Page 46 of Puck Your Charity

"I'm a fucking disgrace," she lets out a broken, terrified sob. "I told myself I was stronger than this. I told myself I was smarter than this. But my body didn't care about my plans. It just wanted them. And I hate it. I hate that I couldn't stop myself. I hate that I'm already standing here in this house, like I belong here. I don't belong here!"

I watch her spiral.

Finn would pull her into a hug and offer sweet, comforting words. He would coddle her and tell her everything is fine. Lawrence would use his smooth charm to distract her, offering a joke and a warm smile to ease the tension. Victor would bark an order for her to sit down and stop panicking.

None of those tactics work right now.

Olive spent her entire life steering the ship. She curated her Beta existence to be safe, predictable, and independent. She controlled every variable. The presentation heat stripped the steering wheel from her hands. Waking up in a mansion, surrounded by Alphas, smelling like slick and sex, shattered her foundation. She's trying to process the fact that her own nature betrayed her, and she feels like she's already lost the war.

She needs someone strong enough to take the crushing burden off her shoulders. She needs a wall to lean on.

I step forward. My boots sink into the plush carpet.

Olive stops pacing, her eyes darting to me. She looks trapped. She tries to back away, but her heel catches on the edge of the rug, and she stumbles.

I close the distance between us before she can hit the floor. I catch her by the elbows, pulling her steady against me. I don't pull her into a hug; I just provide a solid, unmoving presence.

"Look at me." I issue the command in a soft, dark rumble.

She lifts her chin. Her terrified, tear-streaked face meets my calm, steady gaze.

"You are exhausted." I keep my voice steady, offering an honest truth. "You carry a burden too large for one person. You fight a war inside your own head. The battle is over, Olive. You don't have to steer the ship today."

Olive stares at me. Her chest heaves with ragged breaths. Her brown eyes dart across my face. She braces her tense shoulders, looking like a woman expecting a lecture or an Alpha command to force her into submission.

I take a deliberate step backward, giving her space. I keep my hands open at my sides.

"You look like you want to jump out the window." I keep my voice a low, steady rumble. "I want you to match my breathing."

She shakes her head. "I need to leave. I made a mistake. I need to figure out a plan."

"The plans wait for tomorrow." I sink down onto the carpet, crossing my legs. Taking a seat on the floor makes my towering frame smaller, removing the height advantage. "Sit with me, Olive."

She stares at me, suspicious of the request.

"Just sit." I tap the floor in front of me. "No tricks. Just breathe."

She hesitates. Taking a tentative step forward, she sinks onto the carpet across from me.

"Watch my chest." I inhale a deep breath. "In for a count of four. Hold it. Exhale for four."

I exaggerate the movement of my lungs. She watches me. Her first attempt catches in her throat. She chokes on a sob.

"Try again." I offer an encouraging nod. "You dictate the pace. I follow you."

She takes a shaky breath in. I match her. We breathe together. The terror in her brown eyes begins to recede. The sour panic in her apple pie scent mellows, leaving a softer, exhausted sweetness.

"Better?" I search her face for a reaction.

She nods, pulling her knees up to her chest. "I hate this. I hate losing my mind. I hate wanting things I never asked for."

"Your body went through an intense trauma." I lean my forearms on my knees. "You fight your own instincts. That causes your spiral."

"I need control, Malcolm. If I surrender to this pack, I have no life. I become a guest in a mansion."

"You look at control the wrong way." I look her straight in the eye. "You view surrender as a defeat. You think submitting means becoming a victim."

She frowns. "It means losing my independence."