Blake shifts in Luther’s lap, looking more awake at that than he has for most of the call. “The noodles with lime?”
“Yes, Bear. The noodles with lime.”
“I want those too,” he says, already softer, already thinking about home instead of numbers.
“You usually steal half of mine anyway.”
“Then Luther should order extra.”
Luther’s hand stays at the back of Blake’s neck as he nods. “I’ll order enough for everyone.”
That means too much, because Luther never orders food like he believes five adults and three children have normal appetites, but I don’t correct him. Too much means leftovers. It means nobody has to cook after a long day. It means Blake will have something easy to eat later when he forgets his body needs more than coffee and stubbornness.
Grayson leans closer to the screen. “I’ll text Maceo, so he knows we’re handling dinner.”
“Good,” I say, because if Maceo thinks too long about food, he’ll bring home something healthy, practical, and joyless just because it has protein.
Blake lifts his hand from Luther’s shirt, just before I end the call. “Love you, cupcake.”
“I love you too, Bear. Eat the rest of your food.”
He rolls his eyes, but he takes a bite of something while I’m still watching. Happy enough, I hang up and move through the other rooms, managing soft hellos and checking in on the new wing. Once I’m satisfied, I head to the activity room. The door is cracked open, and I pause to look inside, leaning against the doorframe. The room is a vibrant mess of construction paper, silver glitter, and bright bottles of tempera paint. Maceo is on the floor, his long legs folded awkwardly, with Rosalie perched on his knee like he is a throne. She’s currently holding a paintbrush like a scepter, her face smudged with a streak of magenta, directing him to add more pink to a giant paper sun.
"No, daddy. More pink. The sun is pink. It's the boss sun, and the boss sun loves pink," she declares, her little face set in lines of absolute, unshakeable authority. She is so much like Luther when she is on a mission.
"Of course, your majesty," Maceo says, his silver eyes shining with amusement as he carefully dabs pink paint onto the yellowcircle. "Pink it is. We wouldn't want to upset the celestial hierarchy."
Near the window, James works with a level of focus that is almost frightening in a child his age. He is painting a sun, too, but his is a perfect, concentric series of yellow and orange rings, his hand steady as he uses a small sponge to create a mottled texture. He doesn't have a single drop of paint on his clothes. He looks up, sees me, and gives a small, dignified nod before returning to his masterpiece.
Samuel, on the other hand, is a disaster. He has blue paint on his chin, yellow on his forehead, and a large green handprint right in the center of his white shirt. He isn't even painting on the paper anymore; he is experimenting with how the colors mix on his palms, rubbing his hands together with a squelching sound, his eyes wide with the joy of the discovery.
"Look, Papa! I made mud! It's super-mud!" Samuel shouts, holding up his messy, multi-colored hands as I step into the room.
"It's very impressive mud, Sam," I say, laughing as I sit down beside Maceo. The scent of the room, washable paint, apple juice boxes, and the warm, golden smell of my family, is so thick it feels like a physical weight against my skin. A good weight.
I lean my head back against Maceo's shoulder, watching them. This is what Ember House is for. This is why we fight for the funding, why Blake works himself into exhaustion to keep the company profitable, why Luther spends his days navigating the shark-infested waters of corporate law and legal filings.
We aren't just building a sanctuary; we’re protecting the right to be soft. We’re ensuring that Omegas like Maya can grow up to be fearless and messy and completely unaware that the world can ever be a cage. We are building a world where an Omega's scent doesn't have to be a warning sign.
Maceo must feel the shift in me, the way my muscles tense even as I sit still. He shifts his weight, pressing his warmth more firmly against my side, his arm coming around to pull me closer. "They're going to be okay, Luca," he murmurs, his voice low and vibrating against my ear, just for me. "We're not going to let anyone touch this. We've fought hard for this life and that won’t get taken easily from us."
I know that. I absolutely know that no one is just going to come in and snatch what we’ve built over the last five years. And yet, I still feel like I’m up against the world for the happiness I’m trying to keep.
4
Maceo
I’m the family lawyer and their Gamma, two things I can fully understand. My life's been built on the reliable math of cause and effect. If a threat enters a space, I neutralize it. If a document has a loophole, I close it. Even with the unpredictability of three kids, Blake,andLuca in my life... I’ve been able to find my place, where I fit. What I don't understand, apparently, is breakfast.
The kitchen's currently a disaster zone, a tactical failure of the highest order. A thin gray veil of smoke curls toward theceiling, drifting through the morning light filtering through the high windows of the estate. Despite the industrial-grade vent humming at maximum capacity, the air still smells of burnt toast and overheated butter. On the marble counter, three plates sit like accusations. The eggs are rubbery, the edges charred into an uneven brown crust that doesn't look edible by any reasonable standard. The toast has crossed the line from browned to a legal liability.
I check my watch, the heavy weight of the steel band a familiar comfort. Seven-twelve. According to the comprehensive chart I drafted on my phone last night, complete with color-coded protein cycles and staggered prep times, we should be finishing the consumption phase of the morning. I had a strategy. Quentin, our doctor and the man who keeps this pack's heart beating, was clear: Blake needs steady, high-quality fuel to manage his heart rate and the lingering tremors of his exhaustion. Luca needs dense calories to offset the energy he burns when he's nesting. Luther needs to stop pretending caffeine's a food group. And Grayson, who usually carries the weight of the kitchen like a silent martyr, needs a morning where he isn't the first one at the stove, his shoulders tight with the responsibility of feeding us all.
I'm the Gamma. I'm the steadiness in the center. But as I look at the blackened remains of a sourdough slice, I realize my silent protector instincts don't translate to the culinary arts. I can secure a building in four minutes, but I can't flip an omelet to save my life.
"Assessment, Samuel?" I ask, not looking back as I attempt to scrape a particularly stubborn piece of sourdough off the cast-iron pan. The metal-on-metal screech is enough to make my jaw tighten.
I hear the scrape of a heavy oak chair against the hardwood. Samuel, who has the climbing instincts of a mountain goat andthe confidence of a child who's never once doubted his own importance, hauls himself up to counter height. He's still in his dinosaur pajamas, his dark hair a vertical mess of sleep-static. He peers at the nearest plate with the kind of clinical detachment I usually reserve for a hostile merger. He leans in close, sniffing the eggs with a wrinkled nose.
