Our omega. The words settled into my chest like warm honey, spreading through my veins. Because that's what Daphne was, wasn't she? Whether she'd fully accepted it or not, whether the formal courtship had been declared or not—she was ours. Had been from the moment I'd seen her at the store, all prickly defenses and hidden vulnerability.
"You're right," I conceded, running a hand through my hair. "I just... I don't want to believe someone could be this vindictive. Over what? Rejection?"
"Trinity doesn't see it as rejection," Oliver said quietly, his grey eyes distant, like he was seeing something the rest of us couldn't. "She sees it as a mistake. Something to be corrected. In her mind, we belong together—we just haven't realized it yet. Daphne isn't a person to her. She's an obstacle."
A chill crawled down my spine despite the warmth of the kitchen. I'd encountered people like that before, back in Chicago. People so convinced of their own narrative that reality became malleable, something to be bent and twisted until it fit their expectations. My brother's ex-girlfriend had been like that—charming on the surface, utterly unhinged beneath.
The memory surfaced unbidden: Marcus at his lowest, trembling on the bathroom floor while she pounded on the door, screaming that she loved him, that she'd never let him go. The restraining order had taken months to secure, and even then, she'd found ways around it. Notes left on his car. Messages sent through mutual friends. A constant, insidious presence that had nearly broken him completely.
I wouldn't let that happen to Daphne.
"What's our play?" I asked, my voice coming out harder than I'd intended. "We can't just wait around for Trinity to escalate further. And we can't let Daphne face this alone."
Oliver pulled out his phone, already typing. "I’ll message in the family work chat. My Dad and Garret’s, have contacts around town…especially law enforcement… Morrison's a good man—he'll take this seriously. I'll send him the photos of the plant and the note first thing tomorrow, get a paper trail started."
"We should also document every interaction," Garrett added, his contractor's mind already building the framework of our defense. "Every time Trinity approaches Daphne, every encounter at the market, every comment made. Build a case before we need one."
Micah nodded slowly, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Agreed. But we need to be careful about how we handle this with Daphne. She's already overwhelmed—being courted by four Alphas, opening up after five years of isolation, dealing with Trinity's harassment on top of it all. We can't smother her."
"I'm not suggesting we smother her," I said, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. "But we can't just stand by and do nothing either. Did you see her face when the plant was pulled out? The way her hands shook? She was terrified, Micah. Terrified and trying so damn hard to pretend she wasn't."
The table fell silent. Because I was right, and they knew it. Daphne had spent the entire evening with her walls up, trying to participate in our dinner, trying to let us in, all while carrying the weight of Trinity's threats on her shoulders. She'd been brave—so incredibly brave—but I'd seen the fear lurking beneath the surface. The way her eyes had darted to the windows when the wind picked up outside. The slight flinch when Oliver had raised his voice during a joke.
She'd been hurt before. Abandoned. Left behind by people who should have protected her. And now, just as she was starting to trust again, starting to believe that maybe she deserved something more than her isolated existence, Trinity was trying to tear it all apart.
The fury that rose in my chest was unlike anything I'd felt in years. Not since Marcus had called me at three in the morning, his voice barely a whisper, telling me he didn't want to live anymore. That helpless, desperate rage—the need to protect someone who was being systematically destroyed by another person's selfishness.
"I'll bake," I said abruptly. Three sets of eyes turned to me, confusion evident in their expressions.
"Tomorrow," I clarified, pushing back from the table. "I'll bake. Sourdough, cinnamon rolls, whatever. Something I can bring to her. Not as a pack thing, not as a courting gesture, just... just as me. Levi. Checking on a neighbor. Bringing fresh bread because that's what neighbors do."
Garrett's expression softened, understanding dawning in his blue eyes. "Give her normalcy."
"Exactly." I stood, needing to move, to do something with the restless energy thrumming through my veins. "She's been living alone for five years. Self-sufficient. Independent. We can't just swoop in and take over—that would undo everything she's built, everything she's proud of. But we can be present. Available. Show her that being part of a pack doesn't mean losing herself."
Oliver studied me for a long moment, something warm flickering in his grey eyes. "You understand her."
"I understand walls," I corrected quietly. "I understand building them so high that you forget there's even a world outside. Marcus taught me that. And breaking them down... it takes time. Patience. Small moments of connection that don't demand anything in return."
The mention of my brother seemed to shift something in the room. They all knew about Marcus—about the addiction, the depression, the long road to recovery that was still ongoing. I didn't talk about it often, but they understood. They'd seen me fly back to Chicago every few months, seen me on the phone at odd hours, heard my half of conversations that ranged from encouraging to terrified.
"I should get started," I said, already moving toward the kitchen trying to get the memories out of my mind. "Good sourdough takes time. If I want to bring her something tomorrow afternoon, I need to begin the preferment tonight."
The familiar ritual of baking settled over me like a warm blanket. I pulled out my starter—Mabel, I called her, a name that made the others roll their eyes every time—and checked her consistency. She was bubbly and active, the yeasty scent rising to meet me like a greeting from an old friend.
As I measured flour and water, my mind wandered to Daphne. To the way she'd looked sitting at our table, her green eyes wide and uncertain but somehow hopeful. The outfit she'd worn—those dark jeans and the soft green top that brought out the color of her eyes—had been a statement, whether she realized it or not. She'd made an effort. She'd tried.
God, she was trying so hard.
"You're thinking about her." Garrett appeared beside me, leaning against the counter with an amused smile.
"Aren't we all?" I didn't bother denying it. The others had already drifted off to make plans. Garrett and I had always worked best together in quiet moments like this, sharing space without needing to fill it with words.
"She fits," Garrett said after a while, watching me knead the dough with practiced movements. "I didn't expect it to feel so natural, but... she fits."
"Like a missing piece." I shaped the dough into a ball, covering it with a damp towel to proof overnight. "The way she talked about her garden, about building something from nothing... I understood that. "
Garrett was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. "When I first saw the Henderson property, before we bought it, it was such a mess. Overgrown, falling apart, forgotten. Everyone told me it was a lost cause. But I looked at it and saw... potential. A foundation worth building on." He turned to meet my eyes. "That's what I see in Daphne. Not someone broken. Someone with an incredible foundation who's been waiting for the right people to help her build."
