Maceo grins, the expression small but real. "See? We have our orders. Besides, you have that intake meeting. Go. Be the heart of this place. We'll be fine." He leans in, pressing another quick, firm kiss to my lips. "Did Blake actually eat that protein bar I put in his bag, or did he just drink three espressos and call it a day?"
I sigh, leaning my forehead against his shoulder for a brief, steadying heartbeat. "I don’t know why he’s pushing so hard. Grayson said he got Blake to eat some fries and then a cucumber sandwich from the deli. But beyond that? He views lunch as a distraction from the architecture of the game. I'll call him later and check his sugar levels. I might have to threaten to send youandLuther over there to physically feed him."
“Do that. Otherwise, Luther will start scent-pushing the entire office out of sheer anxiety,” Maceo murmurs. He gives my waist a final, supportive squeeze before turning toward the house, Samuel still tucked under one arm, James holding his free hand, and Rosalie leading the way like a miniature queen.
I watch them go, my Gamma and our children walking into a place that feels safe because we made it that way. Some days, the sight still catches in my chest. There was a time when I couldn’t imagine a front door opening for me without fear on theother side, and now my children run through one like peace is something they’ve always known.
Inside, Ember House smells like floor wax, lavender, and the yeasty, comforting scent of fresh bread rising in the kitchen. It’s a deliberate landscape, designed to be the opposite of the sterile, cold environments many of the residents escaped. There are no harsh lights here, only the soft glow of lamps and the wide, uncurtained windows that look out over the valley. In the hallway, I pass a pair of Omegas I recognize, two younger men hunched over an art table, their fingers stained with charcoal as they sketch the trees outside. They don't flinch when I walk by. They don't even look up. That is the real victory, that they feel safe enough to be distracted, safe enough to lose themselves in a piece of paper.
I’m heading toward my office when I see Blossom, a sharp-eyed Omega from Hearthstone who frequently volunteers in the kitchens. She’s carrying a heavy tray of muffins, her face breaking into a wide, mischievous grin the moment she sees me. Blossom is a force of nature, all sharp wit and mothering instincts, a woman who can stare down a disgruntled Alpha and make him apologize for his tone without raising her voice.
"Luca! Just in time. I made the lemon ones with the extra glaze because I knew you were coming," she says, shifting the tray to one hip. She leans in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Your Gamma is currently being held hostage in the activity room. I saw Rosalie trying to convince him that the children's union has decided on a four-cookie-per-hour minimum wage. She's already drafting the bylaws on a napkin."
Which means that a lot of gibberish is coming out of her mouth that sounds bossy enough to keep her in charge. I laugh, the sound bubbling up easily. "He's a soft touch. She'll have him signing the contract and offering a dental plan by dinner."
Blossom’s expression sobers slightly, her gaze flickering toward the hallway leading to the intake wing. "Listen, while I have you, I was talking to Lorenzo this morning. He's looking at the books for the new therapy wing. The plumbing estimates came back twenty percent higher than we thought because of the drainage on the hill, and we're still looking for the final funding for the secure intake suites. We want them finished before the winter surge. We're already getting calls from three counties over."
I nod, the weight of the responsibility settling back onto my shoulders. Ember House is a dream, but it’s an expensive one. We don't just provide beds; we provide a future and there’s been an influx of battered Omegas over the years, not just the ones from Hearthstone.
"I know. I'm meeting with Blake's finance team tomorrow. Keller Industries is having a record quarter with the new Starlight Falls release. We'll find the money, Blossom. I won't let the suites stay unfinished. If I have to, I'll go through every line item in the marketing budget myself and find the fat to trim."
"I know you won't let us down," she says, patting my arm. Her eyes soften, scanning my face. "Just don't forget to eat one of those muffins. You're looking a little thin, little koala. Does Luther need me to send over a crate of pasta? Or maybe some of that heavy cream soup he likes?"
"I'm fine, Blossom. Truly. I've just been busy," I promise, though I know better than to argue with her when she’s in a feeding mood. She has a way of looking right through my excuses. But the fact that I’m looking a little rough for wear tells me that our family needs a moment away from the chaos.
Where we’ll find the time, I have no idea.
I make it to the sunroom just as the delivery truck pulls into the side drive. It’s a routine occurrence, supplies for the kitchen, linens, medical kits, but for someone new, routine doesn't existyet. Everything is a threat, a potential catalyst for a flashback. I see her then: a young Omega named Maya, who arrived only three days ago. She’s by the window, her body gone rigid, her scent spiking into a sharp, acrid note of cedar-fire and panic that cuts through the lavender in the air.
The Alpha driver climbs out of the truck, his scent, something heavy and spicy like cinnamon, wafting toward the porch even through the glass. Maya's breath hitches, a small, wounded sound in the back of her throat. Her hands grip the windowsill so hard her knuckles are white, and she looks ready to bolt, or to curl into a ball and wait for a blow. She must still be trapped in the past, her brain telling her that an Alpha arrival means only one thing: pain.
I know that feeling, the way the world suddenly narrows until all you can see is the predator, all you can hear is the roar of your own blood, and every shadow is a hand reaching for you. I move into the room slowly, keeping my footsteps light and stop six feet away, giving her plenty of space to breathe, making sure I’m not blocking her path to the door.
"Maya," I say, my voice low and steady. "It's just the linens. He's staying on the porch. He's not allowed inside. He's just here to drop off the boxes and leave."
She doesn't look at me. Her eyes stay fixed on the man outside as he unloads boxes of towels. "He's an Alpha," she whispers, her voice trembling, her words barely audible over the sound of the truck's idling engine. "He smells like... he smells like him. The same spice. The same heavy weight."
The comparison hits me. I know exactly which him she means. I remember the scent of Hudson Carter, the cold, metallic smell of a cage, the way fear used to be my only constant companion. I sit down on the floor, several feet away from her, making myself even smaller than I already am. I fold my hands in my lap and wait, showing her that I’m not going to force her into anything.
"Take a breath with me, Maya," I say, inhaling slowly and deeply, letting my own scent, the calm, stable heart of the pack, wash over the room. I project as much peace as I can, trying to drown out the cinnamon scent from outside. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Just the air. Feel the floor beneath you. It's solid. It's not moving."
She follows me, her chest heaving as she fights to regain control. It takes several minutes before her grip on the windowsill loosens. She slides down the wall, sinking onto the floor opposite me, her head bowed. The driver outside finishes his delivery, signs his clipboard, and drives away. The engine noise fades into the distance, leaving only the quiet hum of the house and the ticking of the clock on the wall behind us.
"I'm sorry," she chokes out, a single tear tracking through the dust on her cheek. "I should be... I should be better at this by now. I've been here three days. I'm wasting your time."
"There is no should," I tell her softly. I reach out, resting my hand on the floor between us, palm up, an invitation she can ignore if she needs to. "Healing isn't a straight line, Maya. It's a messy, looping path. Some days the world is just too loud, and your brain remembers things your heart wants to forget.” A smile forms on my lips. “It took me a long while to stop thinking that this... that my pack was going to leave me behind.”
Her brows furrow. “You? The Keller pack? You guys are all so... disgustingly in love.” She lets out a little gasp.
“Look at the porch, Maya. It's empty now. The threat is gone."
She looks up, her blue eyes red-rimmed and hollow, reflecting a depth of exhaustion I recognize all too well. "How do you do it? Everyone says you... you survived something worse. That you were held for years before your pack. But you don't look afraid. You look like you belong here. You look like you own the air you breathe."
I look at my hands, remembering the way they used to shake when Luther or Grayson first tried to touch me, how even a gentle hand on my shoulder would make me drop to my knees. I remember the darkness of the room where I’d been kept, the weight of a bond I hadn't chosen, the absolute silence of my own voice. Then I think of the nest, of Blake's messy curls and Maceo's steady, silent presence, and the way Luther once sat on a floor just like this one, for hours, waiting for me to decide I was ready to live.
"I learned that my body belongs to me," I say, using the words Luther gave me when I was still too broken to speak them myself. "I still question it sometimes. I married a man who would burn himself to ash trying to make sure I never feel afraid again, and some days I have to remind him that I didn't marry him so he could carry the whole world. I married him because he was the first person who ever asked what I wanted instead of deciding for me. But they're all right there, every day, reminding me of who I am and who I have. You're safe here, Maya. Nobody gets to decide what happens to your body here. Not ever again. Not an Alpha, not a Beta, not anyone. You get to choose every touch. You get to choose when you walk through that door and when you stay inside. You are the architect of your own space now."
She looks at my open palm for a long time. Then, tentatively, she reaches out and brushes her fingertips against mine. It’s a fleeting contact, dry and trembling, but it’s a choice. A small, monumental choice that signals she is ready to start coming back.
