"Viola—"
"Inside," she commanded, already marching toward the cabin like she owned the place. "Food first, then interrogation. I brought sandwiches from that new deli in town—the one with the fancy bread and the imported meats—and if you try to deflect before I've had at least three bites, I will not be responsible for my actions."
I followed her inside, bemused and oddly grateful for her presence. The cabin still held traces of Levi's visit—the faint scent of coffee, the warmth of shared conversation lingering in the air like perfume. But Viola's energy was different, lighter,and I found myself relaxing into it as she bustled around my kitchen like she'd been doing it for years.
"Okay, plates," she muttered, opening a couple cabinets before finding the right one. "Napkins. Do you have any of that lavender lemonade left? The stuff you made at the farmers market before? Because that would be perfect with these sandwiches.”
"There's a pitcher in the fridge," I said, settling into one of the kitchen chairs and watching her work. "Viola, you didn't have to bring lunch. I have food here."
"You have vegetables and bread and probably some sad leftover soup." She pulled the lemonade from the fridge with a triumphant sound, setting it on the counter beside two mismatched glasses. "I brought actual sustenance. The kind that comes with prosciutto and fresh mozzarella and those little peppers."
My stomach growled audibly, reminding me that I'd eaten nothing but bread since breakfast. "Those little peppers?"
"Peppadews. Sweet and spicy and absolutely divine." She began unpacking the bags with efficient movements, revealing paper-wrapped sandwiches, a container of what looked like pasta salad, and a small box that she set aside with particular care. "And before you ask, yes, I also brought dessert. Because I'm a good friend and I knew you'd need sugar after whatever emotional roller coaster you've been on."
"What makes you think I've been on an emotional roller coaster?" I asked, raising my eyebrow at her.
Viola paused, turning to face me with one eyebrow raised. "Daphne. Sweetheart. You went to dinner at the pack's house last night. Your first real social event in five years. With four Alpha men who are actively wanting to court you." She set a plate in front of me with a sandwich that smelled incredible—fresh bread, herbs, something smoky and rich. "If that wasn't an emotional roller coaster, I don't know what is."
She had a point. I picked up the sandwich, buying myself time, and took a bite. The flavors exploded across my tongue—thinly sliced prosciutto, buttery and salt-cured, layered with fresh mozzarella that was creamy and mild. Peppadews added bursts of sweet heat, balanced by peppery arugula and a drizzle of balsamic glaze that tied everything together. The bread was crusty on the outside, soft within, the perfect vehicle for such carefully assembled ingredients.
"Oh," I managed around the mouthful. "This is really good."
"I know." Viola settled into the chair across from me, her own sandwich in hand, satisfaction evident in her expression. "Giuseppe—that's the owner—he's from somewhere in Italy. Moved here last year with his wife. They do everything fresh, nothing processed, and he cures his own meats in this little room behind the counter." She took a bite, closing her eyes briefly in appreciation. "Heaven. Absolute heaven."
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the simple pleasure of good food creating a buffer against the conversation I knew was coming. The pasta salad was equally impressive—rotini tossed with sun-dried tomatoes, kalamata olives, feta cheese, and a lemon-herb dressing that was bright and fresh. I found myself eating more than I'd intended, my body apparently deciding that emotional breakthroughs required additional calories.
"So," Viola said finally, setting down her sandwich and fixing me with that amber gaze. "Spill."
"Spill what?" I asked, but I knew what she wanted.
"Everything." She poured lemonade into both glasses, the pale purple liquid catching the light from the window. "How was dinner? What did they cook? Did you show them the plant? Howdid they react? Did anyone declare undying love? Did you run screaming into the night? I need details, Daphne. All of them."
I took a sip of lemonade—tart and sweet and perfectly balanced—and considered where to begin. The dinner felt like it had happened both yesterday and a lifetime ago, the memories already taking on a hazy, golden quality.
"Dinner was... good," I started slowly. "Really good. They made steaks—perfectly cooked—and roasted vegetables, and this focaccia that Levi made, it was honestly life-changing."
"Levi…?" Viola leaned forward, her chin propped on her hand. "The one with the easy smile and the shoulders?"
"They all have shoulders, Viola." I laughed, as she had a thoughtful look on her face.
"You know what I mean." She waved her hand dismissively. "The approachable one. The one who seems like he'd give really good hugs."
The description was so accurate that I laughed despite myself. "Yes. That one. He made bread, and it was incredible, and the whole kitchen smelled like rosemary and warmth and..." I trailed off, remembering. "It felt like coming home. Which is ridiculous, because I'd never been there before."
Viola's expression softened. "That's not ridiculous. That's pack magic. The way the right people can make any space feel safe." She reached across the table, squeezing my hand briefly. "I'm glad it felt good. You deserve good things, Daphne."
The sincerity in her voice made my throat tight. I took another bite of my sandwich, using the action to compose myself.
"I showed them the plant," I continued after swallowing. "And the note. They... they didn't react the way I expected."
“What did you expect?” She asked, a huff in her voice.
"I don't know. Dismissal, maybe? Or that patronizing thing people do when they think you're overreacting." I shook myhead, remembering the fury that had flashed across Oliver's face, the way Micah's eyes had gone cold and calculating, Garrett's protective tension, Levi's barely contained rage. "They were angry. Really angry. Not at me—at Trinity. Like they took it personally that someone had threatened me."
"Because they do take it personally." Viola's voice was matter-of-fact. "You're their omega, Daphne. Or you will be, if things keep going the way they're going. A threat to you is a threat to their pack. That's how it works."
Their omega. The words echoed in my chest, settling alongside everything else that had shifted today. "About that," I said slowly. "The courting thing."
