Page 22 of Lavender and Lightning

“You don’t need alphas who are going to fuck with your heart. And this thing feels like a recipe for disaster,” he replies, starting off strong but trailing off toward the end.

“First of all, if you’re implying that this is a ‘recipe for disaster’ because we have agreed, as consenting adults, to be in committed relationships with more than one person, then that’s really shitty of you,” I reply, shifting my weight and huffing out an irritated sigh.

“It’s not shitty to be concerned,” he snarls.

“What’s there to be concerned about, Jason?”

“Maybe that these alphas are just looking for a sweet, trusting omega to keep locked up and breeding at home while they go out and fuck whoever they want. You’ve given them the green light on sharing you amongst them, so what’s stopping them from finding other people to join the fucking party?”

My jaw falls open and, for a long time, my mind just plays his shouted accusation over and over.Locked up and breeding.Green light on sharing. Finding other people. Jason says my name a few times, but I can only manage a choked exhale as I try to process the magnitude of this. I knew Jason wouldn’t understand right away, but I didn’t expect this… vitriolic judgment.

“That’s what you think? That I’d tolerate being treated like I’m some sort of… brood mare while my pack mates disrespect me? Is that the kind of people you think Rhett and Mateo are? You don’t even know them, and you’re trying to pass judgment like you’ve–”

“Listen, Lydia, that came out wrong. Please–”

“No, it sounds like you said exactly what you meant, Jason.”

He lets out a harsh sigh, and I can almost picture the way he’d be running a hand through his hair, maybe even pacing.

“Lydia, I’m just–with everything going on and your accident, I just don’t want you making huge decisions like this without considering all sides,” he goes on, a little desperate now.

“That’s rich coming from someone who only knows a tiny fraction of the story,” I snort.

“Come on, that’s not fair.”

“I have to go. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Wait, Lydi, no–”

“Love you, Jace. Bye.”

He’s still speaking when I pull the phone away from my face and end the call, but I don’t care. My gut is a roiling pit of anger and hurt and anxiety, and I swallow hard against a sudden lump in my throat.

The plastic-y smell of the scent blockers is giving me a headache the longer I sit here, so I stand to drag myself upstairs. My feet feel like they’ve been encased in cement, and dragging them from one step to the next feels almost impossible. I stumble through the door into the kitchen, swaying on shaking knees. I need to move, do something. I stand in the middle of the empty house, looking around at all the little touches that have made this house a home. The art on the walls, the photos in frames on the kitchen windowsill and mantle. I can scent the mix of them on everything. Alexandra’s cloves and mulled wine. Lucas’s campfire and s’mores. Mateo’s lemonade and fresh cut grass. Rhett’s leather and whiskey.

I wander through the house like a ghost, seeing the history of this chosen family. The world seems muffled around me, the central air rushing through the vents sounding more like a whistling mountain gale on the other side of my pounding heartbeat in my ears. There are awards on display in the formal living room, markers of the achievements of the St. Clair Foundation. The light from the windows catches on the gilded display items, striking deep and making my head pound and spin.

Slumping into the foyer, my chest aches as I struggle to draw a full breath. I don’t dare open the door to Alexandra’s private office, but I lay a hand on the wood of the door and breathe in her scent that lingers there. I close my eyes, fighting the burning behind my lids. My chest feels too full and somehow too empty at the same time. I push off and meander up the stairs until my feet sink into the thick carpet of the hallway. The bedroom doors remain closed, and I stare at them in turns. I’d been inside Mateo's room a few times, having spent those nights in his bed, but the others are still mysteries. They’ve been giving me space to settle into my room, to adjust things and make them just right before they begin joining me at night. I’d been trying, but without my blankets and pillows, everything has felt wrong. The space might belong to me, but that nest isn’t mine.

I wander back downstairs, my palms slick with sweat as I struggle to grip the handrail. I shuffle from room to room, unable to keep still. Eventually, I come to a stop and stand at the kitchen island, staring at the door to the lower level of the house. I want to go back down there, but I can’t get my feet to take another step. There’s a restlessness in my chest, a need to move and do something, but I can’t figure out what. I let out a long exhale of a sigh, closing my eyes and shaking my head.

I turn around and start rummaging through the cabinets as best as I can with one hand, gathering the ingredients for a peanut butter sandwich on the island. Maybe I just need something in my stomach to settle myself for the time being. Then I could try to nest again.

Getting the jar open and bread out of the bag is more frustration than I can take. By the time I’m ready to start assembling, my teeth are clenched, and the flush of anger rises to my face. I maneuver the bread into my left arm, the one still strapped to my chest, and try to wield the knife with my good hand. Gritting my teeth, I struggle to extract some peanut butter, sending the jar tumbling away, knocking into a plate. I watch as the plate slides away, off the counter, and shatters on the floor.

ten

Lucas

Ipullmybikeinto a space out in front of Henry’s garage. It’s been a few weeks since the accident, and the insurance adjuster finally stopped by. Judging by the mechanic’s tone during our earlier phone call, it wasn’t good news, but he wouldn’t give me details.

As I kill the engine and set the kickstand, I pull my helmet off with a shake of my hair. I wave to one of the guys as he walks back from parking a car and take a deep breath before heading inside through the open garage door. The sounds of chatter and tools are like music to my ears. Henry and I became friends when I was working on fixing up my vintage muscle car, and he’s the only one my pack trusts to do repairs on their luxury vehicles. It was a no-brainer to tow Lydia’s car here the night of the accident.

“Hey, man. How’s it hanging?” Henry booms as he spots me from across the garage.

I smile and shrug, slapping palms and bumping fists in the universal bro handshake. “Same old, same old. Never a dull moment.”

Henry laughs, his green eyes dancing under a heavy brow. “Well, I’ve got your girl’s car out back. I want to show you something.”

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