Page 17 of Daisy
We eat dinner in comfortable silence, but I can feel the tension building between us. Not bad tension—anticipation, maybe. The knowledge that after tonight, things might be different.
I've spent a year building a quiet life with August. Working odd jobs, staying out of fights, pretending I'm not the kind of man who solves problems with violence. It's been peaceful. Good.
But peace is a luxury, and some situations don't respond to quiet solutions.
"Wait..." August says as we clear the dishes, his voice thoughtful. "Don't you know someone who works at the Omega House? One of the guards?"
I pause, plate halfway to the sink. His hazel-green eyes search my face.
I set the plate down carefully, my mind immediately going to ice-blue eyes and shared foster home memories. "Dante."
"That's his name?"
Complicated question. Dante and I shared more than just foster homes—we shared the understanding that the world was divided into predators and prey, and you had to choose which one you were.
We just made different choices.
The Riverside GroupHome smelled like industrial disinfectant and broken dreams.
I was fifteen when they placed me there, fresh from my third failed foster placement. Old enough to know better than to hope, young enough to still be surprised when hope died anyway.
Dante was already there when I arrived. Sixteen, tall for his age, with these ice-blue eyes that missed nothing. He had a reputation—not for causing trouble, but for ending it. The younger kids gravitated toward him like he was magnetic north.
We didn't talk for the first month. Just watched each other, taking measure.
The thing about group homes is they have their own ecosystem. Alphas, betas. Everyone found their place in the hierarchy, usually through violence or the threat of it.
Dante's place was at the top. Not because he was the biggest or the meanest, but because he was the most controlled. When someone stepped out of line, when the staff weren't paying attention and things got ugly, Dante handled it.
Quietly. Efficiently. With just enough force to make his point.
I respected that. Didn't like it, necessarily, but I respected it.
The first time we spoke was over a kid named Tommy. Twelve years old, beta-born, small for his age. Some of the older alphas had decided he made a good target for their frustrations.
I found them in the laundry room, three sixteen-year-olds cornering one terrified kid. The smart play would have been to walk away. Mind my own business. But I've never been particularly smart.
"Problem here?" I asked, stepping into the room.
The biggest alpha—Rick, I think his name was—turned to sneer at me. "No problem. Just teaching little Tommy some manners."
Tommy's face was already bruising. His scent carried pure terror.
"Looks to me like he's learned enough for one day," I said.
"Looks to me like you should mind your own fucking business," Rick shot back.
That's when Dante appeared in the doorway.
He didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Just looked at Rick with those cold blue eyes, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"You're done here," Dante said quietly.
Rick started to argue, but something in Dante's expression stopped him. All three alphas filed out without another word.
Tommy ran.
Dante and I stood there in the sudden silence, sized each other up properly for the first time.
