Except it wasn’t enough. The pasta and the suppressants and the carefully maintained walls. None of it was enough to stop my omega from waking up and insisting these three alphas mattered in a way no one had mattered before. Not even Nathan.
I ate my pasta standing at the counter, watching the sun set over the mountains through my kitchen window. Hollow Haven in October was beautiful. Gold and crimson against evergreen, the light turning everything soft and warm. The kind of beauty that made you believe in possibilities, in fresh starts, in the idea that maybe this time things could be different.
I’d moved here specifically because it was beautiful. Because it was small enough that I could know every emergency protocol and every potential crisis point. Because it was far enough from Idaho that no one here knew about the omega who’d been rejected at her own bonding ceremony.
Fresh start. Clean slate. New life built on competence instead of biology.
And I’d succeeded. Seven years as an emergency coordinator, five of them here in Hollow Haven. Respect from colleagues. Trust from local services. A reputation for being difficult but excellent, which was exactly what I’d aimed for.
I didn’t need anything else.
Didn’t need alphas who might decide I was too much work. Didn’t need a pack that might crumble the moment I refused to be someone I wasn’t. Didn’t need the vulnerability of letting people close enough to hurt me.
The lie sat heavy in my chest, and I washed my dishes with the same mechanical efficiency I’d used to cook them. Plate, fork, pot. Wash, rinse, dry. Simple tasks that didn’t require thinking about cedar smoke or vanilla or leather.
My phone buzzed again. Text from an unknown number.
This is Beau Calder. Got your number from the emergency services contact list. Hope that’s okay. Just wanted to say the coffee machine is still working perfectly. You’re welcome at the station anytime.
I stared at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the reply button.
Professional courtesy. That’s all this was. One colleague reaching out to another, making sure I knew I had access to resources I might need for my job.
Except Beau Calder had looked at me this morning with something that wasn’t professional at all. Had stood in his kitchen offering me coffee and space like he understood thatsometimes people needed a place to just be. And I’d caught his scent on my jacket and purred like my suppressants meant nothing, like five years of walls meant nothing, like Nathan’s rejection meant nothing.
Which it didn’t. Nathan’s rejection didn’t mean anything about me. It meant something about him, about his inability to accept an omega who didn’t fit his fantasy of what omegas should be.
I knew that logically. Had spent five years in therapy working through the trauma of public rejection. Had built a successful career proving that I didn’t need anyone’s approval to be valuable.
But knowing something logically and feeling it emotionally were two different things.
And right now, staring at Beau’s text message, I felt like that omega in the white dress again. Vulnerable and exposed and terrified of trusting someone who might decide I wasn’t worth the effort.
I typed out a response with careful fingers.Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.
Safe. Neutral. The kind of message that acknowledged his offer without committing to anything. Without opening any doors that might let him close enough to hurt.
His response came back almost immediately.No pressure. Just wanted you to know the door’s open.
The door’s open.
I set my phone down and pressed my palms against the counter, breathing carefully through the uncomfortable tightness in my chest that felt suspiciously like hope mixed with terror.
Five years I’d kept all the doors closed. Five years of making sure no alpha got close enough to matter, close enough to hurt.Five years of building walls so high that even I had trouble seeing over them sometimes.
