However, I’m not too excited about how they want to take our survival, our sanctuary, and turn it into a case study for 'effective community engagement.' It feels like someone is walking over my grave, but the dollar signs at the bottom of the projections are enough to make my head swim.
"Blake?" Grayson's voice is sharper now. He's standing over the table, a fry halfway to his mouth, watching me. "Put the phone away. You promised. No screens while we eat."
"Just a work thing," I say, my thumb scrolling down to the organizational chart at the end of the deck. I freeze. My name is there, listed asFounder/Creative Lead.Above it, in a larger, bolder font, is Luther's name.Principal Authority/Executive Liaison.
Founder. Creative lead. It sounds like a title they give someone they want to keep in a room with a box of crayons while the grown-ups handle the money. It sounds like they think my brain is an asset, but my voice is a liability. They want the Alpha. They want the suit and the tattoos and the dominance of Luther Keller.
They don't want the Delta who hasn't slept in three days and gets heart palpitations when the coffee runs out. They want the image of our pack, but they want it sanitized, managed, and led by the person they deem the 'correct' authority. My lip curls up as I try to weather my anger, stuffing my emotions down deep so I don’t alert my mates that there’s something wrong.
"Hey." Grayson is there, his hand gently but firmly closing over mine, forcing the phone down onto the table. He doesn'tlook at the screen, though I can tell he's curious."Whatever it is, it can wait twenty minutes. Eat. Please. For me."
I look up at him, then at the kids. Rosalie is currently wearing a French fry like a mustache, giggling at her own reflection in the glass wall. James is carefully explaining the mechanics of a spring-loaded trigger to a very confused-looking Samuel, who is more interested in the ketchup packets. This room is full of everything I love. Everything I'm trying to protect. And that pitch deck... that deck is the kind of money that would mean Luca never has to worry about funding for Ember House again. It would mean the kids have trusts that could weather a literal apocalypse. It would mean we would be finally, truly, untouchably safe.
If the price of that security is a little corporate condescension, maybe I should just swallow it. Maybe being the 'Creative Lead' is enough if it means the people in this room never have to look over their shoulders again. I've spent my life fighting to be seen, but maybe now is the time to be the foundation instead of the spire.
"Okay," I say, letting out a breath before sliding the phone into my pocket. "Fries first. Merger talk later."
Grayson smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He's lived with me too long; he knows my 'I'm fine' face as well as he knows his own. He reaches out, his fingers grazing my cheek, a touch so light and tender I feel a lump form in my throat. He doesn't say anything, but he leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth, his scent washing over me like a shield.
I take a bite of a cold fry Rosalie offers me, staring through the glass at the company I built from nothing. Then, I realize with a jolt of anxiety that I still didn't take my medication. I can feel the skip and thrum of a heart that doesn't quite know how to keep time, a frantic drummer in a chest that's too tight. It's fine. I'lltake it when I get home. I just have to get through the afternoon. I just have to keep the magic alive for five more minutes.
3
Luca
“You sure you got them, Cupcake?” Blake asks through the phone. “I really can...”
I laugh into the earpiece. “I promise I’ve got our babies. You need to focus and the Omegas here really do like the kids.” After Grayson and Maceo sent me a text to pick up the kids on my way to Ember House, I didn’t hesitate. Mostly because I know that without the kids at the office, Grayson and Luther will be able to force Blake to eat.
I still don’t understand why he’s stressing out so much. Or why he won’t let us help him. I let out a small sigh and twist my ring around my finger, the way I always do when Blake's voice sounds thinner than he wants me to notice. The band's warm from my skin, familiar enough that I don't realize I'm doing it half the time. Five years and I still fidget with it like it might disappear if I stop checking. I look out the window to see the sanctuary that’s come so far over the years.
The afternoon light at Ember House always feels different than the light in the city. It's softer, filtered through the thick canopy of maples that guard the northern edge of the property, spilling across the wide garden beds in long, honey-colored ribbons.
When I pull the SUV into the gravel drive, the crunch of the stones under the tires sounds like a homecoming. Even after five years, this place still makes my lungs expand a little further, as if the air itself knows it's allowed to be here. In the city, every siren is a heartbeat; here, the only rhythm is the wind through the leaves and the distant, rhythmic thud of a hammer from the new construction wing.
"We're here! The boss is here!" Rosalie announces from her car seat, kicking her legs with enough rhythm to shake the upholstery, her hazel eyes already scanning the porch for someone to command.
To her, Ember House isn’t just a sanctuary for rescued Omegas; it’s just the big house with the best art supplies and the people who always laugh at her jokes. She sees the residents not as survivors, but as potential subjects in her sprawling, glitter-fueled empire.
Samuel is already unbuckling his harness with frantic, clumsy fingers. "I'm gonna find the frogs. James, come on, let's go find the frogs in the pond."
James, who has been quietly staring at a handheld circuit board the entire drive, looks up with a serious frown. "The water is too cold for the frogs to be active today, Sam. They're probably in the mud." He adjusts his glasses, his small face a perfect, miniature echo of Blake's when he’s deep in a coding spiral. He has that same way of tilting his head, a clinical curiosity that masks a very deep, very quiet brand of empathy.
"Then we'll dig them up," Samuel counters, and before I can even reach for the door handle, he’s out of his seat and vaulting over the center console like a tiny, caffeinated gymnast. He has no concept of personal space or physical limits, a trait that both terrifies me and makes me ache with gratitude that he felt so safe in his own skin.
"Samuel, wait for Maceo," I call out, but it’s useless. He’s already a blur of denim and energy hitting the gravel with a triumphant shout.
Maceo catches him by the back of his shirt before he can make a break for the flower beds, his laughter a low, grounding rumble that seems to settle the chaos instantly. He hoists Samuel onto his hip, ignoring the boy's indignant squawk, and turns back to help Rosalie out.
"I've got the ground troops, sweetheart," Maceo muses, meeting my eyes over the roof of the car. "Go ahead. Get settled. I'll keep them in the activity room until they've successfully negotiated for snacks. I think James wants to show the library staff his new soldering kit. I'll make sure he doesn't actually set anything on fire."
I walk around to join them, pausing as Maceo reaches out to straighten the collar of my sweater. His fingers linger for a second, a warm brush of skin against my neck that makes my own scent flare with a quiet contentment. I reach up, brushing a few fingers across his cheek before leaning up to kiss him.
It’s become easier to take what I want, to know that this life is mine, that the happiness we’ve curated isn’t something I have to chase anymore. Maceo purrs against my lips, my body warming up from the inside. Before something happens, I pull back, Rosalie tugging at my shirt for attention.
"You're sure?" I ask, my voice dropping a little. "I can take Rosalie with me if she's being too much of a boss today. I know she can be... persistent."
"I am the boss!" Rosalie shouts, patting my arm with a sticky hand that probably smells like the orange slices she'd eaten earlier.
