ABOUT KNOT HAPPENING

A curvy librarian, a fake date, and a mysterious masquerade ball that changes everything...

Belle Hartwell loves books, chocolate, and a quiet life as Willowbrook's head librarian. The last thing she wants is to be matched with a pack at the town's most exclusive social event, otherwise she will be made to leave her beloved library and become a breeding machine! A fate that seems inevitable for all omegas, even late bloomers like herself.

When the mysterious annual Masquerade Ball returns to the abandoned Thornfield Palace, Belle strikes a deal with her childhood best friend and beta, Adam. The plan: fake date at the ball, dodge the matchmaking ceremonies, and silence the town gossips. Simple, right?

But nothing is simple when an unexpected tornado traps Belle with three beastly unmated alphas that constantly visit the library but never borrow a book.

Now Belle must navigate more than just the storm raging outside, because she can’t stay away from the three alphas. She's trapped with Marcus's commanding presence, Felix's quiet intensity, and Dante's playful charm.

Belle's carefully constructed walls are crumbling faster than her suppressants, like pages torn from a spine. And when her omega nature finally breaks free, Belle discovers that some books can't prepare you for the reality of finding your fated pack, or the courage it takes to claim your own happily ever after.

What readers are saying: "Bridgerton meets Beauty and the Beast with the perfect omegaverse twist!" "Finally, a plus-size heroine who gets the fairy tale she deserves!" "Lady Inkwell's gossip column framing had me hooked from page one!"

KNOT HAPPENING

JESSE PACK

THE WEEKLY WILLBROOK WHISPER - SOCIETY COLUMN

Your Source for Society Secrets and Scandalous Revelations

Dear Devoted Readers,

Can you hear that sound? It's not your phone buzzing with another failed dating app match. It's the countdown to the most anticipated event of our social calendar. Yes, my devoted followers, I'm talking about the Annual Masquerade Ball at the enigmatic Thornfield Palace.

For those unfortunate souls who've just discovered our little corner of the internet (and really, how did you end up following Willbrook's drama when you could be doom-scrolling literally anywhere else?), allow me to enlighten you about this deliciously archaic tradition. Every autumn, when influencers start posting their #FallVibes content and the local coffee shops switch to their pumpkin spice everything, that imposing modern mansion opens its doors for one night of supposed destiny. But don't mistake this for some Instagram-worthy networking event. Oh no, this spectacle serves a far more desperate purpose.

You see, darlings, our Annual Masquerade Ball is what the locals breathlessly hashtag as a #DestinyBall. It's a last resort for alphas, betas, and omegas whose dating app profiles have gone stale and whose friends have stopped setting them up. They descend upon our little town from across the country, clutching the hope that one magical evening will solve what months of swiping, speed dating, and "meeting organically" couldn't.

The local Airbnb hosts absolutely live for this event, because every room within fifty miles gets booked solid at premium rates. Poor souls endure overpriced accommodations and our town's notoriously spotty WiFi just to waltz around in designer masks with complete strangers, hoping their scent compatibility will lead to that elusive perfect bond.

But here's where our quaint little tradition becomes absolutely maddening, my pets. Those coveted golden invitations to this carnival of romantic desperation? They can't be purchased with cryptocurrency, inherited through family connections, or earned through your LinkedIn network. Instead, they're distributed through some laughably "fair" lottery system that selects from online applications submitted throughout the year. No one knows who runs the mysterious selection process, and the whole thing is more secretive than a tech startup's IPO plans.

The truly bizarre part? These golden invitations simply appear. One day you're going about your mundane little life, and suddenly there it is. Sitting on your desk at work, slipped under your apartment door, tucked into your car's windshield wipers. No delivery confirmation, no tracking number, no exhausted courier demanding a signature. Just elegant, impossibly pristine golden paper that someone managed to place without being seen.

So as autumn settles over our charming little corner of nowhere and you find yourself checking every surface of your workspace and peeking around your front door with uncharacteristic obsession, remember this: somewhere in the shadows, golden invitations are being prepared by unknown hands. Names are being selected according to incomprehensible criteria. Destinies are allegedly being written by whatever passes for fate in our swipe right world.

How very... democratic.

Watching with amusement (and an excellent Wi-Fi connection),

Lady Inkwell

Follow me @LadyInkwellSpills for all the tea ☕️✨

1

BELLE

My favorite part of the day is when I can indulge in my books, chocolate, and spend quality time with my best friend, Adam. We were neighbors when we were kids, our love of books brought us together, and since then we've been inseparable. So when there was a job going at the library, the one that Mom was part owner of in the small town of Willowbrook, Adam joined too.

After all, we're one of the few people who have never left. Others leave to go and explore the world. Adam and I do that from books.

We don't only have a love of books, but chocolate too.

"If you keep baking like this, then you may have to put a bakery section in the library too," he says as he walks over to the side of the reception desk. "Good thing I keep funding your gourmet addiction, or you'd be stuck making cookies from boxed mix."

He's teasing, but he’s right. Adam's generosity of my baking experiments means I can afford Belgian chocolate, Madagascar vanilla, and professional grade equipment which wouldn’t be impossible on my librarian salary.

Two o'clock is the quiet time here. The young moms have been and had reading time with their toddlers in the morning, the retirees have been for their morning peace and quiet before meeting their besties in the local diner or café to gossip about everyone and anyone in town, and the school children, well they're still at school so they're not out yet.

Which leaves only maternity moms who could walk in at any time, but they tend to be early in the morning or late afternoon. Either way, this gives Adam and me our favorite time of day when it’s just the books, and whatever delicious creation I've brought from my kitchen in the morning.

"A bakery section isn't the worst idea you've ever had," I laugh, pushing the plate of double chocolate brownies closer to him. The rich scent mingles with the familiar library smell of aged paper and binding glue, creating my own personal heaven.

"Though I think Mrs. Henderson would have something to say about competition for her café."

Adam grins, that shy smile that's been the same since we were eight years old and he offered to share his sandwich with me during recess. His dark hair falls across his forehead in that perpetually messy way that makes him look younger than his twenty-eight years.

"Mrs. Henderson's brownies taste like cardboard compared to yours. Besides, you could call it 'Books and Bites' or something like that.”

“Really?” I gasp, pretending that I’m offended by his suggestion as I press my hand to my chest. The movement makes my soft curves bounce slightly, and I automatically adjust my oversized sweater, a habit I've developed since my awakening last year. Everything feels more noticeable now, more exposed, even though the suppressants keep my scent carefully neutral. "I'll have you know my pun game is impeccable."

"Your pun game is why we lost trivia night last month," he reminds me, settling into his usual spot behind the circulation desk.

I watch him move with that familiar, comfortable grace he only shows around me. In public, Adam is all nervous energy and stammered words, but here in our sanctuary, he's just... Adam. My Adam, a beta, who isn’t bounded and my best friend.

The afternoon light streams through the tall Victorian windows, catching the dust motes like tiny fairy lights. The original hardwood floors creak in all the right places, telling stories of generations of readers who've wandered these same aisles. Mom's collection takes up the entire east wing, first editions and rare finds she spent decades acquiring, but never got to finish when she was head librarian just like me. Being here feels like being wrapped in her memory, surrounded by the books she loved and the dream she built.

I take a generous bite of brownie, savoring the rich chocolate that melts on my tongue. These are stress brownies, the kind I make when my mind won't settle, when the suppressants make me feel like I'm floating just outside my own body. It's been over a year since my late awakening turned my world upside down, but some days the adjustment still feels impossible.

One moment I'd been Belle Hartwell, the bubbly librarian who loved books more than people. The next, I was Belle Hartwell, the Omega who had to hide behind medication just to function in public. The memory still makes me shudder when I'd been working late, cataloging a new shipment of romance novels, when the heat hit like a freight train. One second I was fine, the next I was on the floor of the historical fiction section, burning up from the inside out, my body finally revealing what it had been hiding for twenty-four years.

Thank God Adam found me. Thank God he didn't ask too many questions when I claimed it was just a panic attack, just stress from working too many late shifts.

The suppressants work, mostly, but they leave me feeling muted, like someone turned down the volume on all my emotions except hunger. Hence the brownies. And the constant snacking. And the way I've learned to bake my feelings into whatever treats appear on our shared desk each afternoon.

"Speaking of terrible ideas," Adam says, and something in his tone makes me look up from my chocolate-induced reverie. He's fidgeting with a piece of paper, folding and unfolding one corner in that nervous habit he's had since childhood.

"I got something interesting in the mail yesterday."

"Oh?" I lick chocolate from my thumb, trying to read his expression. Adam has exactly three facial expressions when he's nervous: mild concern (usually about overdue books), moderate worry (typically about his mother's latest matchmaking attempt), and absolute panic (reserved for when Mrs. Chen corners him in the romance section and asks about his dating life). Right now, he's hovering somewhere between moderate worry and absolute panic.

"An invitation," he continues, still torturing that poor piece of paper. "To the Masquerade Ball."

The brownie turns to sawdust in my mouth.

The Masquerade Ball. The annual event that has the entire town of Willowbrook buzzing with speculation and excitement. No one knows who hosts it, no one knows how they select the guest list, and no one who attends ever talks about what actually happens there. What everyone does know is that it's held at Thornfield Palace—the mysterious estate on the outskirts of town that sits empty eleven months of the year, only to spring to life each October for one magical night.

And somehow, my shy, stammering, never-been-on-a-date best friend has been invited.

"You're joking," I manage, though I can see from his expression that he's not. My voice comes out higher than usual, and I clear my throat. "Adam, that's... that's incredible! Do you know how exclusive those invitations are? Mrs. Chen has been trying to get one for years."

"I know." He sets the paper down carefully, smoothing out the wrinkles he's created. His hands shake slightly—barely noticeable unless you've known him since childhood like I have. "I can't figure out why they'd invite me. I mean, what do I bring to a fancy ball? I can't dance, I can barely string two sentences together around strangers, and the last time I wore a suit was to my cousin's wedding where I spilled punch down the front within the first hour."

There's something twisting in my chest, something sharp and uncomfortable that I don't want to examine too closely. The suppressants usually keep these kinds of intense emotions at bay, but this feeling cuts right through the medication like a blade. "Are you going to go?"

The question hangs between us, and I realize I'm holding my breath waiting for his answer. Which is ridiculous. Adam should go. He deserves to go. He deserves to find someone who sees how wonderful he is underneath all that shyness, someone who appreciates his quick wit and gentle heart and the way he always remembers exactly how I like my coffee.

Someone who isn't me.

Someone who isn't an Omega in hiding, pretending to be something she's not.

"I don't know," he admits, running his hand through his dark hair until it sticks up at odd angles. "Part of me thinks I should. I mean, when will I ever get another chance like this? But, I worry that I’ll make a fool of myself."

"You won't make a fool of yourself," I say automatically, even though that twisting feeling is getting stronger. My chest feels tight, like someone's wrapped a band around my ribs and keeps pulling it tighter. "You're brilliant, Adam. You're kind and funny and anyone would be lucky to…”

I cut myself off before I can finish that sentence, and say something that might reveal the sudden panic clawing at my throat. Because what if he does go? What if he meets someone? What if some beautiful, confident Omega or Alpha sees past his shyness to the amazing Beta underneath, and suddenly I'm not his best friend anymore? What if I'm just his coworker, the girl he used to eat lunch with before he got mated and moved on with his life?

I have no right to be jealous. I'm just his friend, his coworker, his chocolate supplier. Nothing more.

"Belle?" Adam's voice is gentle, concerned. He leans forward slightly, and I catch a hint of his natural Beta scent like clean cotton and old books, it makes my suppressant-dulled instincts stir dangerously. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I force a smile, the same bright expression I've been perfecting for over a year now. The one that says everything's fine, I'm just bubbly Belle who loves books and baking and has absolutely no complicated feelings whatsoever. "Sorry, just thinking about all the gossip Mrs. Henderson will want when you get back. You know she's going to corner you for details."

"If I go," he corrects, but there's something in his voice that suggests he's already made up his mind.

"When you go," I insist, pushing down the selfish part of me that wants to tell him not to. The part that wants to grab his hand and tell him to stay here, safe in our little library bubble where nothing has to change. "This is your chance, Adam. Your chance to find your person."

The words taste bitter, but I mean them. Even if the thought of Adam finding his mate makes me want to lock myself in the poetry section and cry into a first edition of Keats.

"Maybe," he says quietly. "It's pretty obvious that my parents want me mated and out of the house." He pauses, avoiding my stare, the one that's trying to read his mind. I never try to read it, because it happens naturally, but there's nothing natural about what's happening right now. And if I don't control my emotions, then I'm scared that not only will Adam go to the ball, but no amount of suppressants can stop me from going into heat.

"Anyway, what about you, Belle? Don't you ever think about finding your person?"

I nearly choke on my own saliva. If only he knew. If only I could tell him that I found my person years ago, and every day we sit in this very library, sharing books, dreams and terrible jokes. If only I could explain that my person has kind eyes and gentle hands and a laugh that makes everything feel right with the world.

If only my person wasn't my best friend, who has no idea what I really am.

This is the problem: the feelings I have for Adam are the type that a sister has for her brother, the ones that don't want to let go. This bubble we've created exists because I have no one in my life anymore. No family and no real friends. Whereas Adam has parents, he has a family, and he was brought up in a pack, and his parents want the same for him. But I have no one, and if Adam leaves me, then I'll have no one. The thought of it terrifies me more than dying alone.

"I'm perfectly happy with my books," I lie, popping another piece of brownie into my mouth to avoid saying anything else incriminating. The chocolate turns to ash on my tongue. "Besides, you know how I feel about all that pack bonding stuff. Too complicated."

It's not entirely a lie. Pack bonding is complicated when you're an Omega in hiding. When every instinct screams at you to nest and claim and submit, but you can't risk anyone finding out what you are. When the suppressants keep your scent neutral but make you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

Adam nods, accepting my deflection the way he always does. He's never pushed, never pried, never questioned why I've never dated or shown interest in anyone. He just accepts Belle the Librarian, Belle the Book Lover, Belle the Friend. He has no idea that Belle the Omega exists at all.

"You're probably right," he says. "It's all so... intense. All that scenting and claiming and..." He trails off, cheeks flushing pink in that endearing way that makes him look like a teenager again. "Sorry, I don't mean to sound like I'm judging. It's just not something I really understand."

There’s the reminder of why this can never work. Adam is a Beta, sweet , steady and uncomplicated. He doesn't understand the burning need that lives under my skin, the way every instinct tells me to curl up in his scent and never leave. He doesn't know that sometimes, when he's reaching for a book on a high shelf, I catch a hint of his natural scent and have to excuse myself to the bathroom until the suppressants kick back in.

He doesn't know that I'm not the uncomplicated friend he thinks I am.

"It's fine," I manage. "We're both just... not built for all that drama."

"Exactly." He grins, and the familiar expression makes my chest ache. "We're much better suited to quiet afternoons and chocolate therapy."

"Chocolate therapy is a legitimate medical treatment," I inform him, grateful for the change of subject. "I read it in a very official-looking article."

"Was this article perhaps titled 'Ten Reasons Why Chocolate is Better Than People’?” He asks.

"Maybe."

"Did you write this article?" He teases.

"...Possibly."

Adam laughs, the sound echoing through the quiet library, bouncing off the high ceilings and settling into my bones like a warm hug. For a moment everything feels normal again. Like we're just Belle and Adam, best friends who finish each other's sentences and share everything from book recommendations to baked goods. Like there aren't secrets sitting between us, heavy and impossible to navigate.

But then he picks up the invitation again, smoothing it carefully against the desk, and reality crashes back down around me.

"I should probably give them an answer soon," he says thoughtfully. "And I should probably tell my mother. She's been asking about my 'romantic prospects' again."

"Your romantic prospects?" I can't help but smile at the phrase, even though my heart feels like it's trying to claw its way out of my chest. “It doesn’t take a genius to know that she’s the one behind the invitation.”

We both chuckle, because once Adam caught his mother giving out credential cards as if she was handing out resumes while job hunting, but it wasn't about her looking for work, it was her looking for a mate for her beta son.

“Is that what she's calling it now?"

"Last week she cornered me by the historical fiction section and gave me a twenty-minute lecture about the importance of 'settling down before thirty.' Apparently, I'm running out of time to find my 'life partner.'" He makes air quotes around the phrases, rolling his eyes. "She's got this whole theory about how Betas need extra time to find the right match, so we should start looking early."

The twisting in my chest intensifies. Mrs. Fletcher isn't wrong, Adam is twenty-eight, and in a small town like Willowbrook, that's practically ancient in terms of remaining unmated. Most people find their packs or partners in their early twenties. The fact that both Adam and I have made it this long without any romantic entanglements is starting to draw attention.

Unwanted attention that could lead to uncomfortable questions I'm not prepared to answer.

"She means well," I say carefully, though my voice sounds strained even to my own ears. "Even if her methods are a bit... invasive."

"A bit invasive? Belle, she tried to set me up with Mrs. Henderson's niece last month. Ambushed me in the grocery store and everything." Adam shakes his head, but he's smiling. "The poor girl looked excited, but I felt mortified." It's no secret that Mrs. Henderson is desperate for a mate for her omega niece. The thing is that there's only room for male alphas in any relationship, and her niece acts like an alpha, because she's too demanding and aggressive, so she wouldn't suit someone like Adam with his laid-back personality.

"What did you do?"

"Hid in the cereal aisle until they left."

I snort with laughter, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it. The image of Adam crouched behind boxes of cornflakes like some kind of romance refugee is exactly the kind of thing that makes me love him so much it hurts. "You're terrible."

"I'm practical," he corrects, and then his expression grows more serious. "But maybe that's the problem. I’ve been too practical, too comfortable in my little bubble. Maybe it's time to take a risk."

My stomach drops. "You mean the ball."

"I mean the ball." He looks at me, those familiar brown eyes uncertain but determined. "I think I'm going to do it, Belle. I need to move on from here, the thing is the more I’ve been reading lately the more I’ve been thinking about life outside of this town.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I knew this moment was coming, because I could see it building in his expression, in the way he kept smoothing that invitation. Yet, hearing him say it out loud makes it real in a way that steals the breath from my lungs.

"That's... that's wonderful," I manage, and I even sound like I mean it. Years of practice at hiding my feelings serve me well. "You're going to be amazing, Adam. Whoever you meet is going to be so lucky."

The words feel like glass in my throat, but they're true. Adam is amazing, and perfect in ways that most people never bother to see. He deserves someone who will appreciate him.

"Thanks, Belle." His fingers brush mine as he reaches for another brownie. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

The irony is devastating. He doesn't know what he'd do without me, but he's about to find out. Because if he goes to that ball and finds his person, everything between us will change. It has to. That's how these things work.

And I'll be left here with my books and my brownies, whilst pretending I'm perfectly fine with just being alone.

"You'll never have to find out," I lie, pulling my hand back and reaching for another brownie. The chocolate tastes like nothing now, just empty calories to fill the hollow ache in my chest. "After all, who else is going to keep you supplied with chocolate therapy?"

"True," he agrees, completely missing the way my smile doesn't quite reach my eyes. "I'd probably waste away without your baking."

"Probably," I echo, taking a large bite to avoid saying anything else that might give me away.

Because the truth is, I'm the one who might waste away. I'm the one who's going to have to figure out how to be happy for him when he finds his fairy tale ending.

This place has been my refuge for so long, the one constant in a life that changed completely in the span of a single evening.

But underneath the familiar comfort, something has shifted. Something has changed.

Adam Fletcher has been invited to the ball, and nothing will ever be the same again.

2

THE WILLOWBROOK CHRONICLE

Darlings,

Lady Inkwell has been observing the most fascinating developments regarding one Mr. Adam Fletcher—you know, that quiet young man who haunts our public library like some sort of literary ghost.

Word has reached my ears that our seemingly unremarkable Mr. Fletcher has received one of those coveted golden invitations to the annual Masquerade Ball at Thornfield Palace. How absolutely unexpected that such an unassuming figure should find himself selected for this most exclusive of gatherings.

But here's where our little tale becomes truly intriguing, darlings: Reliable sources whisper that Mr. Fletcher, a man who reportedly turns pink at the mere mention of social gatherings has been spotted about town engaged in what can only be described as... preparation. Practice conversations with unknown parties, consultations regarding proper attire, and what my sources describe as "nervous pacing" outside the local boutiques.

It was most uncharacteristic behavior for a beta whose idea of excitement is apparently alphabetizing his music library.

The speculation running through our little town's gossip networks is positively delicious: Will our retiring librarian surprise us all by attending this legendary ball? And more tantalizing still, might there be some secret arrangement, some hidden understanding with a companion yet to be revealed?

After all, darlings, even the most bookish among us must occasionally venture beyond the safety of their literary sanctuaries. Perhaps Mr. Fletcher harbors deeper waters than his mild exterior suggests.

Lady Inkwell shall be watching the developments with great interest. Sometimes the most unexpected players create the most entertaining drama.

Yours in delighted speculation,

Lady Inkwell

P.S. - One does hope that if our dear Mr. Fletcher has indeed secured a companion for this venture, she proves worthy of such a momentous occasion. First impressions at a Destiny Ball are, after all, rather permanent.

3

THEO

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across Main Street as we leave the courthouse, where Felix just spent two hours trying to explain to the historical society why their cheap renovation ideas would totally wreck a building that's been perfectly fine for over a hundred years. His jaw is still locked showing his frustration, and Marcus isn't much better. He's not good at hiding his emotions, neither of us are, which is why we're known as the beastly pack of town. It's good, it means that people take us seriously, and we're good at our jobs. Marcus runs the biggest construction company in three counties, Felix handles all the architecture and restoration work, and I'm head of security for everything we build.

We've been a pack for five years now, ever since we all ended up in this small town for different reasons and realized we fit together perfectly. Three alphas without an omega, which makes us restless and probably more intimidating than we mean to be. Most packs our size have found their omega by now, but we're still waiting. Still hoping.

Right now, I can see Mrs. Henderson duck behind her café window the second she spots us, and the Miller family literally crosses to the other side of the street to avoid walking past us. People are scared of us, and honestly, I get it. There's something about three big alphas walking together that makes everyone nervous, like we're trouble waiting to happen.

"Fucking cowards," Marcus mutters under his breath, noticing the same avoidance we both see. He's always been good at reading people, probably comes from running a business, though he doesn't really care what most people think of us anyway. At six foot four, Marcus has broad shoulders and the kind of build that comes from actually working construction instead of just managing it. His dark hair and sharp jawline don't help with the intimidation factor.

"Better than fake smiles," I counter as we keep walking down Main. Military training taught me to read people and situations, but five years in Willowbrook has taught me something different: how small town politics actually work. "At least we know where we stand."

"Which is apparently that we're the scary guys," Felix adds, his Italian accent thicker when he's annoyed. "Though, it's kind of nice. No one bothers us while we work." Felix is the pretty one of our pack, if you can call someone pretty when they're six foot two and built like they could throw you through a wall. His olive skin and green eyes might look friendly on someone else, but combined with his size, even his smiles seem dangerous.

We're getting close to the library now, the big old Victorian building that Felix has been working on. Through the tall windows, I can see people inside. The afternoon light makes everything look warm and cozy in there.

I know I'm not helping our reputation either. Years in the military left me with scars and the kind of watchful look that makes people nervous. At six foot three, I'm the middle height of our pack, but my blond hair and blue eyes don't make me look any friendlier when I'm constantly checking for trouble.

"Wait," I say, my attention caught by something in the library.

There they are: Belle Hartwell and Adam Chen. The librarians doing their usual afternoon chocolate thing. I've noticed this routine every time we walk past that they always sit in the same corner like it's their private spot, the way Belle gets all animated when she's talking, how Adam just listens and nods along.

But today, watching from out here, something feels off.

"What are we looking at?" Marcus asks, following where I'm staring.

"Those two," I say, pointing toward the window. "Belle and Adam. Look at how they're sitting."

Felix steps closer to get a better view, automatically checking out their body language. "They're sitting across from each other, not next to each other. Keeping their distance even though they have the whole corner to themselves."

"He's focused on the food, not on her," Marcus observes with the clinical detachment he applies to hostile negotiations. "And she's talking like whatever she's telling him is really important."

I watch Belle lean forward across the table, getting all serious about whatever she's telling him. Adam smiles and responds, but there's something... friendly about it. Like they're comfortable together, but not in that electric way you'd expect if they were actually into each other.

"You know what's been bugging me?" I say, and both my packmates look at me. I don't usually share what I'm thinking.

"What's up?" Felix asks.

"Three years we've been running those damn balls. Three years hoping we'd find our omega, making the perfect setup for other people to meet their mates while we go home alone every fucking time."

The frustration I've been holding back finally spills out. We've put all this work and money into creating something amazing for other people, while our pack is still incomplete.

"And meanwhile," I continue, watching Belle get animated about whatever she's explaining to Adam, "the most obvious omega in town is sitting right there, hanging out with her best friend, completely clueless that three alphas have been looking for years."

"You think Belle is “our omega”?” Marcus asks, and there's something hungry in his voice that makes my alpha side wake up.

"I think Belle is an omega, period," I correct him. "She's hiding it, probably doesn't even know it herself. But definitely omega."

Felix moves closer to the window, studying Belle with new interest. "What makes you think that?"

"Experience," I say simply. "You learn to read people, to see through the act they're putting on. Belle is pretending to be a beta the same way I used to pretend to be a regular civilian when I was undercover."

"Explain," Marcus says, his business brain already working.

"Watch how she moves around other alphas by always keeping her distance, even when she doesn't seem to realize she's doing it. The way she controls her emotions. She's built her whole life around taking care of other people, which screams omega, but she does it like she's in charge instead of part of a pack."

I pause, watching Belle gesture passionately about something, her whole body showing how smart and protective she is.

"And," I add quietly, "she doesn't smell right for a beta. There's something underneath that doesn't match what she's supposed to be. Something that only alphas like us would pick up on when she lets her guard down."

"She's on suppressants," Felix says immediately, getting it.

"Has to be. Which means either something bad happened to her, or she's been hiding what she is for so long she's forgotten."

"Real mate bonds work differently than regular alpha and omega attraction," Marcus explains like he's giving a presentation. "Suppressants can block normal omega scents, but they can't completely hide the mating scent from the right alphas. The more emotional she gets, the stronger that signal becomes."

Marcus's eyes get that calculating look he gets when he's planning something big.

"But she's with Adam," Felix points out, looking at the scene through the library windows. "They're obviously close. Intimate, even if it's not romantic."

"Are they though?" I challenge, focusing on what I've been trained to notice. "Because from where I'm standing, they look like two people who trust each other completely but have never even thought about being together. Look at the space between them, how they're careful not to even touch casually."

Marcus moves closer to the window, and I can see him getting that focused look. "So you're saying they're just friends."

"I'm saying they're best friends who've never considered anything more because Belle's been suppressing her omega side so well that neither of them knows what she really is."

Through the glass, Belle laughs at something Adam says, and the sound makes something in my chest tighten. She's gorgeous with soft curves that she tries to hide under oversized sweaters, dark hair that catches the afternoon light, and a smile that could light up the whole damn town. The way she gestures when she talks, animated and passionate, makes me want to know what she's thinking about, what gets her so excited.

Adam's leaning back in his chair, grinning at whatever story she's telling. He's a good looking guy, shorter than any of us but solid, with the same dark hair as Belle. They look comfortable together, but there's something missing. No heat, no tension, just... friendship.

If I'm right about this, if Belle is an omega who doesn't understand what she is, if she's been right here while we've been searching everywhere else for our missing pack member, then this changes everything.

"Besides," I add, watching Adam offer Belle another piece of chocolate, "if they were actually together, they wouldn't be here having their afternoon chocolate talks about library stuff. They'd be at home doing... other things."

Marcus makes a sound that's half laugh, half snarl. "Good point." He's still staring through the window, and I can practically feel the want rolling off him. We all can. Belle does something to the three of us, which she has done since the first day we saw her when we ended up in the library for one reason or another. We just never thought...

"So what do we do now?" Felix asks, and he sounds excited. His hands are pressed against the glass like he wants to reach through it.

"We get to know her better," Marcus says with that decisive tone he uses when he's made up his mind about something big. "We find ways to spend time with her, and we test Theo's theory."

"And if Theo's right?" Felix presses. "If she really is an omega, if she's ours?"

"Then we help her figure out what she is," Marcus says quietly. "And we give her the choice to be with us."

Through the window, Belle stands up to clean their table, moving as if she’s hiding her curves. I don’t get understand why someone as beautiful as her, doesn’t see who she really is. God, she's beautiful. The way she takes care of Adam, makes sure he has enough chocolate, tidies up their space. It makes my alpha purr with want.

"She's beautiful," Felix murmurs, and his voice goes soft with longing.

"She's perfect," I correct, feeling something warm and protective settle in my chest. The need to go in there, to claim her, to bring her home with us is almost overwhelming. "If she's ours."

“There’s only one way to find out," Marcus says, already starting to walk away. I can see the struggle in his face, the same one we're all feeling. "Come on. We need to make some plans."

4

THE WILLOWBROOK CHRONICLE

Dearest Scandalmongers,

Lady Inkwell is positively vibrating with the most exquisite gossip about this year's Masquerade Ball invitations!

The golden envelopes have been distributed, darlings, and the guest list is absolutely fascinating. What delicious irony that not one, but two representatives from our humble little library should find themselves among the chosen! Mr. Adam Chen and Miss Belle Hartwell both somehow secured those impossible golden invitations. One can only imagine the irony that placed both of Willbrook's bookish souls on such an exclusive guest list.

But they're not alone in their good fortune. Young Claire Mitchell from the flower shop discovered her invitation tucked between the morning deliveries, while Dr. James Rodriguez found his waiting on his clinic desk after a particularly long shift. The Walsh twins, those charming mechanics who run the auto shop each received theirs on the same day, creating quite the stir about whether siblings count as separate entries in whatever mysterious selection process governs these things.

Most surprising of all? Emma Thompson, the quiet schoolteacher who rarely speaks above a whisper, found her golden envelope slipped into her gradebook. Meanwhile, Jake Sullivan from the hardware store nearly threw his away, assuming it was another promotional flyer until his sister insisted he open it.

The common thread, darlings? Every single recipient is notoriously single and has been for quite some time. Whether this is coincidence or design remains deliciously unclear.

One can't help but wonder what very human forces are orchestrating this particular gathering of Willbrook's unattached residents.

Yours in delighted speculation,

Lady Inkwell

P.S. - Word has it that certain prominent local businesses have been making rather generous "anonymous" donations to the Thornfield restoration fund. How wonderfully civic minded of them!

5

MARCUS

"Lady Inkwell is at it again, spoiling all our fun," I snarl to Felix as I slap the article down on the granite countertop hard enough to make his coffee mug rattle. The gossip column that this mysterious Lady Inkwell of Willowbrook likes to circulate around town like she's some kind of gospel prophet.

"People talk. If she doesn't say who is invited to the ball, then no doubt someone in this town will," Felix replies. He doesn't even flinch at my aggressive gesture, because he's used to my moods by now.

I grunt, a sound that's more animal than human. "Yeah. Just a shame that they don't feel the need to talk to us directly. Cowards, the lot of them."

Theo, Felix, and I moved here five years ago after finding that life in the city had become too hectic and people were downright rude. We'd met at Northwestern University, we were three alphas from completely different backgrounds who somehow clicked during a particularly brutal economics seminar. Marcus Sterling, who studied business but fell in love with construction and now has more money than sense and a temper that could clear a lecture hall. Felix Romano, the quiet architecture student who could design buildings that made people weep with their beauty and had a spine of steel when pushed. And Theo Blackwood, the ROTC guy studying criminal justice who scared half the campus just by existing in the same space.

Three alphas who should have torn each other apart competing for dominance. Instead, we formed a pack that made other alphas nervous and omegas either run away or stare with fascination.

We tried. God, did we try. There was Jessica, the pre-med omega who was brilliant and beautiful but wanted a traditional alpha who would support her career, not three men who all had their own demanding jobs. She lasted two months before deciding we were "too much work." Then came Riley, who loved the idea of three alphas until she realized we actually expected her to bond with all of us, not just pick her favorite. She ghosted us after six weeks.

The worst was probably Hannah, the sweet English major who seemed perfect until she started trying to change us, wanting Marcus to be less aggressive, Felix to be more social, me to be less intense. When we wouldn't mold ourselves into her ideal men, she found an easier alpha to shape instead.

And then there was Emma Song, who fit us like she was made for our pack. Three months of the best relationship any of us had ever had, planning our future together, talking about where to live after graduation. She was heading to our apartment to tell us she was ready to complete the bond when a drunk driver ran a red light.

That's when we realized we couldn't stay in the city anymore. Too many memories, too many reminders of what we'd lost. So we packed up and moved to the middle of nowhere, to a small town where we could rebuild and maybe, someday, find what we'd lost.

"Speaking of talking," Theo says, his deep voice carrying the kind of authority that made him an effective interrogator in the military, "we need to discuss this year's final preparations. The caterers want confirmation on the menu by Thursday, and security needs the updated guest list."

Felix looks up from his architectural sketches and asks, "How many confirmations came in yesterday?"

I pull out my tablet and scroll through the responses, my jaw clenching as I process the numbers. "Forty-three RSVPs since Monday. We're at two hundred and twelve confirmed attendees." I pause, noting familiar names that make my alpha instincts prick with interest. "Including Adam Chen and Belle Hartwell."

"The librarians," Theo notes with interest.

"Belle's... she's intriguing," Felix says quietly, tapping his pencil against his sketch pad. "Sweet, intelligent, but that woman can talk your ear off when she gets going about books or library programs." He pauses, his voice softening. "But those curves, that smile when she gets excited about something, those expressive eyes... She's beautiful in a way that makes you forget she's supposed to be off limits."

"That's why I invited her," I say, setting down my tablet with deliberate precision. Both my packmates look at me sharply, and I can see the questions forming before they voice them. "Belle Hartwell never applied for an invitation. I sent her one specifically."

"You did what?" Theo nearly jumps out of his seat.

"We've talked about getting to know her better," Felix says slowly. "Maybe checking out a book, starting conversations..."

I laugh. "We always end up walking by the library, but we never actually go inside to borrow anything." All three of us look away when I say it.

"Yeah, that's because if we step in there when it's busy, half the town bolts like the place is on fire," Felix points out. "We clear the room faster than a fire alarm."

"Exactly. But here's what you don't know…I’ve been tracking Belle Hartwell for three months. Not as some random omega, but as a potential mate for our pack," I say, pulling out a leather portfolio from the drawer beside me. "You want to know how our screening process actually works? We don't just assess compatibility through questionnaires. We investigate."

Both my packmates lean forward, their full attention focused on me now.

"Belle's file is the most comprehensive one we have," I continue, opening the portfolio to reveal detailed reports, photographs, and behavioral analyses. "Because something about her has been triggering my alpha instincts since the first time I caught her scent."

"When was that?" Felix asks.

"Four months ago. I was picking up permits at city hall when she walked past me in the hallway." I pull out the first page of documentation. "Even through her suppressants, even with her clearly trying to mask her scent, something about her made every alpha instinct I have stand at attention. Not just attraction, but recognition."

"Recognition?" Theo's voice sharpens with interest.

"The kind that says 'this omega belongs to us,'" I explain. "So I started investigating whether that instinct was right."

I flip through several pages of detailed observations. "First, I had to understand why an intelligent, beautiful omega like Belle is still unmated at twenty-six. That's unusual enough to warrant investigation."

"What did you find?" Felix asks.

"Belle Hartwell has turned down fourteen different alphas over the past three years," I say, producing a list of names. "Not just casual dates, but serious courtship attempts. Alphas with good jobs, stable finances, excellent reputations. She's rejected every single one."

"Why?" Theo asks.

"Because she's not compatible with single-alpha relationships," I reply. "Watch this." I pull out a series of behavioral analysis reports. "I hired discrete surveillance to track her interactions at community events where multiple alphas were present. Every time she's around a single alpha showing interest, she becomes tense, withdrawn, clearly uncomfortable. But when she's in environments with multiple alphas who aren't competing for her attention?"

I show them photographs taken at various town events. "She relaxes completely. Her scent shifts to something warmer, more inviting. Her body language opens up. She gravitates toward spaces where she can observe pack dynamics rather than individual courtship."

"Pack-oriented omega," Felix breathes, understanding immediately.

"Exactly. Belle's biological wiring is designed for multiple alpha bonds, not traditional pairing. That's why she's been unconsciously rejecting every single alpha who has ever approached her, they can't satisfy what she actually needs."

I flip to another section. "But here's the interesting part. I tested her response to our specific alpha signatures."

"How?" Theo asks, his professional curiosity engaged.

"Over the past two months, I've arranged for each of us to be in her vicinity at different times, projecting our natural scents," I explain. “I had Felix browse the architecture section while she was re-shelfing books."

"Her pupils dilated, her scent sweetened despite the suppressants, and she spent an extra twenty minutes organizing that section after you left," I continue, reading from my notes. "Classic omega response to compatible alpha pheromones."

"Then Theo. I had him ask for directions to the police station while she was having lunch outside."

"She answered your question, but her voice got softer, more submissive. Her scent spiked with interest even though she was clearly trying to suppress it. And she watched you walk away for a full thirty seconds before remembering her sandwich."

"And you?" Felix asks.

"Last week. I deliberately walked past the library during her afternoon break, projecting as much alpha energy as I could without being obvious about it." I smile grimly. "She dropped the book she was holding, had to sit down on the bench for five minutes, and her scent was so strong I could smell her arousal from half a block away."

"Jesus," Theo mutters.

"It gets better. I had our scent compatibility analyzed by a specialist in Chicago," I continue, producing a scientific report. "Belle's biological markers indicate she's not just compatible with pack bonding, but she's specifically compatible with our pack. Our combined pheromone signatures create a harmonic resonance with her omega chemistry that's statistically rare."

"How rare?" Felix asks.

"Less than two percent of the population shows this level of biological compatibility," I reply. "Belle Hartwell isn't just a random omega who might work with us. She's literally our destined mate."

"So you decided to invite her to our ball," Theo says slowly.

"I decided to give her an opportunity to meet us properly, in an environment where she can explore pack dynamics without social pressure," I correct. "The masquerade format provides anonymity and plausible deniability. She can interact with us as potential partners without having to publicly admit she needs a pack bond."

"And if she doesn't connect with us?" Felix asks.

"She will," I say with alpha certainty. "The biological compatibility is too strong to ignore. But if somehow she doesn't, then she'll find other pack alphas who can properly care for a multi-bonded omega. Either way, she stops trying to force herself into single-alpha relationships that will never satisfy her."

I close the file and look at both my packmates. "Our screening process works because we don't just screen applicants, but we identify people who need what we can provide. Belle needs a pack bond, whether she fully understands that yet or not. And we need an omega who can complete us."

"The other attendees?" Theo asks.

"All specifically chosen based on compatibility analysis and biological markers," I confirm. "Adam Chen will find the visiting beta from the county library system, because they're both looking for intellectual partnership and domestic stability. The three omegas from Riverside will connect with the alpha engineers from the construction project, and they all prefer traditional dynamics. By the time everyone leaves Sunday morning, I expect at least fifteen successful bonds."

"Including ours with Belle," Felix says.

"Especially ours with Belle," I agree. "Three years of hosting these events has taught me to recognize when biology and psychology align perfectly. Belle Hartwell is our omega. She just doesn't know it yet."

The system works perfectly for our purposes. The ornate drop box we installed at the post office three years ago, labeled simply "Masquerade Ball Responses," gives people a way to confirm their attendance without ever connecting it back to us. Mrs. Patterson at the post office thinks it's charming and has never questioned who empties it twice a week.

"Any word from Seraphina about this year's invitation?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Nothing," Theo confirms, his expression darkening. "Mail returned unopened, same as always."

The three of us fall silent. Seraphina Thornfield, the omega who owns the palace and rents it to us for our annual event, hasn't responded to our invitation in three years.

"We should try again," Felix says quietly. "Maybe this year will be different."

"We'll visit her tomorrow afternoon. Together," I decide. "And we're not leaving until she agrees to attend."

My pack nods in agreement, and I feel that familiar satisfaction of having my team aligned and ready.

And if Belle really is our omega which every piece of evidence confirms then she's about to find out exactly what that means.

6

MARCUS

Last night, it was as if the stress of the day kept us from catching up like we used to. None of us felt like watching a game or even hanging out. We all went to our rooms, and this morning by the time I got up, they'd both left for work. I'm about to call them to see if they remember our plans today when, as soon as I walk into the house, I see Felix in front of me, looking like he just walked in too.

"Ciao," Felix says, dropping his keys on the table. "Che giornata." What a day.

"I saw Belle Hartwell at Murphy's Market yesterday," Felix mentions casually as he rolls up his architectural drawings, but there's nothing casual about the way his eyes sharpen. "She looked... stressed. She kept checking her phone like she was expecting bad news."

"She's probably dealing with library board politics," I suggest, though something in Felix's tone makes my alpha instincts prick with interest. "Mrs. Henderson mentioned they're having budget discussions. She also said something about Belle getting a 'very interesting piece of mail' recently, with that look she gets when she knows something juicy."

"Are you sure Mrs. Henderson isn't Lady Inkwell?" Felix asks, raising an eyebrow. "She knows about everyone's business."

I dismiss it with a wave. "Mrs. Henderson knows about everyone's business, but she gets way more pleasure from talking about it face to face. She wants to see people's reactions, watch them squirm. Lady Inkwell hides behind that app, she gets her information without having to look anyone in the eye. Mrs. Henderson would never give up the satisfaction of seeing someone's face when she drops her bombshells."

"Maybe," Felix agrees. "Or maybe she's nervous about the ball. First-time attendees usually are."

Something is different about this year. Not just our plan to corner Seraphina, though that's definitely going to be satisfying. There's an energy in the air, a sense that things are aligning in ways that are going to require all of my alpha dominance to control.

Maybe it's the increased number of applications, or the fact that we're finally taking direct action about Seraphina's self-destructive isolation. I just wish I knew exactly what kind of chaos I'm going to need to dominate.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of phone calls and negotiations where I remind various people exactly why they should be afraid to disappoint me. Sterling Development Group is in the middle of negotiating a major mixed-use project that would bring affordable housing and commercial space to the outskirts of Willowbrook, my way of improving a community that doesn't appreciate what it has.

It's also the kind of project that requires delicate handling of local politics, environmental concerns, and community input. The irony that I'm working to improve a community that barely tolerates my existence isn't lost on me, but I didn't build a multimillion-dollar company by being petty about other people's stupidity.

I take what I want and make it better. Whether people appreciate it or not is irrelevant.

By three-thirty, I'm ready for action. Ready to focus on something that might actually matter—showing a broken omega that she has alphas willing to fight for her whether she wants them to or not.

I notice that Felix is wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt that emphasizes his deceptively lean build, and Theo's khakis and polo shirt can't hide the way he moves like violence is always an option.

Whereas I've opted for jeans and a sweater, he kind of outfit that says "I'm trying to be approachable" while still making it clear that I'm not someone to be trifled with.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Ready," Felix confirms, tucking a small wrapped package under his arm. "Brought her some of those lavender cookies from Murphy's Bakery. I remember her mentioning she liked them, back before..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. None of us like talking about "before"—before the accident that broke Seraphina, before she decided that happiness was something other people deserved but not her, before she started punishing herself for the crime of surviving.

We all head in my truck and drive to the Palace. It means fifteen minutes through winding country roads that give me too much time to think about what we're walking into. The October afternoon is crisp and clear, the kind of day that makes my alpha blood sing with the need for action.

Thornfield Palace isn't a real palace, it’s just what locals have always called it, probably because of its impressive size and Gothic Revival architecture that dominates the landscape like a fortress. Built in the 1890s by railroad money, it's a sprawling mansion of gray stone and leaded glass windows, surrounded by grounds that could hide an army.

During ball season, Felix transforms the palace into something from a dark fairy tale with lighting that creates shadows and secrets, flowers arranged to encourage intimate conversations, pathways designed for seduction and discovery.

But today, approaching the smaller groundskeeper's cottage where Seraphina has been hiding for seven years, it just looks like a prison. Beautiful but isolated, like a cage designed to keep something precious locked away from the world.

I park the truck next to the cottage's tiny front garden, noting the way Seraphina has maintained the flower beds with obsessive precision. Everything in perfect rows, nothing out of place, like she's trying to control the only thing in her life that she can.

"Remember," I say as we approach the front door, though my voice comes out harder than I intended, "we're not leaving here without a yes."

Felix nods, clutching his package of cookies like they're weapons. Theo adjusts his posture in a way that makes him look less intimidating while somehow becoming more dangerous.

I knock on the wooden door which is painted sage green and adorned with a simple wreath that probably cost more time than money with just enough force to let her know this isn't a casual visit.

For a moment, there's only silence. Then footsteps, light and hesitant, like she's hoping we'll give up and leave.

Not fucking likely.

The door opens just wide enough for us to see Seraphina's face, pale and drawn but still beautiful in the way that broken things can be when they're worth saving. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, and she's wearing jeans and an oversized sweater that makes her look even more fragile than she is.

Her scent hits us immediately, because she’s an omega, but it’s muted and careful, like she's learned to keep it contained. There's something sad about it, the way it lacks the warmth and openness that healthy omegas carry. It makes my alpha want to fix whatever broke her.

"Marcus," she says quietly, her voice carrying just a hint of surprise that doesn't quite hide the wariness underneath. "Felix. Theo. Is everything alright with the palace preparations?"

"Everything's fine," I assure her, though my voice carries more command than comfort. "Actually, we wanted to talk to you about something else. We're coming in."

It's not a request, and she knows it. After a moment of hesitation, she steps back and opens the door wider, recognizing alpha authority when she encounters it.

The cottage is exactly what I expected and everything that makes my protective instincts surge. Spotlessly clean, minimally furnished, devoid of the personal touches that make a house feel like a home. It's like she's living in a temporary space, even after seven years of self-imposed exile.

"Tea?" she offers, already moving toward the small kitchen with the kind of automatic politeness that broken omegas use as armor.

"That would be perfect," Felix says before either Theo or I can decline, settling into the space like he belongs there. He sets the package of cookies on the small dining table with deliberate care. "I brought these from Murphy's. I remembered you used to like them."

"You remembered that?" she asks, and there's something vulnerable in her voice that makes me want to hunt down everyone who's ever made her feel forgotten.

"We remember everything about you," Theo says with the kind of intensity that made him effective in interrogations. "That's actually why we're here."

As Seraphina busies herself with tea preparation, I take the opportunity to really examine her living space. It's comfortable but sterile, like a well-appointed prison cell. No photographs, no mementos, nothing that speaks to who she was before tragedy redefined her existence.

It's unacceptable.

"Seraphina," I begin as she sets cups of steaming tea in front of us, my voice carrying the kind of authority that ends arguments before they start, "we want to talk to you about the ball."

Her hands still, just for a moment, and I can smell the spike of anxiety in her scent. "If there's a problem with the arrangements…”

"There's no problem," Felix interrupts "We want to invite you. Again. But this time, we're not accepting your usual excuses."

She sits down across from us with movements that are too careful, too controlled, like she's afraid of taking up too much space. "I appreciate the gesture, but you know I don't attend social events anymore."

"Why?" Theo asks with military directness, leaning forward in a way that makes the space feel smaller, more intense. "And don't give us some bullshit about not being interested. We all know that's not the real reason."

For a long moment, the only sound is the ticking of an antique clock and the subtle sound of three alphas breathing in unison, creating a wall of dominance that fills the small space.

Then Seraphina speaks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Because I don't deserve to be happy when they can't be."

The words hit like a physical blow, Felix's scent sharpens with anger, and Theo's hands clench into fists before he forces them to relax.

"That's not how love works," Felix says, his voice carrying a dangerous edge that most people never hear. "The people who loved you wouldn't want you to stop living because they couldn't stay."

"You don't know that," she replies, but there's no real conviction behind the words, just the kind of desperate clinging to pain that some people use as a shield.

"Actually, we do," I say, my voice carrying the kind of alpha certainty that doesn't allow for argument. "Because we know what it's like to love someone. And when you love someone, you want them to be happy. You want them to have joy and connection and all the beautiful things that make life worth living."

"Even if you can't be there to share it with them," Theo adds with the kind of gentle ruthlessness that made him effective with trauma victims.

Seraphina looks up at us with eyes bright with unshed tears, and for the first time since we've known her, she looks less like a ghost and more like a woman who might be worth fighting for.

"I wouldn't know how to act," she admits, and I can hear the fear underneath the words. "It's been so long since I... since I tried to connect with people."

"That's what the masks are for," Felix points out with predatory satisfaction. "You can be anyone you want to be, just for one night. No expectations, no pressure. Just the possibility of remembering what it feels like to be alive."

"And you'll have us there," I add. "You know us. If you get overwhelmed or want to leave, we'll make sure you get home safely."

She's wavering, I can see it in her face and smell it in her scent. The part of her that has been buried under grief and guilt is stirring, remembering what it felt like to want things, to hope for connection.

"I don't have anything appropriate to wear," she says finally, and I know we've won.

"That's easily solved," Felix says with genuine enthusiasm that doesn't quite hide the possessive edge underneath. "I know a boutique in the city that specializes in vintage-inspired formal wear. I'll drive you there tomorrow, help you find something perfect."

"We'll cover the cost," I add, cutting off her protest before it can form. "Consider it payment for years of below-market rental rates."

"And," Theo says with the kind of gentle command that makes smart people listen, "if you decide at the last minute that you can't go through with it, that's your choice. But you're going to have the option, because that's what the people who loved you would have wanted."

Seraphina nods slowly, and for the first time since we've known her, she almost smiles—a real expression that transforms her face from beautiful-but-broken to something that makes my alpha instincts roar with possessive satisfaction.

"Okay. Yes. I'll... I'll try."

The drive back to town feels different somehow, charged with the kind of alpha satisfaction that comes from a successful hunt. We've done something important today that goes beyond business arrangements or social obligations. We've reminded a broken omega that she's worth claiming, that her presence in the world matters to people who are strong enough to protect what's theirs.

"Think she'll actually show up?" Theo asks as we pull into our driveway.

"She'll be there," Felix says with quiet certainty that carries the weight of prophecy. "She's stronger than she thinks she is. She just needed alphas strong enough to remind her."

I hope he's right. Seraphina deserves a chance at happiness, at connection, at remembering what it feels like to be protected and valued and claimed by people who understand her worth.

But even if she doesn't come to the ball, even if fear or guilt convinces her to hide again, we've planted a seed. We've shown her that there are alphas willing to fight for her, that isolation isn't her only option.

Sometimes that's enough. Sometimes that's everything.

Later that evening, as I'm getting ready for bed, I can't shake the feeling that today was the first move in a game I haven't fully understood yet. Not just because we might have convinced Seraphina to attend the ball, though that success feels like claiming territory that's been disputed for too long.

As I settle into bed, staring up at the ceiling of the room Felix designed to catch the morning light just right, I find myself thinking about fate and coincidence and the inevitable ways that alphas claim what belongs to them.

This year is going to be different. I can feel it in my bones, in the way my alpha instincts are already preparing for something significant.

I just hope everyone else is ready for what's coming.

Because ready or not, some things are inevitable. And three alphas who've learned to hunt together are a force that very few things can resist.

The ball is going to be perfect. And after that, everything else will fall into place exactly the way it's supposed to.

The way I'm going to make sure it does.

7

BELLE

It's that time of day again. I set up a different display on the corner, so when Adam returns from the bathroom, it's all ready. I topped up on my suppressants as I headed to the back to get the chocolate muffins. I really outdid myself last night when I made Choc-o-pan, and the thing which took all of my time, Adam’s all time favorite too. It's something I can nail sometimes, but when it goes wrong, it's absolutely horrible. I'm pretty proud of the way they turned out, considering I baked eight and four made it to this afternoon. Adam's lucky these four made it here.

Last night, I was nervous. Today, even worse. So I did what I usually do. When I'm nervous, I tend to bake something spectacular, something that will take me until the end of the night. After cleaning everything up, all I do is curl up in bed and sleep.

“You received an invite and you never told me," Adam says as he pinches me, his fingers finding the soft flesh of my upper arm with surprising accuracy.

"Ouch, that hurt!" I yelp, pulling away and rubbing the spot where his fingers made contact. The sting is sharp but brief, more shocking than painful.

"Good!" he snaps, his usually gentle demeanor crackling with betrayal. His dark eyes flash with hurt, and for a moment he looks like he's about to turn around and storm away out of here. The tension radiates from his normally relaxed shoulders, making him appear taller and more imposing than usual.

When I see that wounded expression cross his features, it’s the same look he used to get when kids would tease him about his stutter in elementary school. I do the one thing that I know Adam can't resist, the weapon I've been perfecting for years.

"Chocolate fondant!" he exclaims, eyes widening as he clasps his hands over his mouth, trying to stifle his voice as it echoes faintly through the quiet corners of the library. The sound bounces off the tall Victorian windows and gets absorbed by the thousands of books surrounding us.

Anger evaporates like morning mist as excitement flushes across the round face, soft around the edges in that trusting way. Hesitation makes those large, capable hands which have been shaped by years of heavy books and library ladders. They hover over the plate like it might disappear.

I set the perfectly crafted chocolate fondant down in front of him with a knowing smile, watching as his pupils dilate slightly at the sight of the dark, glossy exterior that promises molten chocolate inside. Then I add the finishing touch, the detail that I know will completely destroy his resolve.

"Lavender ice cream," I say softly, placing the small scoop beside the warm cake with theatrical precision.

He lets out a low, dramatic gasp, like he's just been handed the crown jewels. "You didn't."

I nod, feeling a surge of satisfaction as his grin stretches so wide it nearly closes his eyes, transforming his face from hurt to pure joy in the space of a heartbeat.

Just then, the familiar creak of the library's heavy oak door signals someone entering. We both glance up simultaneously, our heads turning toward the sound like synchronized dancers. It's Marissa from circulation, wrapped in a soft lavender cardigan that stretches over her seven-month pregnant belly, moving with that particular careful grace that expectant mothers develop. She's scanning the room with the focused intensity of a bloodhound, her nose practically twitching as she follows the scent of sugar and chocolate that wafts from our table.

Adam stiffens slightly, his protective instincts kicking in as he recognizes a potential threat to his dessert. He leans toward me and whispers behind his hand, his breath warm against my ear, "I'm not sharing with her."

It's as if he remembers why he pinched me in the first place. "Lady Inkwell. I had to find out from her that you had an invite. Really, Belle? After all we've been through. Bullies at school. My parents. Okay, my Mum trying to match us..."

It's as if at that point I remember that the bullies were nothing compared to Adam's mom forcing us to get together. She was convinced that I was an omega and had found a couple of packs, then invited them all to dinner one night. Let's just say a room full of ten alphas at a dinner table was never a good idea.

Especially when his mother decided to serve a "family-style" meal where everyone had to share. Ten alphas trying to be polite while internally combusting over who got the last dinner roll, who deserved the biggest portion, and whether offering to refill someone's water glass was a sign of submission or dominance. By the time dessert arrived, they were having passive-aggressive arguments about proper fork placement and whether eye contact while chewing was considered rude or a challenge.

And that's exactly why I've never been back to Adam's house for dinner. Not because of the testosterone-fueled etiquette wars, but because his mother still introduces me to every alpha she meets at the farmer's market as "Belle, you know, the one who's still single."

I murmur back, "Lady Inkwell has such a big mouth. We really need to find out who she is."

Adam's eyes widen with sudden inspiration as he glances at Marissa, who's still hovering near our table with obvious longing. "You don't think...?" he whispers, nodding slightly in her direction.

I follow his gaze, studying Marissa's expectant face and the way she seems to be cataloging every detail of our interaction. For a moment, the pieces almost fit, because she’s always at the library, she's always around to overhear conversations, and she definitely has the kind of observational skills that would make for good gossip reporting.

But then I shake my head, and Adam does the same. "Nah," I whisper back. "She's too obvious. Lady Inkwell is sneakier than that."

"Can we help you?" I ask Marissa. After all, I spent half the night perfecting this particular peace offering, and sharing it with someone who wasn't part of the original conflict feels like diluting its power.

She shakes her head with visible disappointment, her shoulders sagging slightly as she realizes she's not going to be included in our chocolate feast. Her expression reminds me of a child pressed against a candy store window, all longing and resignation.

Adam and I exchange a look and then dissolve into laughter like school kids sharing a secret joke.

"I was up all night making this," I admit as he takes his first proper bite, watching his eyes practically roll back in bliss. "Literally up all night, especially with the fondant. If you don't get the timing exactly right, it ends up looking like shit in the middle of a cake, which isn't appealing and tastes even worse."

"Bake therapy," Adam says around a mouthful of molten chocolate, his voice slightly muffled but filled with appreciation. "Your solution to everything."

"It works, doesn't it?" I counter, feeling some of the tension from yesterday's discovery starting to ease. There's something therapeutic about watching Adam enjoy something I created, about the simple act of taking care of someone I love even when I can't tell him exactly how much he means to me. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing sensual about our relationship. As much as I wish there was, there isn't, and this is why I know that I need to let him go. I know one day he will find a pack and leave me, and this is the part that I dread the most. Just thinking that this day could be around the corner at the ball.

"I felt guilty about the invite," I continue, my voice dropping as I glance around to make sure we're not being overheard. "After giving you such a hard time about yours, finding out I had one too... I didn't know what else to do but…”

"Bake!" Adam finishes with a grin, then his expression grows more serious. "But Belle, this is huge. Do you realize what this means? Both of us getting invitations to the Masquerade Ball? That never happens to people like us."

He's right, and that's exactly what's been keeping me awake at night since I found that gold-embossed card hidden among the book returns. The Masquerade Ball at Thornfield Palace isn't just some fancy party, but the most exclusive social event in a three-state radius, with a guest list that reads like a who's who of successful alphas, omegas, and betas.

"I've been researching it," I admit, pulling out my phone to show him the notes I've been compiling.

"Adam, the numbers are insane. Ninety-five percent of attendees find their perfect mate within one year of attending. Three times higher fertility rates for couples who meet there. Business connections that lead to million-dollar deals. Social elevation that can transform someone's entire life."

Adam whistles low, scrolling through my research with growing amazement. "No wonder people apply years in advance. Hotel rooms within fifty miles are completely booked for the weekend. People are flying in from California, New York, even internationally."

"The economic impact on Willowbrook is massive," I continue, warming to the subject despite my personal anxiety about it. "Local businesses make more money during ball weekend than they do during the entire Christmas season. The catering alone costs more than most people make in a year."

"But here's what I don't understand," Adam says, leaning closer and lowering his voice. "How did we get invited? I mean, I know my parents applied for me, they've been not-so-subtly hinting about my 'romantic prospects' for months. But you never applied, right?"

“Years!” I correct him. There’s no way that his mom has been concerned about his love life for months.

“Did you apply?” He repeats.

I shake my head, feeling that familiar flutter of panic in my chest. "That's what's so weird. I never applied for anything. I just found the invitation mixed in with the book returns yesterday evening. After you left, like someone had specifically placed it there for me to find."

The golden envelope with my name written in elegant calligraphy, the paper so heavy it felt expensive just to hold. When I'd opened it, the invitation inside was printed on what looked like actual gold leaf, with details that had made my hands shake:

The honor of your presence is requested at the Annual Masquerade Ball at Thornfield Palace. October 31st, eight o'clock in the evening. Formal masquerade attire required. RSVP required by October 25th. This invitation is non-transferable and admits one guest only.

"Someone knows about you," Adam says quietly.

Not even you know, and you’re my best friend! I shake my head at the thought. Someone knowing I’m an omega? That’s impossible. If you don’t know, how could they?

Someone, somehow, knows I exist in a way that matters enough to warrant an invitation to an event that could completely destroy my carefully constructed facade. The Masquerade Ball is famous for its matching success, but it's also notorious for the way it strips away pretenses and reveals people's true natures.

Just then, the library door opens again with its characteristic creak, and this time it's not Marissa returning. A tall figure fills the doorway with broad shoulders, confident posture, the kind of commanding presence that makes the air itself seem to shift and thicken with alpha pheromones.

My breath catches as he moves through the library, scanning the shelves with the kind of focused attention that suggests he's hunting for something specific. He's gorgeous in the way that dangerous things often are with a sharp jawline covered with perfectly maintained stubble, dark hair that looks like he's run his fingers through it, and an intensity that seems to draw light toward him even in the shadowed spaces between the stacks.

His scent hits me from across the room despite the suppressants in my system: pine, leather, and something darker that makes my carefully controlled omega biology sit up and take notice. It's been over a year since I've encountered an alpha this potent, this... present. Most of the time, the suppressants dull my responses enough that I can function normally around alphas, but this one seems to cut right through my chemical barriers like they're made of tissue paper.

For a terrifying moment, watching him move with that fluid confidence, a thought slips past my mental defenses: Would going into heat with an alpha really be so bad?

The thought hits me like a physical blow, unexpected and dangerous in its appeal. I’ve spent over a year suppressing every natural instinct, denying the biological needs that come with being an omega, convincing myself that the chemical dampening is worth the safety it provides.

But seeing this alpha, watching the way he commands space just by existing in it, makes me question everything. Maybe I’m missing out on something better, something worthwhile once Adam leaves me.

We used to laugh at his mom’s attempts to find him a pack, but after hearing the stats at the ball, the realization that him leaving me is inevitable and possibly sooner than I think hits hard.

What would it feel like to let someone that strong, that dominant, take care of me during my most vulnerable moments? To trust someone with the raw, desperate need that builds during heat cycles despite the suppressants? To experience the kind of claiming that my body was designed for, the bonding that every omega instinct tells me I'm meant to crave?

I find myself nodding slightly at the idea, my omega hindbrain responding to the alpha presence with an enthusiasm that terrifies my rational mind.

Then reality crashes back down around me, cold and brutal. Sarah’s face flashes through my memory. One of my closest friends in high school, she was an omega who left for college full of hope. Sarah thought she’d found her perfect alpha match through a dating app designed for secondary genders. She seemed so happy, so confident in her choice to go off suppressants and experience her first natural heat with someone she trusted.

Sarah, who died from alpha aggression during what should have been a bonding heat. Whose alpha lost control when her scent triggered his rut, whose body couldn't handle the intensity of an unmatched claiming, whose death taught me that surrender isn't always safe, even when it feels right.

The memory hits me like ice water, and this is why I take suppressants. The reason why I hide what I am. Because even good alphas, even caring alphas who seem gentle and trustworthy, can become something lethal when their instincts override their control.

The statistics are terrifying when you know where to look: omega mortality rates during unmatched heats are nearly thirty percent. Alpha aggression during bonding attempts kills more omegas than car accidents and cancer combined. The fairy tale of finding your perfect alpha mate conveniently leaves out the part where trusting the wrong person can literally kill you.

I force myself to look away from the stranger, focusing instead on Adam's concerned face as he notices my sudden change in demeanor.

"Belle? You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Just... thinking about the ball," I manage, which isn't entirely a lie. "All those people. All those expectations. All those alphas looking for their perfect omega match."

The alpha across the library selects a book from the business section, then approaches the circulation desk, giving me a clear view of his profile. Strong nose, full lips, the kind of bone structure that probably makes omegas go weak in the knees on a regular basis. Everything about him screams genetic superiority, alpha confidence, the kind of mate that evolution designed my body to crave and my mind to fear.

"Adam," I say suddenly, my voice carrying more urgency than I intended as I watch the alpha interact with the librarian on duty, "what if we went together? To the ball, I mean. As... as each other's protection."

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. "Together? Like... as a couple?"

"As friends pretending to be a couple," I clarify quickly, though the words feel strange in my mouth. "Think about it. We both have invitations. We're both terrified of the whole mate-matching aspect. What if we attended as each other's safety net?"

The idea crystallizes as I speak, born from desperation and the memory of Sarah's lifeless eyes in that hospital bed. If Adam and I attend together, presenting ourselves as an established couple, I can avoid the matching ceremonies entirely. I can stay on my suppressants, keep my omega status hidden, and navigate the evening without risking the kind of exposure that could lead to the same fate that claimed my friend.

"You mean like... fake dating?" Adam asks.

"Exactly like fake dating," I confirm, feeling my heartbeat accelerate as the plan takes shape between us. "We know each other well enough to be convincing. We're comfortable together. And most importantly, we trust each other not to push for anything... dangerous."

That last word carries weight that I hope he doesn't examine too closely. Adam has never questioned why I flinch away from alpha attention, why I've never shown interest in dating despite being twenty-eight and presumably ready to settle down. He's never asked about the mysterious "flu" symptoms that keep me home for days at a time, or why I sometimes smell like nothing at all, not even do I have a basic human scent.

He's accepted Belle the Librarian, Belle the Book Lover, Belle the Friend without ever suspecting that Belle the Hidden Omega exists beneath all those layers of suppressants and carefully constructed lies.

"It could actually work," he says slowly, and I can see him warming to the idea. "My parents would be thrilled to see me with someone, especially you. They've always said you're the perfect girl for me, because you’re smart, kind, and have a good family background."

We both pause for a moment, because most of my family are gone. My mom and dad died to cancer. It felt like one moment I had parents and cousins, and the next, death swept through my family like a storm blotting out the sun.

And I won't have to worry about being matched with some alpha who expects..." I trail off, unable to finish the sentence. Someone who might expect me to go into heat for them. Someone whose instincts might override their control when faced with an omega in biological need. Someone who might kill me with kindness and genetic programming, the way Sarah's alpha killed her.

"Plus," Adam continues, getting more excited about the plan, "we could actually enjoy the ball without all the pressure. I've heard the palace is incredible during the event, and the food is supposed to be amazing."

"The networking opportunities alone are worth it," I add, trying to focus on the practical benefits rather than the fear clawing at my chest. "Even if we're not looking for mates, the connections we could make might be valuable for the library. Potential donors, board members, people who care about literacy and community resources."

The alpha at the circulation desk finishes his transaction and heads toward the door, his scent lingering in the air like a promise I can't afford to consider. Even with suppressants dulling my responses, I can feel my body trying to react as a warmth spreading through my chest, my omega instincts recognizing genetic compatibility despite every rational thought in my head screaming warnings.

"Perfect," Adam declares, taking another bite of his fondant with renewed enthusiasm. "We'll go together, dance a few obligatory dances, make polite conversation with other attendees, and then come home with amazing stories about rich people in fancy costumes."

"It's a plan," I agree, though my eyes drift toward the door where the alpha disappeared despite my best efforts to ignore the lingering trace of his scent.

As the stranger's presence fades from the library, I force myself to focus on the practical aspects of our fake dating scheme. We'll need to coordinate our outfits, practice looking like a couple, maybe even come up with a believable story about how long we've been "together." The RSVP deadline is in three days, which gives us time to plan but not enough time to second-guess ourselves into panic.

"When do you think we should RSVP?" Adam asks, echoing my thoughts. "And more importantly, what are we going to wear to convince everyone we're madly in love?"

"We should probably RSVP tomorrow," I say, pulling out my phone to check the calendar. "That gives us time to coordinate but shows we're not desperate or last-minute about it."

"And for outfits?" Adam asks, his cheeks flushing slightly pink. "I have no idea what 'formal masquerade attire' even means."

"I might have some ideas," I admit, thinking about the fashion magazines I’ve been secretly studying ever since I dreamed of being invited to the ball when it first started. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened here—like a fairytale.

"There are some boutiques in the city that specialize in formal wear. We could go shopping together, make sure our looks complement each other."

The thought of shopping for formal wear with Adam, of choosing outfits that make us look like a real couple, sends a wave of excitement through me. I’m not saying we’re boring, but I can’t remember the last time we did something new.

"This is going to be either the best idea we've ever had," Adam says, scraping the last bit of chocolate from his plate, "or the thing that finally gets us both killed by social anxiety."

I laugh, but there's a hollow quality to the sound. Because I know that for me, the stakes are much higher than social anxiety. This plan has to work, because the alternative isn't an option I can survive.

Even if the part I keep buried under layers of suppressants and fear, wishes desperately that I could be brave enough to find out what it would feel like to be claimed by someone who could love all of me, including the omega parts I've learned to hide.

But Sarah's death taught me that some risks aren't worth taking, no matter how much your biology screams that they might be worth everything.

This fake dating plan is my best shot at experiencing the ball without losing myself, or my life.

Now I just have to pray that I can pull it off without destroying the most important relationship I have left.

8

THE WILLBROOK CHRONICLE

My Cherished Whisperers,

Lady Inkwell simply must report the most curious development! With a mere two days remaining before RSVP closes for this year's Masquerade Ball at Thornfield Palace, our very own Mr. Adam Chen and Miss Belle Hartwell have yet to respond to their golden invitations!

The golden box at the post office awaits their replies, darlings, yet these two recipients seem to be in no hurry whatsoever. One can only wonder what delicious drama is preventing such prompt correspondence.

Tick tock, my dears. Tick tock.

Yours in breathless anticipation, Lady Inkwell

P.S. - A little birdie whispers that someone has been seen lingering near the post office at rather... interesting hours. Could it be our reluctant recipients are finally ready to make their decision? Or perhaps someone else entirely is pulling the strings? This correspondent simply cannot wait to see what unfolds...

9

FELIX

Ipull my truck into the parking space behind the Willowbrook Public Library. Today's meeting is different from my usual projects. Instead of designing another soulless office complex or convincing wealthy clients not to destroy historical integrity, I'm here to help expand a community institution that actually matters. The library board has finally secured funding for an addition that will double their space, and they specifically requested Romano Designs because of our reputation for historically sensitive work.

The irony isn't lost on me that the same community that whispers about the "Beast Pack" is now paying us to improve their beloved library. But Marcus is right, it's better to let our work speak for itself than to waste energy on changing minds that are determined to stay closed.

I grab my portfolio and surveying equipment from the passenger seat, noting how the late afternoon light hits the building's facade at just the right angle to emphasize the depth and texture of the stonework. The original architect understood proportions, how to make stone and brick feel alive rather than simply functional. Whatever addition we design will need to honor that vision while serving modern needs.

The main entrance is heavy oak with brass hardware that's probably original to the building, and would cost a fortune to replicate today. As I push through the doors, the familiar scent of old books and wood polish washes over me, mixed with something else that makes my alpha senses sharpen with interest.

The interior is even more impressive than the exterior suggested. High coffered ceilings that create perfect acoustics for a reading environment, original hardwood floors with the kind of tight-grain patterns that only come from old-growth forests, and rows of mahogany shelving that create intimate reading nooks throughout the space.

It strikes me most how lived-in the space feels. This isn't a museum, but a working library where people clearly spend significant time. Worn spots on the floor mark the most popular pathways, certain chairs show the kind of gentle aging that comes from consistent use, and there's an overall sense of comfortable functionality that can't be faked.

"Mr. Romano?"

I turn toward the voice and find myself looking at Belle Hartwell. This is the first time I've been close enough to really observe her, usually when I come in, which isn't often she's busy, but she has never been this close to me.

She's shorter than I expected, maybe five-foot-four, with the kind of compact build that suggests hidden strength. Her dark hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

And then I catch it. Just beneath the sharp, medicinal edge of suppressants, there's something else. Something warm and inviting that makes my chest tighten with recognition. Vanilla and honey, with an undertone of something uniquely her that calls to every instinct I've been trying to ignore. The scent is faint, almost masked entirely, but it's there. Marcus's words echo in my mind: "What if she's our omega?" The possibility I'd dismissed so easily suddenly doesn't seem so impossible.

Those eyes are studying me with obvious intelligence, cataloging details with the same methodical attention I apply to architectural surveys. There's something immediately engaging about her gaze, like she's genuinely interested in understanding rather than simply making polite conversation. I find myself leaning slightly closer, drawn by that barely there scent that's making my alpha instincts hum with interest.

Her clothes are professional but not stuffy. Dark slacks that complement her figure without being inappropriate, and a cardigan in deep burgundy that brings out the warmth in her complexion. Everything about her appearance suggests someone who's confident in her professional competence but not trying to prove anything to anyone.

"Miss Hartwell," I reply, extending my hand for a professional shake. "Thank you for meeting with me. I'm looking forward to discussing the expansion project."

Her handshake is firm, confident, and accompanied by an immediate flood of questions that catches me completely off guard. But all I can focus on is that tantalizing hint of her true scent and the growing certainty that Marcus might have been right all along.

"Oh, please call me Belle! And thank you so much for taking on this project. I’ve seen your work on the courthouse renovation and it's absolutely beautiful, how did you manage to preserve the original stonework while updating the structural systems? And the way you handled the accessibility requirements without compromising the historical integrity was just brilliant, I read the article about it in the architectural review and I have to ask..”

She pauses, apparently realizing she's launched into full librarian mode without giving me a chance to respond. Her cheeks flush slightly pink, making her dark eyes even more striking.

"Sorry," she says with a self-deprecating laugh. "I get excited about good architecture, and probably a dozen other things that most people find incredibly boring."

"Not boring at all," I assure her, genuinely charmed by her enthusiasm. Most clients see architects as necessary evils to be endured while they get the building they want. Belle seems to understand that good design emerges from collaboration between form and function. "In fact, it's refreshing to work with someone who appreciates the complexity of historical preservation."

Her smile is radiant, transforming her entire face and making me wonder why the hell I haven't noticed Belle Hartwell as much as I have done lately. She's beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you, not the obvious beauty that demands attention, but the kind that reveals itself gradually and then becomes impossible to ignore.

"Well, if you're sure you can handle the full librarian lecture," she says, gesturing toward a round table near the circulation desk that's obviously been prepared for our meeting, "I have approximately seventeen different ideas about how we could use additional space, and I may have gotten a little carried away with my research on comparable expansion projects."

"Seventeen ideas?" I ask, settling into the chair across from her and noting how she's organized materials with obvious care: architectural plans, budget projections, and what looks like a comprehensive analysis of community needs.

"Well, maybe closer to twenty-three if you count the variations," she admits, and there's something infectious about her enthusiasm that makes me want to hear every single one. "But I figured we should start with the practical necessities and work our way up to the more ambitious possibilities."

As she begins outlining her vision for the expansion, I find myself studying her with the same attention I usually reserve for structural details. There's something compelling about watching Belle's passion for her work emerge, the way her entire posture changes when she talks about serving the community, how her hands move expressively to emphasize points, the way her voice takes on warmth when she describes programs that could help people.

"The children's programming space is our biggest immediate need," she continues, spreading out floor plans and usage charts. "Right now we're cramming story time into that corner over there, but the acoustics are terrible and there's no room for growth. Last week we had thirty-seven kids show up for our dinosaur program and we literally ran out of floor space."

"Thirty-seven?" I interrupt, genuinely impressed. "That's exceptional attendance for a town this size."

"Oh, we regularly exceed capacity," Belle says with obvious pride. "Which is wonderful for community engagement but terrible for safety regulations. And that's just children's programming, but we're also trying to expand adult education offerings, job training resources, computer literacy classes for seniors, support groups for everything from grief counseling to financial planning..."

She trails off, apparently realizing she's getting carried away again, but I find myself genuinely intrigued by the scope of her vision. This isn't just about adding more book storage as Belle sees the library as a transformative community resource that could change people's lives.

"Please, continue," I encourage, making notes on my tablet. "The more I understand about what this space needs to accomplish, the better I can design something that supports those goals."

Her smile could power the entire building. "Really? You want to hear about all of it?"

"All of it," I confirm, and realize I mean it completely. There's something addictive about Belle's enthusiasm, the way she lights up when discussing her work. I've spent years dealing with clients who see buildings as status symbols or investments. Belle sees architecture as a tool for improving people's lives.

"Well then," she says, standing and gathering a handful of materials, "let me give you the full tour. I tend to provide a lot of detail about usage patterns and community needs. Most people's eyes glaze over after the first five minutes."

"I'll try to keep up," I reply, following her toward the main circulation area.

For the next hour, Belle guides me through the library with the expertise of someone who knows every inch of the building and genuinely loves what she does. But more than that, she talks. Constantly. Enthusiastically. With the kind of passionate detail that most people reserve for their deepest interests.

Even as she talks, even as my mind, eyes and body follows her, I can't get over the scent. Hers. The one I'm trying so hard not to be captivated by.

She explains how foot traffic flows during different times of day, why certain seating arrangements work better than others, which areas get overcrowded during various programs. But she also peppers me with questions that demonstrate her genuine curiosity about the design process.

"How do you balance natural light requirements with climate control needs? I've read that south-facing windows can create heating issues but north-facing windows don't provide enough illumination for reading, but this is something you factor into preliminary designs or address during the engineering phase?"

"What's your philosophy on open concept versus defined spaces? I love how this main reading room creates community while still feeling intimate, but I worry that too much openness in an addition might create noise issues. How do you handle acoustic separation without making spaces feel disconnected?"

"The accessibility requirements must be challenging in historical buildings. How do you integrate modern safety standards without compromising the original architectural vision? I noticed your courthouse solution was brilliant but it must have required significant structural modifications."

Each question reveals not just intelligence but genuine engagement with the complexity of what I do. Belle isn't just making polite conversation, she's actually interested in understanding how architecture works, how design decisions affect user experience, how historical preservation balances respect for the past with service to the present.

And her eyes. Jesus Christ, those brown eyes. Every time she looks directly at me while asking a question or explaining some aspect of library operations, I feel like she's seeing straight through whatever professional facade I'm maintaining. Not in an invasive way, but with the kind of focused attention that makes you feel like you're the most interesting thing in her universe at that particular moment.

If only she were an omega. The thought hits me with surprising force as we examine the children's section and Belle kneels down to demonstrate how the current furniture arrangement forces kids to crowd together in ways that create both safety and behavioral issues.

She'd be perfect. Intelligent enough to challenge me intellectually, passionate enough to match my own intensity about work, caring enough to dedicate her life to serving others. And beautiful in a way that grows more compelling every time I look at her.

She's exactly the kind of woman I'd be attracted to if secondary gender compatibility wasn't a factor, exactly the kind of person I could see building a life with.

And completely wrong for someone like me.

Marcus, Theo, and I have spent years looking for our omega. We know she's out there, but statistics and instinct both say that three compatible alphas should eventually find their genetic match. But we also know that settling for someone who can't complete our pack bond would be unfair to everyone involved.

Belle deserves someone who can love all of her without reservation. And I deserve to find the omega who's meant to complete what Marcus, Theo, and I have built together.

But fuck if it isn't disappointing.

"The teenagers are our biggest challenge," Belle continues, leading me toward a section near the back where several high school students are clustered around computers. "They need space to study and socialize, but they also need supervision without feeling like they're being watched. Right now we're using this area, but it's too close to the quiet study zones and too far from the reference desk for effective monitoring."

"What kind of programs do you run for that age group?" I ask, forcing myself to focus on professional details rather than the way afternoon light makes Belle's hair shine like polished wood.

"Study groups, college prep workshops, job readiness training, creative writing clubs, but space limitations mean we can only offer minimal programming. These kids need somewhere they can be loud and collaborative without disturbing other patrons."

As we continue the tour, moving through reference areas and adult programming spaces, I become increasingly impressed by Belle's comprehensive understanding of how libraries function as community resources. But I also become increasingly aware of how much I enjoy listening to her talk.

She has opinions about everything from lighting design, furniture selection, traffic flow patterns to programming schedules. But more than that, she has reasons for those opinions, detailed explanations based on observation and experience and genuine care for the people she serves.

"The senior citizens who come here for social interaction need different accommodations than the seniors who come for quiet reading," she explains as we examine seating arrangements near the periodicals. "Mrs. Chen wants to chat with everyone about her grandchildren, but Mr. Peterson comes here specifically to get away from noise and conversation. Designing spaces that can accommodate both needs without creating conflict requires really thoughtful planning."

"You know all your regular patrons personally," I observe, impressed by the level of individual attention she provides.

"Of course! That's half the job in understanding what people need and helping them find it, whether it's a specific book or just a quiet place to spend an afternoon. Mr. Peterson lost his wife six months ago and he's still figuring out how to fill his days. Mrs. Russ moved here from the city to be closer to her daughter but she misses the social connections she had there. Reading is important, but so is community."

The passion in her voice when she talks about serving people is genuine and compelling. Belle isn't just doing a job, but she has found her calling, her way of making the world better in small but meaningful ways.

"And you, Belle. What makes you stay? I hear that you lost one family to the next due to tragedies. In a small town like this which is slowly filling up as a safe environment for alphas and omegas. What makes you want to stay?"

Our eyes lock, and it is there, without uncertainty, as I move closer to her, that I want to do more than continue talking, so much more. But then something distracts us. We're not alone as there's a big thump at the door.

Her eyes widen and we move toward the front door to see someone has slammed against it. They're intoxicated. Belle waves them away, but I'm very much remembering what we were discussing. I'm very aware of what the conversation was about, but she spins on her toes and surprises me with her assertiveness.

Felix blurts out, "Kids." Belle agrees and nods.

"I have to ask…what's it like living with Marcus and Theo? I mean, if that's not too personal a question."

The query catches me off guard, partly because it's unexpected, but everything she’s doing me, makes me realize more and more that Marcus is right about her. Then again, when is Marcus ever wrong, he’s always right about everything.

“What do you mean?" I ask, though I'm pretty sure I know where this is going.

"Well, everyone in town talks about the three of you, and that you tend to keep to yourselves and live in that beautiful house in the middle of the woods. But no one actually knows anything about you beyond gossip and speculation. I'm curious about the reality versus the reputation."

Her directness is refreshing after years of people either avoiding us entirely or treating us like dangerous animals. Belle seems genuinely interested in understanding rather than judging.

"The reality is probably less exciting than the gossip," I reply carefully. "We're a pack who work well together and decided to share living space. Marcus handles business development, Theo manages security concerns, and I focus on design and construction. It's practical more than mysterious."

"But don't you get lonely?" Belle presses, and there's something almost innocent about the question. "Living out there away from town, not participating in community events, not... I don't know, dating or socializing like other people your age? Like what events could you participate in?"

"Like what?" I ask.

"Well, there's the monthly fun walk around the park,” she beams.

“We prefer running."

"Trivia night at Murphy's every Wednesday,” she says, while jumping with excitement. I could feed of her energy all day.

“We're too knowledgeable. It wouldn't be fair."

She raises an eyebrow. "What about the annual treasure hunt?"

"That's for kids."

"The harvest festival? Town meetings? Game nights at the community center?"

"Too crowded and loud," I reply about the harvest festival. "Town meetings are just people complaining about the same issues every month," I add. "And game nights... too many personalities in one small room," I conclude.

The question hits closer to home than she probably realizes. Yes, we get lonely. Yes, there are times when the isolation feels more like exile than choice. Yes, watching other people find mates and build families while we remain locked in a pattern of searching and disappointment gets exhausting.

But how do you explain to someone who seems genuinely happy with her life and work, that some people are driven by biological needs that can't be satisfied through career fulfillment or community service?

“We do get lonely sometimes," I admit. "But we have each other, and we have work that matters to us. That's enough for now."

"For now," Belle repeats thoughtfully. "That suggests you're waiting for something specific."

She's perceptive, and the way she's looking at me with those brilliant blue eyes that seem to see everything. It makes me want to tell her things I've never told anyone outside the pack.

"What about you?" I deflect. "Don't you get lonely? Living alone, dedicating so much time to work, not..."

I trail off, realizing I'm about to ask about her dating life, which crosses several lines of professional appropriateness.

"Not what?" Belle prompts, but there's amusement in her voice rather than offense.

"Not building the kind of personal relationships that most people prioritize at our age," I finish carefully.

Belle laughs, and the sound is warm and genuine. "You mean why am I not married with kids and a white picket fence? Trust me, everyone in town asks me the same question. The answer is that I haven't found anyone who interests me more than my work does. Maybe that makes me weird, but I'd rather be happily single than unhappily partnered."

There's something sharp and defensive in her tone that snaps out before she can stop it. Once she says it, I can see her catch herself, her expression softening slightly.

"That doesn't make you weird," I assure her. "It makes you honest about what you want from life."

"Exactly! Though try explaining that to a small town that thinks there's something wrong with any woman over twenty-five who isn't actively seeking a mate."

The casual way she says "mate" makes me wonder if Belle understands pack dynamics, if she's aware of the complexities of secondary gender relationships or if she's using the term in the more general sense that betas often employ.

"Is that what people say about you?" I ask, genuinely curious about how the community perceives her choices.

"Oh, I'm definitely the subject of regular speculation," Belle says with obvious amusement. "Lady Inkwell has written at least three gossip columns about my 'mysterious romantic status' and why eligible bachelors should consider the benefits of dating a librarian. It's mortifying and hilarious at the same time."

"Lady Inkwell writes about you specifically?" I ask. I’ve only started reading her columns, when I have nothing better to do, and to see if we feature in it.

"Lady Inkwell writes about everyone, apparently my love life, or lack thereof, is considered newsworthy. Last month she suggested that I might be 'too intellectual' to attract masculine attention, which was both insulting and ridiculous."

The idea that Belle would be considered too intellectual for masculine attention is so absurd that I nearly laugh out loud. Any man would be lucky to have her attention, let alone her affection.

"That's definitely ridiculous," I agree. "Intelligence is attractive, especially when it's combined with passion for meaningful work."

Belle's smile is radiant. "Thank you. I've always thought so, but apparently that's a minority opinion in Willowbrook."

As we continue examining the basement level, while checking foundation conditions, mechanical systems, and potential for below-grade expansion. I find myself increasingly drawn to Belle's combination of intelligence, enthusiasm, and genuine care for others. She asks detailed questions about structural requirements, space planning, and acoustic considerations that demonstrate real understanding of architectural complexity.

But more than that, she seems genuinely interested in me as a person. Not the mysterious member of the feared "Beast Pack," not the architect she's hired to solve her space problems, but Felix Romano the individual.

"How did you end up in Willowbrook?" she asks as we examine the foundation walls. "I mean, your work is incredible, and you could be designing major projects in Chicago or New York. What made you choose small-town restoration work?"

The question is personal but not invasive, asked with genuine curiosity rather than nosiness.

"Sometimes the most important work happens in places that don't make headlines," I reply, running my hand along the brick foundation to check for structural issues. "And there's something satisfying about preserving buildings that matter to communities, even if they're not architecturally famous."

"That's beautiful," Belle says softly. "The idea that all communities deserve beautiful, functional spaces regardless of their size or economic status."

"Exactly. Architecture should serve people, not just impress them."

"Is that why you three chose to settle here instead of staying in the city?"

The question touches on territory I'm not sure how to navigate. The truth is that we moved to Willowbrook because small towns are better hunting grounds for unmated omegas, because the anonymity of city life makes it harder to identify and approach potential mates.

But I can't exactly explain that our residential choice is based on reproductive strategy.

"We wanted a place where we could build something lasting," I say instead, which is true even if it's not the complete truth. "Somewhere we could put down roots and become part of a community."

"Have you? Become part of the community, I mean?"

Her tone is gentle, but there's real interest behind the question. Belle seems genuinely curious about our experience as outsiders in a small town.

"It's... complicated," I admit. "People here have strong opinions about newcomers, especially ones who don't fit expected social patterns."

"The 'Beast Pack' reputation," Belle says with obvious understanding. "That must be frustrating."

"Sometimes. But we knew what we were getting into when we moved here."

"Still, it can't be easy being constantly judged by people who don't actually know you."

There's empathy in her voice that surprises me. Belle seems to understand something about the isolation that comes with being different, with not fitting into expected social categories.

As we finish examining the basement and head back to the main floor, I realize that I've been in the library for nearly two hours and haven't once felt the usual social exhaustion that comes with extended interaction with strangers. Belle's questions and observations are engaging rather than draining, her enthusiasm is infectious rather than overwhelming.

I find myself wanting to keep talking to her, to learn more about her perspective on community and architecture and life in general. Which is both surprising and problematic, given that she's a client , and completely unavailable for the kind of relationship I'm supposedly looking for.

"I think I have enough information to start developing preliminary designs," I tell her as we return to the circulation desk, though part of me wants to extend the meeting indefinitely. "Would it be possible to schedule a follow-up meeting next week? I'd like to present some initial concepts and get your feedback before moving forward."

"That would be perfect," Belle agrees, pulling out a scheduling calendar. "Does Tuesday afternoon work for you? Around two o'clock?"

"Tuesday at two it is," I confirm, making a note in my own calendar while thinking that Tuesday suddenly can't arrive fast enough.

“Thank you for such a thorough consultation. Most architects want to see the space and leave. You actually listened to what we need."

The way she talks to me, with genuine warmth and appreciation, does something to my chest that I don't want to analyze too closely.

"Thank you for being so comprehensive about your needs and vision," I reply. "The best architecture comes from understanding how people actually use spaces."

As I gather my equipment and prepare to leave, I find myself reluctant to end this conversation. Belle Hartwell is intelligent, passionate, and beautiful in a way that grows more compelling the longer you look at her.

If only she were an omega.

The thought hits me again as I shake her hand goodbye, noting how her touch lingers just a moment longer than professional courtesy requires. There's something between us, an attraction, a compatibility that feels rare and valuable.

But attraction without biological compatibility is just frustration with extra steps.

"I'll see you Tuesday," Belle says, walking me to the main entrance. "I'm excited to see what you come up with."

"I think you'll be pleased," I reply, though I'm already thinking less about architectural designs and more about having another excuse to spend time with Belle Hartwell.

As I drive away from the library, my mind is racing with more than just space planning and structural requirements. Belle has sparked something in me that goes beyond simple appreciation of intelligence and beauty.

There's something addictive about her enthusiasm, her curiosity, her genuine care for others. It makes me want to know more about her thoughts and opinions.

Which is exactly the kind of thinking that leads to complications I can't afford.

Marcus, Theo, and I have a plan. We've been searching for our omega for years, investing time and energy and hope in finding the person who can complete our pack bond. Getting distracted by an unavailable beta, no matter how compelling, would be a betrayal of that commitment.

But as I pull into our driveway and see the lights on in our too-large, too-empty house, I can't stop thinking about Belle's question: Don't you get lonely?

The answer is yes. More than I want to admit, more than I let myself acknowledge most of the time.

And spending two hours with Belle Hartwell has only made that loneliness feel more acute.

Tuesday's meeting suddenly feels like both a professional obligation and a personal temptation. Because while I know Belle can't be what I need, I'm starting to suspect she might be exactly what I want.

And that's a complication I'm not sure how to handle.

10

BELLE

My apartment is small like a box, which is why Adam and I spend a lot of time in the library. Especially, because he had two choices in life: get a job that pays well or work with me and books. He chose the latter, besides his family are one of the wealthiest in town, so living with his parents means they built an outhouse in the ten acres that they call their backyard and Adam lives in it. Not quite the same as living in a room with your parents.

He's lucky. My parents didn't have money, so I've always had to do things alone, especially when they both died when I was twenty-three. Mom went first from breast cancer that spread faster than anyone expected, and Dad followed six months later from lung cancer, though he'd never smoked a day in his life. Sometimes I think he just couldn't figure out how to live without her.

My love for cooking allows me to bake in my studio apartment, and that's about it. The kitchen is basically a hot plate, a mini-fridge, and a counter that doubles as my dining table. Even though Adam does question how I can manage to create elaborate desserts in what he refers to as a closet with plumbing.

"You locked all doors?" I ask, as he returns from checking the library's main entrance and staff exit.

"Uh-huh. I have done it before, Belle, you don't need to ask me again," he replies.

The library after hours feels like a completely different place. Without the constant hum of conversation, the shuffle of feet on hardwood floors, and the gentle sounds of pages turning, it becomes something almost sacred. The tall windows let in just enough streetlight to cast everything in soft shadows, making the familiar spaces feel mysterious and intimate.

This is our place, really. More than my cramped studio apartment or Adam's perfectly appointed but still-parental guest house. Here, surrounded by thousands of stories and decades of accumulated knowledge, we can be completely ourselves without worrying about neighbors hearing through thin walls or parents dropping by unannounced.

"Okay," I say, settling into one of the comfortable reading chairs near the poetry section and pulling my legs up under me. "We need to talk about this whole ball situation."

Adam groans, dropping into the chair across from me with the kind of dramatic flair he only shows when we're alone. "Do we have to? Can't we just pretend the invitations were a group hallucination and go back to our normal lives of quiet desperation?"

"Quiet desperation?" I laugh, though there's more truth in his words than either of us wants to acknowledge. "Is that what we're calling our lives now?"

"Well, what would you call it?" Adam challenges, but he's smiling. "Two nearly-thirty librarians who spend their evenings hiding in their workplace, discussing fictional characters' love lives while avoiding their own complete lack of romantic prospects?"

The description stings because it's accurate. We are hiding, in a way. From the constant questions about why we're both still single, from the well-meaning but exhausting attempts at matchmaking, from the growing pressure to settle down and start families like everyone else our age seems to be doing.

"I prefer 'selective social engagement,'" I reply primly, making Adam snort with laughter.

"Is that what we're calling it when Mrs. Henderson cornered you at the grocery store last week and spent twenty minutes explaining why her nephew would be perfect for you?" Adam asks.

"That was different. Her nephew is twenty-two, lives in his mother's basement, and collects vintage comic books."

"Hey, don't knock vintage comic books," Adam protests. "Some of those are worth serious money."

"Living in your mother's basement negates any potential comic book investment returns," I point out.

"Fair enough," Adam concedes. "Though technically, I live in my parents' backyard, so I'm not sure I have room to judge basement dwellers."

Adam always finds humor in situations that would send other people into spirals of self-doubt. His family's wealth could have made him entitled or out of touch, but instead it seems to have given him a different perspective about what actually matters.

"Your situation is completely different," I tell him firmly. "You have your own space, your own entrance, and your own life. You just happen to share ten acres with people who love you enough to want you nearby."

"And you," Adam says quietly, "have created an entire life from nothing, supporting yourself completely, building a career that actually helps people. That's not something everyone could do, Belle."

"Anyway," I say, clearing my throat and steering us back to safer territory, "we need to figure out what we're doing about these invitations."

"Right. The mysterious golden ticket to the social event of the decade." Adam pulls his invitation from his jacket pocket, studying it in the dim light. "I still can't believe we both got them."

"Have you told your parents yet?"

"God, no. Can you imagine? Mom would immediately assume this means I'm finally ready to 'settle down and give her grandchildren.' She'd probably have my formal wear tailored and a pre-written wedding announcement ready before I could explain that I'm terrified of going to the ball."

I can picture Mrs. Chen's reaction perfectly.

"Or worse than that," I say, covering my face with my hands. "Your mom would start planning the wedding immediately. But not just the wedding, the pre-gender reveal parties for her future grandchildren before you've come back from the ball!"

"Pre-gender reveal parties?" Adam stares at me. "That's actually terrifying."

"She'd invite the whole town and your extended family. Cousins you haven't seen since you were twelve would suddenly be getting save-the-dates. The local hotels would be even more packed than they are when the ball is on!" I gesture wildly. "She'd probably book the community center for six months straight and start interviewing caterers before we even figured out if we actually like each other romantically, once you tell her that we're going together as a couple!"

"Stop," Adam holds up a hand, looking genuinely panicked. "You're giving me actual anxiety. I can see her measuring the main house's spare rooms for nurseries."

"Spare rooms? Plural? Oh, Adam, she'd have the whole house mapped out. This room for the first baby, that room for the second, maybe convert the office for twins because 'you never know, and it's better to be prepared.'"

"She'd probably start knitting baby blankets on the drive home from the ball.” Adam's eyes widen.

"Baby blankets? She'd have entire wardrobes completed by Sunday. Color-coded by gender because she'd want to be ready for any possibility. Plus matching outfits for family photos she's already planning to take at Christmas."

We stare at each other in mutual terror.

"Maybe we should just tell her we're going as friends," Adam suggests weakly.

"She'd interpret 'going as friends' as 'in denial about their obvious romantic destiny' and triple her efforts."

"What about you?" Adam asks. "Have you told anyone?"

"Who would I tell? The plants in my apartment? Everyone in town knows thanks to Lady Inkwell and Mrs. Henderson.”

“You could have told me when you found the invitation," Adam says gently, reminding me that I do have one friend. One person to talk to, and I didn’t tell him first. “You didn't have to carry this around alone, Belle."

There's something in his tone that makes me look at him more closely. In the soft light filtering through the library windows, Adam looks older than usual, more serious. Like he's thinking about things beyond our immediate conversation.

"I was scared," I admit. "Still am, honestly."

"Scared of what?"

How do I explain that I'm terrified of being exposed, of having my carefully constructed facade stripped away in front of strangers who might not understand or accept what I really am? How do I tell Adam that the ball's reputation for perfect matching terrifies me because it might force me to confront truths I've been avoiding for over a year?

"Scared of... expectations, I guess. The ball has this reputation for changing people's lives, for facilitating perfect matches. What if I'm not ready for that kind of change? What if I don't want my life to be different?" I ask, and my heart races with every question.

It's partially true, though not the whole truth. My life as it is feels safe, manageable, under my control. The unknown variables that come with the ball, the alphas, the matching ceremonies, the possibility of exposure represent everything I've been trying to avoid.

"But maybe," Adam says thoughtfully, "change isn't always bad. Maybe some things need to change for us to be truly happy."

"Aren’t you happy?" I ask, surprised by the melancholy in his voice.

"I'm... content," Adam replies carefully. "I love my job, I love working with you, I love the life we've built here. But sometimes I wonder if contentment is enough, or if I'm using it as an excuse to avoid taking risks."

"What kind of risks?"

"The kind that might lead to the kind of happiness we read about in books but never seem to experience ourselves like leaving and exploring the world.”

His words hit closer to home than I want to acknowledge. There's truth in what he's saying, we've both built comfortable lives that protect us from disappointment but also insulate us from possibility.

"Adam," I say suddenly, the idea crystallizing as I speak, "what if we went together?"

This is too much to handle. I have a feeling that Adam is saying something, something I really don't want to hear. It's one thing for him to go and find a mate, but leaving?Really? Is this what he desires so badly?

"Together?" His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Like... as friends?"

"Like as a couple," I clarify, feeling my heart race as the plan takes shape. "Think about it. We both have invitations. We're both terrified of the matching aspect. What if we went as each other's dates and avoided the whole thing entirely?"

Adam stares at me for a long moment, processing the suggestion. In the dim light, I can see the wheels turning in his mind, weighing the pros and cons of what I'm proposing.

"You mean fake dating," he says slowly.

"Exactly. We attend together, present ourselves as an established couple, enjoy the experience without any pressure to find our 'perfect matches' or participate in whatever matching ceremonies they have planned."

"That's..." Adam pauses, running his hand through his hair in the way he does when he's thinking hard about something. "That's actually not a terrible idea."

"Really?"

"Really. I mean, we know each other well enough to be convincing. We're comfortable together. And it would solve both our problems, because I'll attend without my mother assuming I'm actively pack-hunting, and you get to experience the ball without whatever pressure you're worried about."

Relief floods through me so intensely that I feel lightheaded. "So you'll do it?"

"I'll do it," Adam confirms, then grins. "How does one fake date with their best friend? Because I feel like there might be some acting involved that we're both crap at."

I laugh, remembering our last disastrous attempt at deception. "Remember when we tried to convince Mrs. Henderson that we were dating so she'd stop trying to set you up with her niece?"

Adam groans and covers his face. "Oh God, yes. You called me 'sweetie' and I physically recoiled like you'd slapped me."

"And then you tried to put your arm around me and somehow managed to elbow me in the ribs instead!"

"I panicked! You were standing closer than usual and I misjudged the distance!" Adam protests. "But you weren't any better. You tried to hold my hand and grabbed my wrist like you were checking my pulse."

"I was nervous! And then when she asked how long we'd been together, we both answered at the same time with completely different timelines."

"Three weeks!" Adam mimics in a high voice.

"Six months!" I counter in a deeper tone.

"And then we both just stood there staring at each other in horror while Mrs. Henderson looked between us like we'd lost our minds."

"She definitely didn't believe us. I think she felt sorry for us and stopped asking questions out of secondhand embarrassment."

"We are going to be terrible at this," Adam says, but he's still grinning.

“Yeah,” I agree. "But at least we'll fail together.”This time we’ll practice in advance, to prepare us for the event.”

“How?”

“We..” I pause, realizing I haven't thought this through as thoroughly as I probably should have. "Stand closer together? Hold hands? Look at each other like we're... romantically interested instead of platonically comfortable?"

“Easier said than done,” Adam mutters, but he's smiling.

"Come here."

I stand up and move toward his chair, suddenly aware of how the simple act of approaching Adam feels different when there's romantic pretense involved. Even fake romantic pretense.

"Closer," Adam says, reaching for my hand.

The moment his fingers close around mine, I understand the magnitude of what we're attempting. Adam's hand is warm, slightly callused from years of handling books, and completely familiar.

"This feels weird," I admit.

"Incredibly weird," Adam agrees. "But not bad weird. Just different weird."

"Should we try looking at each other like we're in love?"

"I have no idea how to do that," Adam confesses. "What does being in love even look like?"

We're a mess. In the library with books, we're good, but I didn't realize until now that not only have I had limitations on romantic encounters, but so has Adam, which is why his mom desperately wants to set him up. Maybe I should set him free. It's selfish of me to want Adam to stay here forever, especially when I get the feeling he's not really happy. I shake my head at the idea. Of course he's happy, he loves my chocolate treats.

"I don't know! You're asking the wrong person. When have I ever been in love?"

"Never, as far as I know. Which means we're both attempting to fake an emotion neither of us has ever experienced,” I confess.

Great. This plan is already falling apart and we haven't even left the library."

Adam laughs, the sound echoing through the quiet space and somehow making everything feel less awkward. "Okay, let's approach this scientifically. What do people in love look like in movies?"

"They gaze into each other's eyes a lot," I suggest.

"Right. Gazing. We can do gazing."

Adam turns to face me fully, still holding my hand, and looks directly into my eyes. For a moment, we just stare at each other, trying to manufacture romantic feelings through concentrated eye contact.

It's ridiculous. And awkward. And somehow also... not entirely unpleasant.

"How's this?" Adam asks, his voice slightly lower than usual.

"It's..." I pause, caught off guard by how different Adam looks when he's focusing all his attention on my face. I've looked into his eyes thousands of times over the years, but never with this kind of intentional intimacy. "It's actually not bad."

"Really?"

"Really. You have nice eyes,” I say.

"Thank you. So do you."

We continue staring at each other, and gradually the awkwardness begins to fade. Maybe it's the dim lighting, or just the fact that we're both trying so hard to make this work, but something shifts between us.

"This might actually be doable," I say softly.

"Yeah," Adam agrees, his voice still lower than normal. "Though I think we need to work on the hand-holding. It still feels like we're about to start a business meeting."

"What's wrong with our hand-holding?"

"It's too... polite. Too careful. Couples who are actually in love probably hold hands like they mean it."

To demonstrate his point, Adam adjusts his grip, interlacing our fingers and drawing me slightly closer. The change is subtle but significant and suddenly the contact feels more intimate, more intentional.

"Better?" he asks.

"Much better," I admit, surprised by how the small adjustment changes the entire dynamic between us. "Though this is definitely going to take some getting used to."

"The hand-holding or the whole fake relationship thing?"

"Both. All of it. The idea that we're going to walk into the most exclusive social event in the region and convince everyone that we're madly in love when we've never even kissed."

"Do you think we'll need to kiss?" Adam asks, apparently following the same train of thought.

"Probably not. I mean, how much public affection do couples usually display at formal events?"

"I have no idea. I've never been to a formal event as part of a couple."

"Neither have I."

We stand there for a moment, still holding hands, both contemplating the kissing question that neither of us seems ready to address directly.

"We'll cross that bridge if we come to it," I finally say.

"Right. Bridge-crossing. Very practical."

"Are you having second thoughts?" I ask, suddenly worried that I've pushed Adam into something he's not actually comfortable with.

"No," Adam says immediately. "No, I think this is actually brilliant. Complicated and potentially disastrous, but brilliant."

"Potentially disastrous how?"

"Well, what happens after the ball? Do we pretend to break up? Do we tell people it was fake the whole time? Do we just... go back to being friends and hope no one asks uncomfortable questions?"

I don't have good answers for any of them. I've been so focused on getting through the ball itself that I haven't thought about the aftermath.

"We'll figure it out," I say with determination I'm not sure I feel. "One crisis at a time."

"That's your solution to everything, isn't it? Figure it out as you go,”

Adam says.

“It's worked so far."

"Has it, though?" Adam asks gently. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been figuring things out alone for a long time. Maybe it's okay to have help sometimes."

His words hit deeper than they should, touching on truths I've been avoiding about my tendency to handle everything independently. Since my parents died, I've prided myself on self-sufficiency, on not needing anyone else to manage my life or solve my problems.

But standing here in the empty library, holding hands with my best friend while planning to fake a romantic relationship, I'm forced to acknowledge that maybe some problems are easier to handle with help.

"You're right," I admit. "I do try to handle everything alone. I'm not very good at accepting help."

"I know. But I'm offering anyway. For the ball, for whatever comes after, for whatever you need."

The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight with emotions I can't identify. This is why Adam means so much to me—not just because he's my friend, but because he sees me clearly and offers support without making me feel weak for needing it.

"Thank you," I say softly.

"Don't thank me yet. Wait until we see if we can actually pull this off without completely embarrassing ourselves."

"Speaking of which," I say, stepping back slightly but keeping hold of his hand, "we probably need to coordinate our story. How long have we been 'dating'? How did our relationship change from friendship to romance? What are our future plans?"

"Good point. And we should probably practice some more basic couple behaviors. Dancing, for instance."

"Dancing?" The word comes out higher than I intended.

"It's a ball, Belle. There will definitely be dancing. And if we're supposed to be a couple, we'll need to dance together without looking like we're afraid to touch each other."

"I can't dance,” I confess.

"What do you mean you can't dance?" Adam asks. “How am I your best friend and I don’t know that you can’t dance? We’ve danced together at parties, haven’t we?”

"I mean I literally do not know how to do ballroom dancing, formal dancing, any kind of dancing that requires coordination with another person."

Adam stares at me in disbelief. “Oh! I was thinking of course you know how to dance, but formal dancing. Yeah, that’s an issue.”

"When exactly would I have learned? I've never been to an event that required formal dancing skills."

"Okay," Adam says, clearly recalibrating our practice session. "Dancing lessons. We definitely need dancing lessons."

"From who?"

"I... don't know. YouTube?" Adam asks.

"You want to learn ballroom dancing from YouTube?"

"Do you have a better suggestion?"

I consider this for a moment. "Mrs. Patterson taught dance classes when she was younger. Maybe she'd be willing to give us a crash course."

"Mrs. Patterson from the historical society? She's got to be eighty years old."

"Exactly. Which means she learned proper ballroom dancing when it was actually a standard social skill. Plus, she's discreet. She won't ask too many questions about why we suddenly need to learn to dance together.”

"We're a couple, so she should ask questions. We're messing up before we've even begun!" Adam chuckles as he waves our hands in the air. The hands that we're still holding, I forgot about that. Maybe this will work.

"That's... actually not a bad idea," Adam admits. "Though I feel like we're getting in way over our heads here."

"Probably. But we're committed now."

"Are we? Because we could still back out. Send our regrets, stay home, pretend this never happened."

For a moment, I'm tempted. The safe option would be to avoid the ball entirely, to maintain our comfortable status quo without risking exposure or complications.

But then I think about Felix Romano's visit to the library yesterday, about the way my suppressants failed when I was near him, about the constant vigilance required to maintain my hidden identity. Maybe the ball represents an opportunity to experience something extraordinary without having to risk everything I've worked to protect.

"I don't want to back out," I say firmly. "I want to go. I want to see what all the fuss is about, experience something magical, wear a beautiful dress and dance and feel like I'm part of something special."

"Even if it means fake-dating your best friend?" Adam asks.

"Especially if it means fake-dating my best friend. Because you're the only person I trust enough to share something like this with."

Adam's smile is soft and genuine. "In that case, we're really doing this."

"We're really doing this."

"God help us both."

We spend the next hour planning our fake relationship backstory, laughing at our own awkwardness and marveling at the complexity of what we're attempting. By the time we're ready to leave the library, we've established that we've been "secretly dating" for three months, that our transition from friendship to romance was gradual and natural, and that we're taking things slow because we value our friendship too much to rush into anything serious.

It's a believable story, partly because it contains enough truth to be sustainable and partly because we know each other well enough to maintain consistency.

"One more thing," Adam says as we gather our things and prepare to leave. "What are we going to wear?"

"I have no idea. I've never shopped for formal ball attire."

"Neither have I. Though I assume it involves more than the suit I wore to my cousin's wedding,” Adam says.

"Definitely more than that. We'll need to coordinate our outfits so we look like an actual couple."

"Shopping trip?" Adam asks. “On me!” He confirms, because he knows that all my money gets tied up in rent and a little bit more for the odd treat in the cafe.

"Shopping trip. This weekend?"

"This weekend," Adam agrees. "And Belle? Thank you. For trusting me with this."

"Thank you for agreeing to help me avoid social catastrophe."

"Always happy to enable your schemes."

As we leave the library together, walking out into the crisp autumn night, I feel a mix of excitement and terror about what we're planning. In less than two weeks, Adam and I will walk into Thornfield Palace as a fake couple, pretending to be in love while navigating one of the most exclusive social events in the region.

It's either going to be the adventure of a lifetime or the most spectacular disaster in the history of fake relationships.

Possibly both.

But as Adam walks me to my car and gives me a hug goodnight that feels just slightly different than usual, I find myself looking forward to finding out.

Because maybe, just maybe, pretending to be in love with my best friend will teach me something about what I actually want from life.

And maybe that knowledge will be worth whatever complications come with it.

11

THE WILLOWBROOK CHRONICLE

Sweet Eavesdroppers,

Lady Inkwell is positively trembling with excitement! The golden box at the post office has finally received its most anticipated responses, and oh my dears, the revelations are absolutely delicious!

Our very own Mr. Adam Chen and Miss Belle Hartwell have not only submitted their RSVPs for this year's Masquerade Ball at Thornfield Palace, but sources confirm they are attending together! Yes, darlings, as a couple! One can only imagine what romantic developments transpired between our bookish librarians to inspire such a delightful pairing.

But here's where Lady Inkwell's curiosity reaches fever pitch: what on earth will they wear? Miss Hartwell, bless her sensible soul, has been spotted making mysterious visits to the dress shop on Main Street, while whispers suggest Mr. Chen has been seen consulting with the tailor about something far more elaborate than his usual casual attire.

The anticipation is absolutely killing me, darlings! Will our perpetually practical librarian emerge transformed in silk and satin? Will Mr. Chen abandon his comfortable cardigans for something worthy of palace grandeur? And what masks will they choose to conceal their identities during the evening's festivities?

One thing is certain: Willbrook's most unexpected couple will undoubtedly surprise us all when they grace those hallowed halls together. Lady Inkwell can hardly contain her speculation about what other revelations this magical evening might bring!

Yours in breathless anticipation, Lady Inkwell

P.S. - Sources suggest that certain prominent local establishments have been fielding inquiries about formal wear. How wonderfully romantic!

12

BELLE

We could have gone to Adam's house to do some more practice runs of being a fake couple, but when we were there yesterday, his mom brought out a wedding dress catalog and said that maybe with my skin tone, cream would be a better color than white.

Then she came back with her laptop and started telling me about all the wedding planners in the neighboring areas, and how I wouldn't have to lift a finger, because they will do it all for me. So much pressure, and we haven't even been on one date. So today we decided the best place to practice is in my flat, but the issue is that there isn't much room for one person, let alone two.

"This feels ridiculous," Adam mutters as we stand in the middle of my cramped studio apartment, attempting what we've optimistically termed "couple practice." The space is so small that we're practically on top of each other anyway, which should theoretically make practicing intimacy easier. Instead, it just makes everything feel more awkward.

"It's supposed to feel ridiculous at first," I insist, though I'm not entirely convinced of this myself. "We just need to get comfortable with... couple-y things."

"Couple-y things," Adam repeats dubiously. "Is that the technical term?"

"Shut up and put your arm around me."

Adam dutifully drapes his arm around my shoulders, but it feels exactly like what it is, a friend giving a friendly hug rather than a romantic gesture. We both know it, and the knowing makes everything worse.

"This isn't working," I sigh, stepping away from him and nearly bumping into my tiny kitchen counter. "We look like siblings posing for a family photo."

"Uncomfortable siblings," Adam adds helpfully. "The kind who don't really like each other."

"We need to watch some movies or something. Study how couples actually behave."

"Or," Adam suggests with the tone of someone who's about to propose something he knows is a bad idea, "we could just accept that we're terrible at this and hope that formal wear and good lighting will hide our complete lack of romantic chemistry."

The phrase "complete lack of romantic chemistry" hits me harder than it should. Not because it's inaccurate, but because part of me had been hoping that possibly, we'd discover some latent attraction that would make this whole charade easier.

"We're not giving up after one practice session," I declare with determination that's mostly genuine. "We just need to approach this differently."

"How differently?"

"More... naturally. Instead of trying to force romantic gestures, let's just practice being more affectionate versions of ourselves."

To demonstrate, I move closer to Adam again, but this time I focus on relaxing rather than trying to manufacture chemistry. When I take his hand, I don't overthink the contact, but just let myself enjoy the familiar comfort of his touch.

"Better?" I ask.

"Actually, yeah," Adam says, sounding surprised. "When you're not concentrating so hard on being romantic, you just feel like... you."

"Charming. Really selling the fantasy there, Chen,” I say.

"I mean it in a good way! You feel like Belle, just... more."

"More what?" I ask.

"More present. More focused on me specifically instead of on the concept of romance in general."

His observation is more perceptive than I expected. He's right, because when I stop trying to perform romance and just focus on Adam as a person, everything feels more natural.

"Okay, let's try walking," I suggest. "Couples walk differently than friends."

We spend the next ten minutes attempting to walk around my apartment like we're romantically involved rather than just sharing space. It's harder than it sounds, partly because there's barely room for two people to walk side by side, and we keep reverting to our usual pattern of Adam automatically adjusting his longer stride to accommodate my shorter legs.

"We're overthinking this," Adam finally declares, stopping in front of my tiny bathroom and narrowly avoiding collision with the door frame. "Real couples don't think about how they walk together. They just do it."

"Real couples also probably practiced being couples gradually over time, instead of cramming twenty years of friendship into romantic mode in one weekend,” I point out.

"Fair enough.” Adam surveys my apartment with the expression of someone reassessing a challenging architectural project. "Maybe we need a bigger practice space."

"This is all the space I have,” I say wondering where he expects to find more space.

"I know. I just meant..." He trails off, apparently thinking better of whatever he was about to suggest.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's not important" he sighs.

"Adam."

"I was just going to say we could practice at my place, but then I remembered what happened only yesterday.”

His place is spacious, well-appointed, decorated with the kind of careful attention that comes from having both good taste and unlimited budget. Everything about it screams comfortable wealth in ways that always make me slightly self-conscious about my own circumstances.

Not that Adam has ever made me feel bad about the disparity between our living situations. If anything, he goes out of his way to spend time at my place, probably because he understands that I'm more comfortable on my own territory.

"It's not weird," I lie. “I mean we could sneak in when your mom’s not around or sleeping. It is just that your place just feels too... fancy for practicing fake romance."

"Fancy?" He asks while lifting his eyebrow.

"You know what I mean. All that space and nice furniture and proper lighting. It would feel like performing instead of practicing."

Adam considers this for a moment, then nods. "Okay, but we definitely need to practice somewhere with enough room to actually dance. Mrs. Patterson agreed to give us lessons tomorrow afternoon, but I'd rather not go in completely blind."

"The library?" I ask.

"Perfect. After hours, plenty of space, and we already know all the good hiding spots in case someone sees us making fools of ourselves."

The plan settled, we spend the rest of the afternoon working on basic couple behaviors: hand-holding that looks intentional rather than accidental, standing close enough to appear intimate without invading each other's personal space, and what Adam terms "meaningful eye contact."

By evening, we've made progress. Not great, but enough improvement that we no longer look like strangers forced to share personal space against their will.

"I think we're ready for public practice," I announce as we're gathering our things to leave.

"Public practice?" He asks.

"Tomorrow we're going shopping for outfits. That means sales associates, other customers, people who will assume we're actually a couple. It'll be good practice for the real thing."

Adam looks slightly terrified by this prospect, but he nods gamely. "Baptism by fire. I like it."

The next day, we’re standing outside Enchanted Elegance, an upscale formal wear boutique in the city that specializes in what their website calls "fairy tale fashion for life's most magical moments." The name alone makes me want to turn around and find somewhere less aggressively romantic, but Adam researched extensively and insists this is our best option for ball-appropriate attire.

"Remember," I tell him as we approach the entrance, "we're a couple who's been secretly dating for three months. We're excited about attending our first formal event together. We're looking for coordinating outfits that will make us look like we belong at an exclusive ball."

"Got it. Excited, coordinated, belonging." Adam takes my hand as we reach the door, and I'm pleased to note that the gesture feels more natural than yesterday's attempts. "Ready to spend an embarrassing amount of money on clothes we'll probably never wear again?"

"So ready."

The interior of Enchanted Elegance is exactly what you'd expect from the name with soft lighting, classical music, and displays arranged to look like scenes from a romantic fairy tale. Everything is designed to make customers feel like they're shopping for their own happily ever after.

"Good morning!" A saleswoman approaches us with the kind of bright smile that suggests commission-based compensation. She's in her early thirties with perfectly styled blonde hair swept into an elegant updo, wearing a sophisticated black dress that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Her makeup is flawless, and she moves with the practiced grace of someone who's spent years helping nervous customers find their perfect look. "I'm Julia, and I'd be delighted to help you find the perfect looks for your special event."

"We're attending a masquerade ball," I explain, immediately slipping into the role we've rehearsed. "It's our first formal event together, so we want to coordinate our outfits without being too matchy-matchy."

"Oh, the Thornfield Palace Masquerade Ball!" Julia’s eyes light up with genuine excitement. "How absolutely thrilling! We've been preparing for weeks, it's the most prestigious event of the year. And may I say, you two make such a lovely couple. There's something special about the way you look at each other."

Adam and I exchange glances, and I'm surprised to realize that we actually do look at each other differently than we did yesterday. Not romantically, exactly, but with a heightened awareness that reads as intimacy to outside observers.

"Thank you," Adam says, squeezing my hand. "We're pretty excited about it."

For the next hour, Julia guides us through the process of selecting formal wear with the expertise of someone who's dressed hundreds of couples for important events. She explains color coordination, fabric compatibility, and the subtle details that distinguish expensive formal wear from rental-quality approximations.

"The key," she tells us as she pulls potential dresses for my consideration, "is finding pieces that complement each other without looking like you planned every detail. You want to appear naturally harmonious."

Natural harmony. I like the sound of that, probably because it describes what Adam and I actually have when we're not trying to force romance into the equation.

The first dress Julia brings me is stunning, it’s a deep emerald green silk that brings out my eyes and fits like it was designed specifically for my body. But when I emerge from the dressing room, both Adam and Julia immediately shake their heads.

"Too formal," Julia declares. "Beautiful, but it overwhelms your natural warmth."

"Agreed," Adam says. "You look amazing, but you also look like someone else entirely."

The second dress is better, it’s a midnight blue with intricate beadwork that catches the light when I move. But again, something feels off.

"The color is perfect," Julia muses, "but the style is too mature. We need something that feels more... you."

It's the fourth dress that changes everything. The moment Julia brings it out, I know it's different. It's rose gold, a color I never would have chosen for myself with a fitted bodice that emphasizes my curves without making me self-conscious about them. The skirt flows in layers of silk and tulle that move like water when I walk, and the overall effect is both elegant and playful.

When I step out of the dressing room, Adam's reaction is immediate and genuine.

"Oh," he says, and then stops talking entirely.

"What do you think?" I ask, turning slowly so he can see the full effect.

"I think..." Adam pauses, searching for words. "I think you look like yourself, but the most beautiful version of yourself possible."

The compliment hits me harder than it should, partly because Adam's never seen me in anything more formal than work clothes, and partly because the way he's looking at me right now feels different than his usual friendly appreciation.

"Really?"

"Really. You look..." He shakes his head, apparently giving up on finding adequate words. "You look perfect."

Julia beams at both of us like we've just validated her professional expertise. "I love it when couples have that moment of recognition. You can see it in their faces, that's when they know they've found the right look."

Looking at myself in the boutique's mirrors, I understand what she means. This dress doesn't just fit my body, but my personality too. I feel confident and beautiful and like myself, just amplified.

"We'll take this one," Adam tells Julia without even glancing at the price tag. I want to shake my head and tell him it's too much, that I could never afford something like this on my librarian's salary, but I learned long ago not to argue with Adam's generosity. When he decides to spoil me with professional baking equipment or designer gowns, there's no point in protesting. His family's wealth means that what feels impossibly expensive to me is barely a blip in his budget, and he genuinely enjoys being able to share that privilege with someone he cares about.

Adam's tuxedo selection goes more smoothly, partly because men's formal wear offers fewer variables, and partly because Adam has the kind of classic good looks that make almost anything look elegant. We settle on a charcoal gray tuxedo with rose gold accents that complement my dress without looking overly coordinated.

"You two are going to be absolutely stunning," Julia gushes as she rings up our purchases. "That ball is lucky to have such a beautiful couple who are going to shine!"

Shine and me, don’t usually fall into the same sentence. As we leave the boutique, bags in hand and significantly lighter in the wallet department, I feel a warm glow at the idea of it. I can’t believe I didn’t want to go, but there’s a wave of excitement about the idea of it all.

"I can't believe we just did that," I tell Adam as we walk down the busy city street. "I feel like we're actually going to pull this off."

"The fake dating or the ball attendance?"

"Both. All of it. For the first time since we got those invitations, I'm actually excited instead of just terrified,” I confess.

“The dress definitely helps," Adam agrees as he holds my hand, but not as we’ve been practicing as a couple, but more as the friend he is. "You really do look amazing in it."

"You clean up pretty well yourself, Chen. I never thought someone like me could be beautiful, but now it is as if I've found a new me, something I didn't think was possible."

Adam pauses, as if he is observing me. "Why do you always sell yourself short? You hide behind oversized sweaters, but you really don't need makeup or a fancy dress to be beautiful. You are naturally beautiful."

I feel my face growing red as I try to reply to him, but instead my voice is a mere whisper. "Thanks."

We're so focused on complimenting each other, that we almost don't notice the three men approaching from the opposite direction until we're practically face-to-face with them.

Marcus Sterling, Felix Romano, and Theo Blackwood. The infamous "Beast Pack" of Willowbrook, looking like they've stepped out of some urban fantasy novel about dangerous men in expensive clothes.

But before I can react, Marcus Sterling does something completely unexpected.

He smiles.

And that's when it hits me. Their scent. All three of them. Even through my suppressants, I can smell them clearly: Marcus's rich cedar and leather, Felix's warm vanilla and spice, Theo's crisp pine and something darker underneath. My suppressants have never failed me before, but standing this close to them, it's like they don't work at all. The realization makes my heart race with a mixture of panic and something else I don't want to examine too closely.

"Miss Hartwell," Marcus says with genuine warmth. "Good to see you in the city. I hope you're finding everything you need."

"Mr. Sterling," I manage, surprised by his friendliness and trying to ignore the way their combined scents are making me feel slightly dizzy. "Yes, we're just... shopping."

"For the ball, I assume?" Felix Romano adds, and there's something knowing in his expression that makes me wonder exactly how much he observes during his architectural consultations.

"You two are attending the masquerade?" Theo Blackwood asks, and he sounds genuinely pleased rather than surprised or judgmental.

"We are," Adam confirms, squeezing my hand in what I assume is meant to be a supportive gesture but which also reinforces our couple charade.

“Great!” Marcus says, and he actually sounds like he means it. "You'll have an incredible time. The palace is spectacular during the ball, and the organizers always create something truly magical."

"You sound as if you know them, and as if you’ve been before,” I observe.

"Not personal experience," Felix says carefully. "But we... appreciate good event planning."

There's something in his tone that suggests there's more to the story, but before I can analyze it further, Theo changes the subject.

"Miss Hartwell, I hope the library expansion planning is going well. Felix speaks very highly of your vision for the project."

I'm sure that I told him to call me Belle. No one calls me by my last name, but when he does it, something inside me changes, a shift. It's not only their scent, but there's something else I can't put my finger on.

"Great!" I reply, grateful for the safer topic. "Mr. Romano has some brilliant ideas for integrating modern functionality with historical preservation."

Well, if he's going to use last names, then I will do the same. But my voice is stuck in my throat. The words that usually flow out of me become stuck.

"Felix does excellent work," Marcus says with obvious pride in his pack mate. "The community is lucky to have his expertise."

"Speaking of community," Adam interjects, apparently feeling confident enough to join the conversation, "will we see you three at the ball? It would be nice to have familiar faces there."

The question is innocent enough, but the reaction it provokes is immediate and telling. All three men exchange glances that speak of shared frustration and disappointment.

"We won't be attending," Marcus says simply, but there's an edge to his voice that suggests this is a sensitive topic.

"That doesn't seem fair," I say before I can stop myself. "I mean, look at all the people who received invitations this year. Claire Mitchell from the flower shop works sixteen-hour days creating the most beautiful arrangements for everyone's special moments, bringing joy to people during their happiest and saddest times. She absolutely deserves to experience something magical for herself. And Dr. James Rodriguez? That man has delivered half the babies in this town and stayed up countless nights saving lives. If anyone has earned a night of enchantment, it's him."

I notice Adam's hand slip away from mine, but I can't seem to stop myself. This is exactly what happens around these three men, I either say nothing at all or I can't shut up. There's no middle ground.

"Then there are the Walsh twins at the auto shop. Those two have helped every single person in Willbrook at some point, whether it's a midnight breakdown or fixing someone's car for free when money's tight. They're the first to volunteer for community events and never ask for anything in return. And Emma Thompson! She's shaped the minds of practically every child in this town for the past fifteen years, staying after school to help struggling students, buying supplies with her own money. She may be quiet, but she's had an enormous impact on our community."

Marcus is watching me with an expression of fascination as I go through the list of invitees. Felix has that slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth, like he's genuinely entertained. Theo's dark eyes are completely focused on me, and Adam looks somewhere between impressed and mortified.

I pause, realizing I'm practically lecturing three of the most prominent men in town, but I can't seem to stop. "Even Jake Sullivan almost threw his invitation away because he was convinced he didn't deserve it. But he's the one who opens his hardware store at dawn for emergencies, who never charges full price for elderly customers, who taught my neighbor's grandson how to fix his bike for free. These are the people who make Willbrook what it is, who give and give without ever expecting recognition. If anyone deserves a magical night, it's them."

The four men are all staring at me now, and I suddenly realize I've been gesturing wildly with my free hand while completely monopolizing the conversation.

"I just assumed... I mean, you're all obviously successful members of the community..." Adam says, as everyone stops to just stare at me.

"Not everyone who deserves an invitation receives one," Felix says quietly.

These three men are clearly intelligent, successful, and contributing members of the community, but they have been excluded from the same event that somehow deemed Adam and me worthy of attendance.

"Fairness is rarely a factor in social exclusion," Theo replies with the pragmatism of someone who's experienced it firsthand.

"But you're all... I mean, you contribute so much to the community. Mr. Romano is designing our library expansion, Mr. Sterling's development projects have brought jobs and growth to the region, and Mr. Blackwood..." I trail off, realizing I don't actually know what Theo does professionally.

"Provides security consulting," Theo finishes with amusement. "And thank you for the sentiment, but we're used to being excluded from certain social circles."

"It doesn't make it right," Adam says firmly, and I'm proud of him for speaking up despite his usual shyness around intimidating strangers.

"No," Marcus agrees, "it doesn't. But it's the reality we've learned to work with."

There's something profound about this moment as we have an honest conversation with three men who've been demonized by town gossip, realizing that exclusion and inclusion often have nothing to do with merit or character.

"Well," I say impulsively, "if you're ever interested in attending library events, you'd be more than welcome. We're always looking for community members who understand the value of education and cultural programming."

Belle, stop talking. The library is an open space. Of course they know that they can come in. They've done it before. They don't need an invite from me.

"That's very kind of you," Felix says softly. "We might take you up on that."

"Please do," Adam adds. "Belle's right, the library should be welcoming to everyone who values what it represents."

As we part ways and continue down the street, I find myself thinking about the contrast between the Beast Pack's reputation and the reality of our interaction. They were polite, intelligent, and genuinely kind, and nothing like the dangerous, antisocial alphas that town gossip portrays them as.

An alpha in a business suit passes us on the sidewalk, and I notice immediately that I can't smell him at all. My suppressants are working perfectly again, just like they always have with every other alpha I've ever encountered. It's only around Marcus, Felix, and Theo that they seem to completely fail me. The realization makes my stomach flip with a mixture of confusion and something that feels dangerously close to excitement.

"That was interesting," Adam says once we're out of earshot.

"Yeah, they're totally different than I thought they'd be."

"What did you expect?" Adam asks.

"I don't know, maybe more like... brooding and scary? The way everyone talks about them, I expected them to grunt and glare at us. But they were actually sweet."

"And they didn't get invited to the ball," Adam says. "Which is honestly kind of messed up when you think about who did get invitations."

"Maybe that's something we can ask about at the ball," I suggest. "Discreetly, of course."

"Discreetly investigating social exclusion while fake-dating your best friend," Adam muses. "This evening just keeps getting more complicated."

"Complicated isn't necessarily bad."

"No," Adam agrees, looking at me with an expression I can't quite interpret. "Sometimes complicated is exactly what you need to make things interesting."

As we head home with our formal wear and our growing list of questions about the ball's true nature, I realize that our fake dating has already accomplished something I hadn't expected: it's got us actually paying attention to how weird our town really is, questioning stuff we've always just accepted as normal.

And it's given me a reason to figure out why my suppressants only seem to work sometimes. I need to get this sorted out before the ball. The last thing I want is to have everything fall apart in front of hundreds of strangers at the biggest event of the year.

Maybe pretending to be in love with my best friend will teach me more than just how to act romantic. And maybe that's exactly what I need to figure out what I actually want from life, instead of just hiding from what scares me.

13

THEO

If the guys could see me now, then I can imagine them laughing, especially Marcus, but I'm wondering if the reason we struggle to have an omega, is because we're never in touch with our feminine side. We're three alphas, our idea of having a meal is ordering take out. Our idea of housekeeping is a cleaner and our idea of having a good time is watching boxing matches. There's nothing more exciting than watching two alphas beat the shit out of each other. Or football where they tackle and try to beat each other for a ball. Yeah, we need to lighten up, and there's no better way than to try and maybe read a book. A romantic one, but then I heard the book club talking in the cafe the other day and some of those books, sound far from romantic.

We did have a conversation with Belle and Adam in the city yesterday. They were nice. We tried to be friendly, but Belle was really nervous around us. She was twitching while talking to us and never meeting our eyes. Our presence makes her feel nervous like everyone else in town.

But there was something else. I could smell her scent, even through whatever suppressants she's taking. Warm vanilla and honey with something sweeter underneath, something that called to every instinct I have. Her suppressants might fool other alphas, but they don't work on us. She smelled like home, like everything we've been searching for without even realizing it.

I stand at the entrance, feeling as if I've just entered a maze. And I have no fucking idea where to start.

Protection.

Security, now that's my jam. This, feels like it is on a different planet.

The irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, Theo Blackwood, former Special Forces operative who's spent the better part of a decade protecting high-value targets and neutralizing threats in some of the world's most dangerous places, completely flummoxed by the organizational system of a small-town library. I can infiltrate enemy compounds, defuse improvised explosive devices, and coordinate tactical operations under fire, but ask me to find a romance novel and I'm as lost as a tourist without a map.

The Willbrook Public Library after six is completely different, than during the day. Gone are the chattering families with their energetic children racing between the stacks, the study groups of teenagers sprawled across tables with textbooks and laptops, the constant hum of activity that makes the place feel alive and purposeful. Instead, there's this peaceful quiet that settles over everything like a warm blanket, broken only by the soft tick of the antique clock near the circulation desk and the distant hum of the building's heating system.

The overhead fluorescents have been dimmed to a softer setting, leaving only the warm glow of reading lamps scattered throughout the building. The effect is somehow both cozy and mysterious, transforming the familiar daytime space into something that feels almost sacred.

I've never been here this late before. Hell, I've barely been here during regular hours except for the occasional research project or when Marcus needed some obscure business document that Belle always managed to track down with that sunny smile of hers.

She's... complicated. Always so cheerful and chatty when we interact, bubbling over with enthusiasm about whatever project she's working on or book she's recently discovered. But there's something underneath that brightness, almost guarded. Like she's performing happiness rather than actually feeling it.

It's the kind of thing you notice when you've spent years reading people for threats, for weaknesses, for tells. In my line of work, being able to assess someone's true emotional state can be the difference between life and death. Most people wear their feelings on their faces, their body language broadcasting their intentions whether they realize it or not. But Belle has layers. Walls built with smiles and deflection, barriers constructed from helpful efficiency and cheerful professionalism.

The way she sometimes pauses mid-sentence, like she's editing herself in real time. The careful distance she maintains during conversations, friendly but never truly intimate. The way her smile sometimes doesn't quite reach her eyes, especially when she thinks no one is looking. The subtle tension in her shoulders that suggests she's always slightly on guard, always ready to retreat behind her professional persona.

I shake my head and force myself to focus on the task at hand. Romance novels. Jesus Christ, what have my packmates reduced me to?

I enter the library, and head to the fiction section. It stretches out before me like an ocean of spines, organized according to some system that Belle probably explained to me once but which now seems as incomprehensible as hieroglyphics. Thousands of books in neat rows, their colorful spines creating a rainbow of possibilities that somehow feels more overwhelming than comforting.

I realize I should have asked Belle for help before she left for the day. She probably would have guided me right to what I needed with that enthusiastic efficiency she brings to everything, chattering about different subgenres and authors while pulling exactly the right books from the shelves. She has this gift for making even the most mundane research feel like an adventure, her passion for books and learning infectious enough to make anyone feel excited about discovery.

Except... I can hear movement coming from deeper in the library. Soft sounds, like someone reorganizing shelves or maybe working late in the back office.

And then I catch it. Her scent. Warm vanilla and honey with something sweeter underneath, something that calls to every instinct I have. Even through whatever suppressants she's taking, I can smell her clearly. Her scent cuts through the musty smell of old books and cleaning supplies like a beacon.

Belle.

She works too damn hard, staying late all the time. I've driven past the library on my evening security rounds more times than I can count, and her car is still in the parking lot long after the building should be empty. The woman needs to learn when to go home and take care of herself instead of constantly taking care of everyone else.

It's one of the things that draws me to her, if I'm being honest. That selfless dedication to her work, to serving the community, to making sure everyone else's needs are met before she even considers her own. But it's also one of the things that worries me. There's a difference between being dedicated and being self-sacrificing to the point of self-harm.

I navigate through the shelves, following the sounds deeper into the library. The romance section can wait, because I need to at least say hello. Maybe offer to walk her to her car. It's getting dark outside, and while Willbrook is generally safe, you never know. The protective instincts that made me good at my job don't switch off just because I'm in civilian life now.

The library feels different when it's empty like this. More intimate, somehow. I can see why Belle loves this place so much, why she's put everything into making it a real community space.

The sounds are coming from the reference section, tucked away in the back corner where the old, heavy volumes live. As I get closer, I can hear her moving around, the soft rustle of papers and the occasional satisfied hum that suggests she's found whatever she was looking for.

But then I catch another scent that stops me dead in my tracks, every nerve ending suddenly firing at once.

Belle is distressed.

Her omega scent, usually carefully masked by suppressants, is bleeding through in waves of panic and desperation that triggers every protective instinct I have. I need to find her. Now.

My military training kicks in automatically. Assess the situation. Identify the threat. Determine the appropriate response. But this isn't a combat situation, and the "threat" isn't external, but it's biological, natural, and happening to someone I care about.

I move faster, following the scent trail that's growing stronger with each step. It leads me around a tall stack of encyclopedias, past the reference desk with its neat stacks of research requests, deeper into the maze of shelves where the oldest, most specialized volumes are kept.

And that's where I find her.

Belle is crumpled on the floor between two towering shelves, her back pressed against the wall like she's trying to make herself as small as possible. Her knees are drawn up to her chest in a defensive posture, her arms wrapped around her legs. Her face is flushed a deep pink, the color spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the collar of her practical cardigan. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, almost panting, and her usually perfect ponytail has come loose, dark hair sticking to her damp forehead in chaotic waves.

She looks like she's fighting off some kind of illness. But I know better. The scent filling the air around her tells the whole story, because it’s of sweet vanilla and roses with an underlying note of desperation that makes my mouth water and my alpha instincts sing with recognition.

"Belle?" I drop to my knees beside her, careful to keep some distance even though every fiber of my being wants to reach out and touch, to comfort, to protect. "What's wrong?"

She looks up at me with glassy, unfocused eyes, and that's when the full force of her scent hits me like a freight train. My vision narrows, my breathing deepens, and suddenly every cell in my body is screaming that his woman is important, that I need to help her regardless of the cost.

Heat.

She's going into heat. Fast and hard from the looks of it, like her body is making up for lost time. The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow, rearranging everything I thought I knew about Belle Hartwell in the space of a single heartbeat.

"Theo?" Her voice is small and confused, barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for a book," I manage to say, though my voice sounds rougher than I intended. The scent of her heat is flooding my senses, making it hard to focus on anything beyond the primitive urge to comfort and protect. "But more importantly, what's happening? Are you okay?"

It's a stupid question. She's clearly not okay. She's an omega going into emergency heat, alone in an empty building, with no preparation and no support system. Of course she's not okay.

She shakes her head frantically, the movement making her wince as though it causes physical pain. "No, no, you can't be here. You can't see me like this."

"Belle, you're in distress. Let me help…”

"You can't tell anyone!" The words burst out of her with desperate intensity. "Please, Theo, you can't tell anyone about this. Not Adam, not your packmates, not anyone in town. Please."

The desperation in her voice confirms what Marcus has been suspecting for months. She's terrified of being discovered, of having her secret exposed.

Belle's a hidden omega who's been suppressing her nature, probably for years. This explains everything about the way she always seems to hold herself slightly apart from everyone else. It explains why our scents cut through her suppressants when no other alpha's can, why she gets nervous around us specifically, why there's always been this underlying tension whenever we're near her.

Marcus suspected it, and now I know for certain. She's ours. She's been ours this whole time, and she's been hiding from us.

"Okay," I say softly, trying to project calm even though my alpha instincts are going haywire. "I won't tell anyone. But Belle, you're going into heat. You need…”

"I forgot my suppressants," she interrupts, her voice breaking completely. "I stayed late to finish the new book display, and I was so focused that I forgot to take my evening dose. I haven't missed a dose in years, not since..." She trails off, wrapping her arms tighter around herself like she can physically hold her biology in check.

"Since when?" I ask gently, though I think I can guess. Late presentation, probably. It's more common than people think, especially for omegas who spend their teens and early twenties convinced they're betas.

"Since I presented last year.” Her confession is barely audible, whispered like a secret she's never spoken aloud before. "Late presentation, emergency heat that lasted for days. I swore I'd never go through that again without being prepared."

My heart clenches at the vulnerability in her voice, at the fear written across her face. She's been carrying this secret for a year, managing her nature entirely on her own. No pack support, no alpha guidance, no omega community to help her understand what she was going through. Just her, alone, trying to navigate something that's supposed to be shared and supported.

"How long since your last heat?" The question slips out before I can stop it, my alpha instincts demanding information so I can better assess the situation and figure out how to help her.

“Last year,” she whispers, and the admission hits me like a physical blow. "The suppressants... they stop everything. But now..." She gestures helplessly at herself.

No wonder this heat is hitting her so hard thather body is probably desperate to make up for all that lost time, all those missed cycles. Suppressants aren't meant to be used continuously for that long without breaks. The biological and psychological effects of complete omega suppression can be severe.

"Belle, listen to me." I lean forward slightly, catching her glassy gaze and holding it. "You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you or take advantage. But you need help getting through this. Do you have somewhere secure to go? Someone who can take care of you?"

She lets out a bitter laugh that turns into a whimper halfway through, the sound so broken it makes my chest ache. "Take care of me? I don't... I've never..." She shakes her head, dark hair falling across her face. "I handle everything myself. I have supplies at home, that I need to get through this alone."

Alone. The word hits me like a physical blow, reverberating through my chest with the force of a gunshot. She's planning to go through heat completely alone, the way she's been handling everything else in her life. No support, no comfort, no one to make sure she stays hydrated and fed and safe during the most vulnerable time in her biological cycle.

The thought of her suffering through this in isolation, scared and confused and fighting her own biology, makes something savage and protective rise in my chest. No omega should have to endure heat alone. It's not just cruel, but dangerous. Dehydration, malnutrition, psychological trauma from the isolation during such a vulnerable time. The medical literature is clear about the risks.

"You don't have to do this alone," I tell her, putting every ounce of alpha authority I can muster into my voice without making it sound like a command. "I know we don't know each other well, but I can help. Platonic help," I add quickly when her eyes widen with something that might be panic. "Food, water, making sure you're safe. Nothing more than that unless you want it."

She stares at me for a long moment, and I can practically see the war happening behind her eyes. The independent part of her that's been managing everything solo for a year, that's built an entire identity around self-sufficiency and control, warring with the omega part that's desperate for alpha care and comfort. The part that knows, on a biological level, that she needs support to get through this safely.

"Why?" she finally asks, her voice so small I have to strain to hear it. "Why would you want to help me?"

The question catches me completely off guard. Why would I want to help her?

Because she's our omega, even if she doesn't know it yet. And I don’t want her suffering alone, and in the space of five minutes, everything I thought I knew about Belle Hartwell has been turned upside down, and I'm discovering that the woman I was mildly attracted to is actually the missing piece of a puzzle I didn't even know we were trying to solve.

"Because you're too chatty for your own good," I say instead, trying to lighten the moment with the kind of gentle teasing that's always seemed to make her smile. "Too pretty. And too much of what..." I stop myself before I can finish that thought. Too much of what we need.

But she catches it anyway, her eyes sharpening despite the haze of heat that's clouding her judgment. Even in the grip of biology she can't control, her mind is sharp enough to pick up on unfinished sentences and implications.

"Too much of what?" she asks, and there's something almost desperate in the question, like she needs to know what I see when I look at her.

"Nothing," I say quickly, realizing I'm walking into dangerous territory. "The point is, you don't deserve to suffer through this alone. Let me help."

She's quiet for several heartbeats, her breathing still rapid and shallow. I can see the internal struggle playing out across her features. Her omega nature is probably screaming at her to accept help, while her rational mind is listing all the reasons why trusting an alpha during heat is dangerous.

Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "It scares me."

"What does?" I ask, though I think I know. This vulnerability, this loss of control, this need for support from someone she barely knows.

"This. You. The way you make me feel even when I'm not..." She waves a hand vaguely at herself, gesturing to her current state. "How am I supposed to trust my judgment when my body is screaming at me to trust you with everything?"

The honesty in her confession takes my breath away. She's afraid of her own biology, afraid of the way heat compromises her ability to make rational decisions. The connection she feels to me, the way her omega nature recognizes something in me that her conscious mind isn't ready to acknowledge.

I want to tell her that I would move heaven and earth to keep you safe, to make you happy, to give you everything you've been denying yourself.

Instead, I say, "You don't have to trust me with everything. Just trust me with this. Let me get you home safely, make sure you have what you need."

Another wave of heat seems to hit her then, making her double over with a soft cry that goes straight through me like a knife. Her scent spikes, becoming richer and more intoxicating, and I can see the moment when the last of her careful control starts to slip away.

"My friend Sarah," Belle whispers, her voice shaky from the heat coursing through her. "We were close in high school. She was an omega too, and when she left for college, she was so hopeful. She found this alpha through a dating app designed for our kind, thought she'd finally found her perfect match."

I can see the pain etched across her face as she continues, her scent spiking with distress even through the heat.

"She went off her suppressants for him, wanted to experience her first natural heat with someone she trusted. She was so excited, Felix. She thought she was going to bond with her soulmate." Belle's voice cracks. "But during the heat, he lost control. Her scent triggered his rut and he became aggressive. Her body couldn't handle an unmatched claiming. She died because an alpha couldn't control himself when it mattered most."

My chest tightens at the raw pain in her voice. I move closer, but keep my movements slow and deliberate despite every instinct telling me to wrap her in my arms.

"Belle, look at me," I say quietly, while keeping my voice steady but gentle. "What happened to Sarah was a tragedy. That alpha failed her completely, and there's no excuse for that kind of loss of control."

"I've been trained to maintain control under extreme stress, in life-or-death situations. That's not just military training talking, but it's who I am. "

"You don't understand," she manages through another wave of heat. "Sarah trusted him too. Everyone always says they're different until they're not."

"You're right, I can't fully understand what you've been through," I acknowledge. "But I understand what real protection means. What real control looks like. And Belle, I’m not going anywhere. Not when things get intense, not when your heat ends, not ever."

Without thinking, I reach out and place a gentle hand on her shoulder, offering what comfort I can without overstepping boundaries.

The contact sends a jolt through both of us like an electrical current. Her scent spikes again, becoming richer and more complex, and I can feel an answering response deep in my chest. My alpha instincts roar their approval, but underneath the primitive response, there's something deeper, something that feels like coming home.

"Oh," she breathes, looking up at me with wonder and fear warring in her expression. "Oh no. This is really bad."

"Why is it bad?" I ask, though I think I already know. The connection between us is stronger than it should be for two people who barely know each other. Stronger and more immediate than anything I've ever experienced.

"Because I've spent a year building walls to keep this from happening," she whispers, her voice shaking with emotion. "And you just knocked them all down with one touch."

She's not just talking about the heat, but the biological response to an alpha's presence during her cycle. She's talking about something deeper, the way her omega nature is responding to mine specifically.

I should pull my hand away, but she's not asking me to move, and the alpha in me is purring with satisfaction at being able to provide comfort, at being accepted and trusted enough to help.

"Maybe the walls weren't as strong as you thought," I suggest carefully, testing the waters.

She lets out a shaky laugh that's half-humor, half-despair. "Or maybe you're stronger than I expected." Her eyes flutter closed as another wave hits her, and I can see her fighting to maintain some semblance of control. "God, this is happening so fast. Usually there's more warning, more time to prepare..."

"What do you need right now?" I ask, focusing on the practical rather than the emotional complications we're both dancing around. "Tell me how to help."

"Water," she manages to say between shallow breaths. "And I need to get home. I have a heat room set up, supplies..."

The fact that she has a heat room, tells me that she has thought through the logistics, prepared for emergencies, created systems to get herself through the most vulnerable time in her cycle without relying on anyone else.

It's impressive and heartbreaking at the same time.

I help her to her feet, keeping one steady hand on her arm as she sways like a tree in a strong wind. She's burning up, her skin fever-hot even through the thick wool of her cardigan. The heat radiating from her is almost overwhelming, and I can feel my own body responding to her distress, every protective instinct I have screaming at me to do whatever it takes to make her comfortable.

"My car's right outside," I tell her, fighting to keep my voice steady and reassuring. "I'll drive you home, help you get settled."

She nods gratefully, then freezes as though she's just remembered something important. "But what about your book? You came here for a reason..."

Even in the middle of heat, even while her body is betraying her and her carefully constructed world is falling apart, she's thinking about other people. Worried about inconveniencing me, about disrupting my plans. It's so quintessentially Belle that I can't help but smile, even in the middle of this crisis.

"The book can wait," I assure her, meaning it completely. "This is more important."

As I help her gather her purse, her keys, the cardigan she's somehow managed to shed in the last few minutes, and guide her toward the exit, I can't shake the feeling that everything just changed. This morning, Belle was just the friendly librarian who always had a smile and a helpful suggestion. Tonight, she's the omega who's been hiding in plain sight.

The walk to my car feels like it takes forever and no time at all. Belle leans heavily against my side, trusting me to support her weight as we navigate the empty parking lot. Her scent wraps around me like silk, making it hard to focus on anything beyond the primitive need to protect and comfort.

"Thank you," she whispers as I help her into the passenger seat, her voice barely audible over the sound of evening traffic. "For not... for being..."

"For being what?" I ask gently, though I think I know what she's trying to say.

"For being safe," she says, and the simple words hit me harder than any declaration of love ever could.

And despite her fears about walls and complicated feelings, I know with absolute certainty that I'm not walking away from this. From her.

Marcus and Felix are going to have very strong opinions about this development. But first, I need to get Belle home safe and help her through what's promising to be a challenging heat.

Everything else can wait until she's not burning up in my arms and looking at me like I might be either her salvation or her downfall.

Though if I'm being honest, it might be both.

14

THEO

The moment I slide behind the wheel of my truck with Belle in the passenger seat, I know this twenty-minute drive is going to test every ounce of self-control I've spent years developing. Her intoxicating blend of vanilla and honey scent fills the car, and it has been driving me crazy.

She's curled against the passenger door, trying to make herself as small as possible, but I can hear every shallow breath she takes, see the way her hands shake as she grips the door handle. The suppressants are losing their battle against her biology, and her omega nature is starting to bleed through in waves that make my alpha instincts roar with the need to comfort and protect.

"Address?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended. Even that single word feels dangerous to speak, like any sound I make might shatter the fragile control we're both maintaining.

"Maple Street," she whispers, and the sound goes straight through me. "The apartments above Carson's Bakery."

The building has old brick, and narrow stairs. It’s the kind of place where young professionals live when they're just starting out. It explains why sometimes she smells faintly of bread and pastries.

I put the truck in drive and pull out of the library parking lot. The radio is playing some soft rock station, but I reach over and turn it off. Music feels wrong right now, too normal for what's happening between us. The silence that follows is thick with tension and unspoken need.

Belle shifts in her seat, and another wave of her scent hits me. This time it's stronger, richer, with an undertone that speaks directly to everything alpha in me. My hands tighten on the steering wheel, and I have to consciously relax my grip before I crack the leather.

"I'm sorry," she whispers suddenly, her voice so small I almost miss it over the sound of the engine.

"For what?" I keep my eyes on the road, but every other sense is focused entirely on her.

"For this. For needing help. For being so..." She makes a frustrated sound. “Defenseless.”

"Belle, you have nothing to apologize for. Nothing."

She's quiet for a moment, but I can smell the spike in her distress. "You don't understand. I've spent a year making sure this wouldn't happen. A whole year of careful control and planning, and I ruined it all by forgetting one dose."

We stop at a red light, and I risk a glance at her. She's pressed against the passenger door like she's trying to put as much distance between us as possible, but her eyes keep darting toward me with a hunger she's fighting. The conflict between her rational mind and her omega biology is written across every line of her body.

She has been suppressing her omega nature for an entire year, and now her body is demanding compensation. No wonder this heat is hitting her so hard, but months of biological needs her body has been denied.

The light turns green, and I force myself to focus on driving. But the knowledge that she's been suffering in silence for a year, managing everything alone, makes every protective instinct I have scream. No omega should have to live like that. No one should have to carry that kind of isolation.

I remember why she said she's been suppressing it for a year, but if I'm going to help her, if she's going to make it through the night, then she needs to be able to trust me.

“Belle," I say carefully, "what happened to your friend was a tragedy. That alpha failed her completely. But not all alphas lose control. Not all of us are dangerous."

"How do I know that?" she whispers. "How do I know you won't..." She can't finish the sentence, but she doesn't need to.

"Because I'm telling you," I say firmly. "Because I've been trained to maintain control under extreme stress, in life-or-death situations."

She's quiet, but I can smell the way her scent shifts slightly, but she’s still distressed, but with a note of something that might be hope.

The rest of the drive passes in charged silence. Every few minutes, another wave of heat seems to hit her, and her scent spikes with need and arousal that makes my body respond in ways I'm fighting to control. I'm knotting in my jeans just from being near her, my alpha biology convinced that I should pull over and claim what's clearly mine. But I keep driving, keep my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road, because what she needs right now is safety, not possession.

When we finally reach Maple Street, I park in front of the bakery and kill the engine. The sudden silence feels deafening. Belle is trembling now, her breathing shallow and rapid, and the scent of her heat is so strong it's like a physical presence in the truck.

"Can you walk?" I ask, though I already know the answer by looking at her.

She tries to sit up straighter and immediately sways, pressing her hand to her forehead. “Maybe if I go slow..."

But when I come around to her side of the truck and open the door, she practically falls into my arms. Her legs won't support her weight, and she's burning up with fever. The moment my hands touch her, she melts against me with a soft sound that goes straight through my self-control.

"I've got you," I murmur, scooping her up bridal style. She's lighter than I expected, all soft curves and delicate bones, and she fits against my chest like she was made to be there.

The moment she's in my arms, something fundamental shifts between us. Her omega nature recognizes my alpha strength and responds with trust so complete it takes my breath away. She nuzzles into my neck, scenting me with small, unconscious movements that make my entire body respond.

"Keys?" I manage to ask, though my voice is barely recognizable.

She fumbles in her purse with shaking hands and finally produces a set of keys. The building has a narrow entrance between the bakery and a small law office, leading to a steep flight of stairs. I carry her up carefully.

Her apartment is on the second floor, at the end of a hallway that smells faintly of vanilla and cinnamon from the bakery below. When I unlock her door and step inside, I'm struck by how small the space is. It’s really small with a kitchen that's barely more than a closet, a living area that could fit maybe one couch, and what must be her bedroom area sectioned off by a decorative screen.

But it's clean and organized, with touches that are purely Belle. Books stacked on every available surface, plants crowding the single window, a reading corner with a comfortable chair and soft throw blankets. The entire space smells just like her of vanilla and honey and something warm and comforting that I now realize is chocolate.

The chocolate scent is stronger here than anywhere else, and I remember one time seeing Belle and Adam at the library while sharing brownies back forth while they work. It's such a small detail, but it makes this space feel fundamentally Belle in a way that goes straight to my heart.

She stirs in my arms, and I realize I've been standing in her doorway just breathing in her scent. "Where's your heat room?" I ask, though I'm already scanning the small space.

"Behind the screen," she whispers, pointing toward the bedroom area with a shaking hand.

I carry her around the decorative partition and stop short. What I expected to be a simple bedroom setup is actually something much more sophisticated. Her bed is positioned against the far wall, but it's surrounded by what can only be described as a survival setup. Reinforced locks on the bedroom window, blackout curtains that look like they could withstand a hurricane, and shelves lined with emergency supplies such as water bottles, protein bars, medical supplies, extra blankets.

There's a mini-refrigerator in the corner, a small space heater, even what looks like a white noise machine. Everything someone would need to survive a heat completely alone, safely locked away from the outside world. It's impressive and heartbreaking at the same time.

"You built a fortress," I say quietly, settling her gently on the bed.

"I had to," she whispers, then immediately tries to curl away from me as another wave of heat hits her. "I can't... you should go. I'll be fine now."

But even as she says it, her hand reaches out toward me unconsciously, her omega nature craving the comfort and safety of an alpha's presence. The conflict between what her mind thinks she should want and what her biology actually needs is painful to watch.

"Belle, look at me," I say gently, sitting on the edge of the bed but keeping careful distance between us. "I'm not going anywhere until I know you're safe. Let me help."

"I don't know how to let someone help," she admits, her voice breaking. "I've been doing this alone for so long..."

"Then let me show you," I say. "What do you usually do when a heat hits?"

She gestures weakly toward her supplies. "Water, protein bars when I can manage to eat. The space heater if I get cold, extra blankets if the nesting urge gets too strong. Wait it out."

"That's survival," I say. "Not comfort. When's the last time you ate?"

She has to think about it, which tells me everything I need to know. "This morning, maybe? I had coffee..."

"Coffee isn't food." I stand up and move toward her kitchen area, noting how her eyes track my movement. "Do you have anything here I can make you? Soup, maybe?"

"I think there's..." She tries to sit up and immediately sways. "Top cabinet, cans of soup."

I find the chicken noodle soup, which seems perfect for someone who needs comfort food. While it heats on her tiny stove, I gather water bottles and find a few crackers in her pantry. Simple foods, easy to digest, the kind of thing that will give her strength without overwhelming her system.

When I return to the bedroom area with a tray, she's curled on her side, clutching one of her pillows to her chest. The sight hits me harder than I expected, competent woman reduced to this by her own biology, facing it all alone.

"Sit up," I say gently. "You need to eat something."

She struggles to comply, and I have to resist the urge to help her. Any unnecessary touch right now would be dangerous for both of us. But I sit close enough that she can feel my presence, my alpha strength offering stability in the chaos of her heat.

She manages a few spoonfuls of soup and half a bottle of water before another wave hits her. This one is stronger than the others, and she doubles over with a soft cry that makes every protective instinct I have roar to life.

Without thinking, I reach out and place a gentle hand on her back, meaning only to offer comfort. But the moment my skin touches hers, something electric passes between us. Her scent spikes with something richer and more complex, and she practically melts under my touch.

"Oh," she breathes, looking up at me with wonder and fear warring in her expression. "Oh no. This is really bad."

"Why is it bad?" I ask, though my own body is responding to her scent in ways that make it hard to think clearly.

"Because I've spent a year building walls to keep this from happening," she whispers, her voice shaking with emotion. "And you just knocked them all down with one touch."

I understand then. This isn't just about the heat, but it's about the connection between us, the way her omega nature is responding to mine specifically. She's not just dealing with biological need, but with mate recognition that her conscious mind isn't ready to accept.

"Maybe the walls weren't as strong as you thought," I suggest carefully.

She lets out a shaky laugh. "Or maybe you're stronger than I expected." Her eyes flutter closed as another wave hits her. "This is happening so fast. Usually there's more warning, more time to prepare..."

"What do you need right now?" I ask, focusing on the practical rather than the emotional complications we're both feeling.

"I don't know," she admits. "I've never... with an alpha here, everything feels different. Stronger. Like my body doesn't know what to do with comfort that isn't just survival."

I stay with her for the next three hours, watching over her as she rides out the worst of the heat waves. I bring her water when she needs it, adjust the temperature when she gets too hot or too cold, and provide steady, calming presence when the intensity threatens to overwhelm her.

The hardest part is maintaining physical distance when every instinct I have is screaming at me to hold her, to comfort her with touch and scent and the kind of alpha care she's been denying herself. But I force myself to stay in control, to offer only what she explicitly asks for.

She talks to me during the quieter moments between waves, telling me about her friend Sarah, about her year of careful suppression, about her fear of losing control. I listen and offer what reassurance I can, but mostly I just let her know she's not alone.

Around midnight, the heat finally begins to ebb enough for her to think clearly. She sits up slowly, looking around her fortress bedroom like she's seeing it for the first time.

"You stayed," she says quietly.

"I told you I would,” I confirm.

“But you didn't..." She gestures vaguely. "You didn't try to... even when I was asking for..."

"You were in heat," I say simply. "Consent during heat isn't real consent. You told me about your friend, about your fears. I would never take advantage of that vulnerability."

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, relief, and something that might be the beginning of trust. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Don't thank me for basic decency," I say, standing up from the chair I've been occupying. "But you should get some rest. The heat will probably cycle back in a few hours."

"You're leaving?" There's something almost panic in her voice.

"I have to," I say, though it's the last thing I want to do. "You need to process what happened tonight, and I need to... I need to give you space to make decisions without alpha influence."

I can see the conflict in her eyes, and the part of her that wants me to stay warring with the part that's terrified of needing anyone. "Will I see you again? After this is over?"

"Belle," I say gently, "after tonight, everything is different. For both of us. But that's a conversation for when you're not in heat, when you can think clearly about what you want."

I make sure she has everything she needs from water, food, her phone within reach, and then I force myself to leave. Walking away from her is one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I know it's necessary. She needs time to understand what happened between us, and I need time to figure out how to tell my packmates that everything we thought we knew about our future is exactly as Marcus said it would be. It's one thing to suspect something, but knowing it's one hundred percent true is completely different.

The drive home passes in a blur of sensation and emotion. Her scent is still clinging to my clothes, my skin, my hair. Every breath reminds me of how perfectly she fit in my arms, how right it felt to take care of her, how much I want to go back and never leave her alone again.

But I also remember the fear in her eyes, the way she fought against her own biology, the walls she's built to protect herself. Earning her trust is going to take time and patience and proving that not all alphas are like the one who hurt her friend.

By the time I reach the warehouse, I know one thing for certain: Belle Hartwell is our omega, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep her safe and help her heal, even if it means taking things slower than my alpha instincts want.

Because she's worth the wait. She's worth everything.

15

MARCUS

Istretch my legs from my position at the corner of our massive sectional, trying to find a comfortable spot that doesn't exist. This fight is absolute shit. These guys are dancing around like they're afraid to actually hit each other, and I'm starting to think I've wasted my Friday night.

"This fight is garbage," I announce, gesturing at the screen where two fighters circle each other with all the urgency of people waiting for coffee to brew. "What happened to boxers who actually wanted to fight?"

Theo grunts from his armchair, not bothering to look away from the screen. "Used to be about skill and heart. Now it's all about image and pay-per-view numbers."

Felix glances up from whatever architectural detail he's sketching. "Everything's performance now. No one knows how to be real anymore."

He's not wrong. Our house feels more authentic than most of the bullshit I deal with during business hours. Real brick, real steel, real leather furniture that doesn't apologize for taking up space. We built this place to be exactly what we needed with no facade, just us.

"Fuck this," I say, pushing off the couch. "I'm making popcorn. At least then this waste of time will involve snacks."

I head to the kitchen and pull out the heavy pot, measure oil with the kind of precision that drives my business partners crazy, and set everything up properly.

My phone buzzes while I'm waiting for the oil to heat up. Lady Inkwell's gossip column, and normally I would ignore it, but the headline catches my attention: "Masquerade Ball Mysteries and Midnight Confessions." I thought she was only posting weekly, but now with the ball happening in two days, it's as if she's posting every day. Or maybe it's just my imagination.

Most of it's the usual crap about gowns and speculation about who's attending our annual ball. But then I hit a paragraph that makes me stop cold:

"The very thought sent ripples through our literary circles, darlings. What earthly purpose could such a formidable gentleman have among card catalogs and reading nooks? Sources suggest that Miss Belle Hartwell, that perpetually cheerful head librarian, appeared rather... discombobulated during his unexpected visit. One can only speculate about what depths might lie beneath her usual professional demeanor that would attract such masculine attention."

I read it twice, my jaw tightening. Lady Inkwell usually fishes for information rather than actually having it, but something about this feels different.

The first kernels start popping, but my attention's completely focused on the implications of what I'm reading.

"Theo," I call out. "You need to see this."

He's up and moving toward me before I finish speaking, that military alertness never really leaving him. "What's wrong?"

"Lady Inkwell's latest column." I hand him the phone. "Tell me this is just her usual bullshit speculation."

I watch his face as he reads, cataloguing every micro-expression. The way his shoulders shift, the slight tightening around his eyes, and his expression tells me that this isn’t gossip, this really did happen.

"Well?" I prompt when he doesn't immediately respond.

He hands back the phone, his expression carefully neutral in that way that means he's processing information he doesn't want to share. "What exactly are you asking me?"

"I'm asking if there's any truth to what she's implying about Belle.” My voice gets that edge it takes on during difficult negotiations. “What happened last night? You was out late? Were you really at the library?”

We're a pack, meaning we live together and share everything. Finances, decisions, our lives. It's closer than most marriages, really. But secrets? Nah, this is a whole different ball game. Just like this shit boxing match.

The popcorn's going crazy in the pot, but I'm entirely focused on my packmate. His silence is answer enough, but there's a satisfied smugness that's practically radiating off him.

"She's an omega," Theo says finally, moving to lean against the counter with a grin that tells me he's been dying to share this. "Late presentation, been suppressing for a year, and she had an emergency heat yesterday at the library."

"And?" I ask, though I already know where this is heading.

"And I helped her through it." Theo's trying to sound casual. "We connected."

I turn back to the stove, shaking the pot while trying not to grin. "You mean you didn't want to admit that I was right all along."

Theo chuckles, pushing off from the counter and starting to pace. "Typical Marcus, with an ego as big as his biceps."

"Maybe a little bigger than that," I say, dumping popcorn into the bowl and spilling half of it in my distraction.

Felix appears in the doorway, abandoning his sketch. "Wait, what?" Felix settles onto a bar stool, grinning. "So what happened? Start from the beginning. How did you find her?"

Theo sets the glasses down and moves back to the island, his expression growing more serious but still holding that satisfied edge. "I went to the library for research. It was supposed to be closed, but I could smell distress from the parking lot."

"Belle was in heat," I say, pulling the pot off heat.

"Full breakdown," Theo confirms, gripping the edge of the counter. "Scared, confused, fighting her own biology. She'd missed her suppressant dose for the first time in a year, and her body was making up for lost time."

Felix leans forward. "What did you do?"

"Found her in the back, practically hyperventilating." Theo starts pacing again, restless energy radiating off him. “I got her water, and I talked her through the panic, by making sure she wasn't going to hurt herself. But guys, the moment I touched her shoulder to comfort her, everything changed."

I move around the island, drawn by the intensity in his voice. "How?"

"Her scent shifted, became richer, more complex. She calmed for me in a way that shouldn't be possible with a stranger." Theo stops pacing, facing both of us. "But she was terrified. She kept pulling away, then gravitating back toward me like she couldn't help herself."

"Mate recognition," I say, feeling something tight in my chest finally loosen.

"Immediate and undeniable," Theo confirms, moving to the window and back. "She felt it too. She had this look on her face like the world had just shifted under her feet."

"Because it had," Felix says quietly, spinning on his stool to follow Theo's movement.

"But she fought it," Theo continues, his voice growing rougher. “She kept apologizing, trying to convince me to leave. Said she could handle it alone, that she didn't need help from an alpha."

I abandon the popcorn cleanup, moving closer. "Why? What was she afraid of?"

Theo's expression darkens, and he stops pacing to grip the back of Felix's stool. "She had a friend in high school. Another omega named Sarah who went off suppressants to bond with an alpha she met through a dating app, because she thought that she'd found her perfect match."

The kitchen grows quiet except for Felix shifting on his stool.

"The alpha lost control during her heat," Theo continues, his knuckles white where he's gripping the chair. "Became aggressive when her scent triggered his rut. Sarah died from an unmatched claiming because he couldn't control himself."

"Jesus," Felix breathes.

"So Belle decided it was safer to suppress completely," I say, understanding flooding through me. "No heats, no dating, no relationships."

"For a whole year," Theo confirms, releasing the chair and moving toward the living room doorway. "Just suppressants and careful control and absolute self-reliance."

Felix stands up from his stool. "But she let you help her."

"Eventually." Theo turns back toward us. "But not easily. She kept pushing me away even while her body was begging for alpha comfort. She told me she couldn't trust her judgment during heat."

I move to the island, bracing my hands on the granite. "How did you convince her?"

"I didn't try to convince her," Theo says, walking back into the kitchen. "I just stayed, but I kept my distance physically but stayed close enough that she could feel safe. Used every security protocol I know from clear communication, no sudden movements, constant verbal reassurance."

"Smart," Felix says, moving around the island.

"She was burning up," Theo continues, his voice getting that rough edge again. "Fevering and shaking, and every instinct I had was screaming at me to claim her, to make her mine right there in the library."

I straighten, watching him carefully. "But you didn't."

"I couldn't." Theo stops in the middle of the kitchen, running both hands through his hair. "Not with her friend's story, not with her terror of losing control. She needed protection, not possession."

"What happened next?" Felix asks, leaning against the island.

"I got her to her car, drove her home." Theo starts pacing again, more agitated now. "Twenty minutes of pure torture with her scent filling my car, her heat calling to everything alpha in me. I was knotting just from being near her, trying to drive while my body was convinced I needed to pull over and mate her."

I feel my own alpha response kick in at the description, protective and possessive all at once.

"Getting her into her apartment nearly broke me," Theo admits, moving between the kitchen and living room doorway. "She was clinging to me, begging me not to leave, and I had to carry her to her heat room because she could barely walk."

"You carried her?" Felix asks.

"She collapsed in her hallway," Theo says, stopping to grip the doorframe. "Just completely gave out. So I picked her up, and she melted into me like she belonged there. Started nuzzling my neck, scenting me, completely trusting."

"But you still didn't claim her," I observe.

"I wanted to." Theo's voice is barely controlled now. "God, I wanted to. She was perfect in my arms, soft and warm and smelling like everything I've ever wanted. But she was also vulnerable and scared and trusting me to keep her safe."

Felix moves closer. "So what did you do?"

"I got her settled in her room, which, by the way, is set up like a military bunker. Emergency supplies, reinforced door, everything she'd need to survive heat completely alone." Theo turns back toward us, expression dark. “I made sure that she had water, food, blankets, and I sat with her until the worst wave passed."

"How long?" I ask.

"Three hours," Theo says, moving back to the island. "Three hours of her holding my hand, telling me about her friend, explaining why she couldn't trust alphas during heat. Three hours of wanting to promise her everything while forcing myself to stay in control."

"That's going to change," I say, my voice carrying more authority than I intended.

"Damn right it is," Theo agrees, and there's steel in his voice now. "She's not going through another heat alone, not if I have anything to say about it."

Felix nods firmly. "Not if any of us have anything to say about it."

I grab the bowl of popcorn and head toward the living room, my packmates following. "She's going to the ball."

"She is," Theo confirms, settling into his chair with obvious satisfaction. "With Adam Chen as her date."

"I don't think those two are really together," Felix corrects, claiming his usual spot. "Sounds like they're going just as friends, even if Lady Inkwell says otherwise."

"Exactly," I say, taking my corner of the sectional. "Which means she'll be there, all dressed up, finally ready to be seen."

Felix pauses, his head tilting slightly as he catches something in the air. "Wait." His eyes sharpen, focusing on Theo. "Is that...?"

"Her scent," I confirm. "I caught it earlier but didn't want to say anything."

Theo shifts in his chair, suddenly looking less comfortable. "I showered twice and changed clothes. Thought I'd gotten it all."

"Not all," Felix says, his voice growing rougher. "Jesus, Theo. Even a day later, even faded..." He runs a hand through his hair. "That's what mate scent smells like."

"How did other alphas not pick up on it?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Emergency heat scent from an unmated omega should have drawn every alpha in a five-mile radius."

"She wasn't fully in heat when I found her," Theo explains. "It was building, but the suppressants were still partially working. Plus she had on that thick cardigan, scarf. And I got her out of there before it peaked."

"Smart," Felix says. "If other alphas had caught full heat scent..."

"They would have come running," I finish. "Half the alphas in town would have shown up at the library."

"That's exactly what she was terrified of," Theo says, his expression growing protective again. "Why she was trying so hard to get home before anyone noticed."

Felix leans forward. "Good thing it was you who found her and not someone else."

"No kidding," I agree. "Anyone else might not have had your self-control."

"Or your security training," Felix adds. "Most alphas would have lost it completely once her heat fully hit."

"God, I wish the ball was tomorrow," Felix says suddenly, shaking off the serious moment. "I can't wait to see her reaction when she realizes who we are."

"Two more days," I say, but I feel the same restless anticipation.

"Think she'll figure out the connection before then?" Felix asks.

"She's smart enough," Theo says. "Question is, will she run or will she trust us?"

"She'll trust us," I say with certainty. "She already started to with you. Once she realizes we're not going anywhere, that we'd never hurt her..."

"She'll be ours," Theo finishes, and the satisfaction in his voice matches what I'm feeling.

"Can't wait," Felix says fervently.

"Neither can I," I admit. "For the first time in years, everything feels exactly right."

Even if those possibilities involve a hell of a lot more talking than we're used to.

16

THE WILLOWBROOK CHRONICLE

My Devoted Intriguers,

Lady Inkwell is positively trembling with anticipation for this year's Masquerade Ball at Thornfield Palace, now just two days away!

But before we count down to the evening's inevitable revelations, this correspondent simply must share the most peculiar development that had the entire town buzzing just recently. Word reached my ears that none other than Mr. Theo Blackwood…yes, one of those mysterious "Beast Pack" alphas who typically wouldn't be caught dead among dusty tomes, was reportedly sighted entering our humble public library!

The very thought sent ripples through our literary circles, darlings. What earthly purpose could such a formidable gentleman have among card catalogs and reading nooks? Sources suggest that Miss Belle Hartwell, that perpetually cheerful head librarian, appeared rather... discombobulated during his unexpected visit. One can only speculate about what depths might lie beneath her usual professional demeanor that would attract such masculine attention.

But here's where Lady Inkwell simply cannot contain her excitement! Both of our beloved librarians will be gracing the palace halls together! Yes, darlings, Mr. Adam Chen and Miss Belle Hartwell have not only secured their golden invitations but will be attending as a couple!

And here's the absolutely scandalous part: whispers suggest these two bookish souls have been dating for no less than three months! Three entire months of secret rendezvous among the stacks, of stolen glances over circulation desks, of romance blooming between the biography and fiction sections!

One does wonder, however, how long this literary love affair will withstand the sudden interest of a certain brooding alpha who seems inexplicably drawn to library visits. Will true love conquer all, or might our quiet Belle find herself torn between the comfortable and the... thrilling?

Yours in breathless anticipation, Lady Inkwell

P.S. - Sources suggest that library late fees have mysteriously stopped being an issue for certain prominent residents. How wonderfully... convenient!

17

BELLE

Going into heat with Theo three days ago was a bad idea. Then waking up to read that Lady Inkwell has posted it in her column? What is up with that woman? Doesn't she sleep? Besides, I thought her column was weekly, but with the ball coming up, it's like it's every damn day.

It's as if she's everywhere and anywhere, that no one wants her to be and she's all up in my business. If I don't go, then everyone will know that what she has written is true, but that's not the problem. The real issue is that Adam likes reading her column. If he has read it today, then he knows that I've been hiding something dangerous from him. The best friend I once had will be lost, but I can't get over the dress I'm wearing, the make-up on my face, nor the countless hours that I've spent trying to figure out how to do my hair.

I've never looked in the mirror and considered myself to be pretty, let alone beautiful, but right here and now, this is exactly how I feel.

The rose gold dress hugs my curves in all the right places without making me feel exposed. The moment I slipped it on, I understood what people meant when they talked about finding "the dress." The color brings out the warm amber flecks in my dark eyes that I never knew existed, makes my skin look luminous instead of pale.

For the first time in my adult life, I don't feel like I'm hiding behind my clothes, but celebrating what's underneath them. Every curve, every soft place, that I've spent years apologizing for or trying to minimize suddenly feels... intentional. Beautiful. Like maybe I was designed this way on purpose.

My hair, usually pulled back in a practical ponytail that screams "responsible librarian," falls in loose waves around my shoulders. The process of achieving this seemingly effortless look involved three different YouTube tutorials, two complete do-overs when I burned myself with the curling iron, and enough hairspray to damage the ozone layer. But the result is worth every minute of frustration. The waves catch the light as I move, framing my face in a way that makes my features look softer, more romantic.

I'd started at six this morning, watching video after video of beauty influencers who made contouring look as natural as breathing. My first attempt had me looking like I'd been attacked by a bronzer brush. The second try was better, but something about the eyeshadow made me look like I had two black eyes.

By the third attempt, I was ready to give up and go bare-faced, but then I remembered Lady Inkwell's column, and the way she'd made my private moment with Theo sound sordid and scandalous. This means that half the town will be watching me tonight, waiting to see if the rumors were true, if quiet little Belle Hartwell was really involved with the notorious Beast Pack.

So I tried again. Until finally, everything came together. The foundation that evened out my skin tone without making me look like a painted doll. The eyeshadow that brought out the darkness in my eyes without overwhelming them. The lipstick—a bold choice for me—that made my mouth look fuller, more confident.

When I catch glimpses of myself in reflective surfaces now, I do a double-take. Is that really me? The woman in the mirror looks poised, elegant, like she belongs at fancy parties and sophisticated gatherings. Like she has every right to walk into a palace and expect to be welcomed.

If Adam has read Lady Inkwell's column this morning...

I force myself to stop spiraling and check my phone for the tenth time in the last hour. No messages from Adam, which could mean anything. Maybe he hasn't read it yet, but that seems unlikely given his Sunday morning routine of coffee, toast, and a thorough scan of all local news sources. Maybe he doesn't believe gossip columns even if he's always been a sucker for Lady Inkwell's dramatic revelations. Maybe he's planning to confront me about it tonight, in public, where I can't escape.

Or he has already decided our friendship is over and just doesn't know how to tell me.

My phone buzzes with a text, and my heart jumps into my throat: "Ready when you are. Picking you up in 10."

Ten minutes to mentally prepare for either the best night of my life or the moment I lose my best friend forever. .

I grab my clutch, and the ornate mask I spent far too much money on. The mask had been an impulse purchase, chosen more for how it made me feel than for any practical consideration. It's a delicate creation of rose silk and gold filigree that matches my dress perfectly, with tiny seed pearls sewn along the edges that catch the light like dewdrops.

When I hold it up to my face in the mirror, I'm transformed. Not Belle Hartwell, small-town librarian who lives quietly and causes no trouble. This is someone else entirely, who is mysterious and alluring, and she belongs at a masquerade ball in a palace.

As I lock my apartment door behind me, I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror one more time. The woman looking back at me is beautiful, in a real authentic way that seems to glow from the inside out.

Beautiful. I actually look beautiful.

Whatever happens tonight, at least I'll face it looking like the best version of myself. Even if that version is about to be shattered by the terror in my best friend's eyes.

Adam's car is outside when I emerge from my building, and my heart sinks immediately. Even through the windshield, I can read his body language like a book I've been studying for twenty years. The rigid set of his shoulders. The way his hands grip the steering wheel just a little too tightly. The complete absence of the warm smile that usually greets me when we're about to do something together.

He knows.

I slide into the passenger seat, hyperaware of how the dress rustles around me, how different I must look to him. I catch a faint whiff of my own perfume, which is another treat I bought for tonight. It's floral and feminine, something I've never worn before tonight.

"Hey," I say softly, testing the waters.

"Hey." His voice is flat, and he doesn't look at me as he pulls away from the curb. No comment on my appearance, no teasing about how fancy I look, no excited chatter about the evening ahead.

Then I realize it's not just his job to fill the silence, but the words won't come out of my mouth. It's like I'm already disappointed about what's going to happen before it actually does.

We drive in silence for several blocks, the tension so thick I can practically taste it. The radio plays some pop song about love and second chances that feels way too on the nose right now. I want to turn it off, but I'm afraid even that small movement might break whatever fragile control he's got going on.

The streets of Willbrook look different at this hour, the coffee shop where Adam and I have spent countless Sunday mornings, the bookstore where we both worked during high school, the park where we used to study together during college breaks. Years of shared history flowing past the windows, and all I can think about is how it might all be ending tonight.

Finally, I can't stand it anymore. The silence is killing me, and if we're going to have this conversation, I'd rather get it over with than spend the entire evening walking on eggshells.

"Adam, if there's something you want to say…”

"How long?" he interrupts, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

My heart stops. Two words, but they carry the weight of fear and decades of friendship hanging in the balance. "How long what?"

"How long have you been in danger?" He finally turns to look at me at a red light, and the terror in his eyes makes me want to curl up and disappear. It's worse than anger would have been, because it's the look of someone who's just realized their closest friend has been walking a tightrope over an abyss while they stood by completely oblivious.

"How long have you been an omega, Belle?"

I could deny it, and pretend that I don't know what he's talking about. Then again, I could try to convince him that Lady Inkwell made the whole thing up. But the exhaustion of keeping secrets suddenly overwhelms me.

I'm tired of pretending, and making myself smaller and quieter than I am.

“A year,” I whisper.

He exhales sharply, like I've punched him in the stomach. The sound is harsh in the quiet car, and I watch his face crumple for just a moment before terror replaces every other emotion.

“One fucking year, Belle." His voice cracks on my name, and I can hear the panic underneath the words. "Do you have any idea how terrified I am right now? Thinking about everything that could have happened to you while I was completely clueless?"

Tears prick at my eyes, threatening to ruin the makeup I worked so hard on. "Adam, I was being careful…”

"Careful?" His voice breaks completely on the word, and I realize with a shock that his hands are shaking. "Careful how? An omega alone, hiding, with no pack protection? Jesus, Belle, you could have been hurt, or worse, and I wouldn't have even known to look for you."

"It wasn't like that!" The words burst out of me with more force than I intended. "Adam, I had it under control. I take suppressants, I know how to manage everything. I was never in the kind of danger you're imagining."

"Do you have any idea what happens to hidden omegas in this world?" The light turns green, but he doesn't move until the car behind us honks impatiently. "Do you know the statistics? The stories? God, Belle, every time you were 'sick' and staying home alone. What if something had happened? What if you'd gone into heat and there was no one there to help you?"

"I know that now," I say miserably, my voice small as I realize how much I've underestimated his protective instincts. "But when I first presented, I was so scared and confused. The emergency heat was traumatic, and the doctor made it seem like being an omega was a medical condition that needed to be managed. And then it just became easier to keep the secret than to face everyone's reactions."

We're entering the wealthier part of town now, where the houses get bigger and the lawns get more manicured. Other cars join our procession from sleek sedans and luxury SUVs, all clearly headed to the same destination. Through the windows, I catch glimpses of elaborate gowns and perfectly styled hair, of couples leaning close together in excited conversation.

Everyone else looks like they're heading to a celebration. We look like we're driving to a funeral.

“A year, Belle." Adam's voice has gone quiet now, but somehow that's worse than the panic. “A year of you facing this alone when you should have had someone watching your back. I couldn’t protect you because I didn't even know you needed protecting."

The words hit me like physical blows because I can see how much this is tearing him apart. The careful way he's been watching over me all these years, making sure I get home safe, checking in when I'm sick, being the steady presence in my life, and now he's realizing it wasn't enough because he didn't know the real danger I was facing.

"You never failed me," I whisper. "You're the best friend anyone could ask for."

"Haven't I?" He pulls into the line of cars leading up to Thornfield Palace, and I can see the massive structure looming ahead of us, lit up like something out of a fairy tale. "Because if I'd been more observant, if I'd paid better attention to the signs, maybe you would have felt safe telling me the truth. Maybe I could have been there for you properly."

"Adam, no. This isn't your fault. This is all on me…”

"And three days ago?” His voice cuts through my protest like a knife, sharp with fresh terror. "With Theo Blackwood?"

My cheeks burn with embarrassment as the memory of Theo's arms around me floods back, of his steady voice talking me through the panic, of the way he'd made me feel safe in the midst of the most vulnerable moment of my life.

"Lady Inkwell doesn't know what she's talking about," I say, but the words sound weak even to me.

"Doesn't she?" He pulls into the line of cars snaking up the circular drive, and I can see valets in crisp uniforms helping guests from their vehicles. "Because according to her column, you were seen leaving the library with one of the Beast Pack looking 'thoroughly rumpled and glowing.' Belle, please tell me you weren't alone when you went into heat. Please tell me you had someone safe with you."

The fear in his voice breaks my heart. He's not angry about Theo, he's terrified that I might have been alone and vulnerable.

"I..." I struggle to find words that will reassure him without revealing too much. "I wasn't alone. Theo helped me."

Adam parks the car and turns to face me fully, his eyes searching my face desperately. "Belle, I need you to look me in the eye and tell me you were safe. I need you to tell me that Theo actually took care of you and didn't hurt you."

I open my mouth to give him the reassurance he needs, but the raw fear in his expression makes my throat close up. This is Adam, and I can see how much it's killing him to realize he wasn't there when I needed him most.

"I was safe," I whisper, and watch some of the tension leave his shoulders. "He took care of me, and he made sure I got home okay, stayed with me until the worst of it passed. He was... he was perfect, Adam. Gentle and respectful and everything you'd want someone to be in that situation."

"An alpha. Are you sure? You don't need to lie for him."

I shake my head, denying what he thinks could have happened. "He didn't. He took care of me and watched over me."

He closes his eyes, and I can see him struggling to process this information. "Thank God," he breathes. "When I read that column, when I realized what must have happened... Belle, I've been sick to my stomach all day thinking about you going through that alone."

"I'm okay," I say softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "I'm safe. Nothing bad happened to me."

"But it could have," he says, opening his eyes to look at me with such intensity it takes my breath away. "Don't you understand? If you'd been with the wrong alpha, if you'd been somewhere unsafe, if anything had gone wrong... I wouldn't have even known to come looking for you. I wouldn't have known you were missing until it was too late."

"They're not dangerous," I find myself saying, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. "The Beast Pack, they're not what people say they are. Theo was kind and protective and…”

"And you trust him." Adam's voice is wondering now, like he's seeing me clearly for the first time. "You actually trust him. One of the alphas everyone in town is afraid of."

"His name is Theo," I say quietly. "And yes, I trust him. Because when I was at my most vulnerable, when I was scared and confused and completely out of control, he took care of me. He could have taken advantage, could have done anything he wanted, but instead he just... helped me."

"How do you know what good alpha behavior looks like?"

The question is gentle, but it reveals the depth of his concern. He's not questioning my judgment, but he's worried that I don't have enough experience to recognize danger.

"I know because of the way he made me feel," I say, trying to find words for something I barely understand myself. "Safe. Protected. Like I mattered more than his own needs or desires. Like taking care of me was the most important thing in the world to him."

Adam is quiet for a long moment, studying my face. When he speaks again, his voice is softer than it's been all evening.

"You're different when you talk about him," he observes. "More... certain. Like you've found something you didn't know you were looking for."

The insight hits me like a physical blow because it's true. Talking about Theo, thinking about that night and remembering the way he looked at me like I was precious, it does make me feel different. More myself than I've been in years.

Before I can respond, our car reaches the front of the line. A uniformed valet appears at Adam's window, all professional smiles and practiced efficiency.

"Good evening, sir. Welcome to Thornfield Palace. If you'll just step out, we'll take care of your vehicle."

The interruption breaks whatever spell had fallen over us, but this time it doesn't feel like a fracture. Instead, it feels like a moment to breathe before we continue a conversation that needs to happen but doesn't need to be finished tonight.

I gather my clutch and mask with steadier hands than I expected. The beaded purse no longer feels impossibly heavy, and my beautiful mask feels like armor I might actually be strong enough to wear.

As I climb out of the car, the cool evening air hits my skin, but instead of feeling alone and abandoned, I feel... hopeful. Because Adam isn't looking at me like I'm a stranger anymore. He's looking at me like I'm his best friend who's been through something difficult, someone who needs his support rather than his judgment.

Adam comes around to my side of the car, and this time he does offer me his arm with the gentle care he has always shown me.

"We're okay?" I ask quietly, needing to hear him say it.

"We're going to be okay," he says, and I can hear the promise in his voice. "I'm still scared for you, Belle. I'm still worried about what happens next. But we're going to figure it out together, like we always do."

Around us, other couples are ascending the grand staircase arm in arm, their voices carrying laughter and excitement. They all look like they belong here, like they were born for moments like this. Women in gowns that cost more than my monthly salary, men in tuxedos tailored to perfection, everyone moving with the easy confidence of people who've never had to question their place in the world.

For the first time tonight, I don't feel out of place among them.

Through the massive entrance doors, I can see glimpses of impossible opulence, and crystal chandeliers that throw rainbow light across marble floors, elaborate floral arrangements, guests moving through the space like dancers in some elaborate ballet.

This is still a world I don't really belong to, full of people who probably have more money than I'll ever see. But I'm not walking into it alone anymore. I have Adam beside me, and somewhere in that glittering palace might be the alpha who helped me through my darkest moment.

"Adam," I say as we approach the entrance, needing to tell him one more thing before we step into whatever tonight brings. "Thank you. For caring enough to be scared for me. For wanting to protect me even when you didn't know I needed protecting."

"That's what family does," he says simply, squeezing my arm gently. "And Belle? Next time you're in trouble, then you call me. Promise me."

"I promise," I say, and I mean it completely.

"Good. Now let's go see what all the fuss is about with this ball."

As we step across the threshold together, I realize that maybe the confidence I've been trying so hard to project isn't as fragile as I thought. Maybe it's been growing stronger all evening, fed by honest conversation and the kind of friendship that can survive even the most difficult truths.

The mask on my face no longer feels like armor against judgment. It feels like an invitation to discover who I might become when I stop being afraid of taking up space.

And for the first time in just over a year, I'm excited to find out.

18

THE WILLOWBROOK CHRONICLE

Dearest Secrets-Seekers,

Tonight is the night, darlings! The Masquerade Ball at Thornfield Palace is finally upon us, and Lady Inkwell is positively trembling with anticipation!

Our beloved librarians, Mr. Adam Chen and Miss Belle Hartwell, will be gracing the ballroom together as a couple, it is a development that has set tongues wagging across our fair town. One can only hope their literary romance translates beautifully to the dance floor.

Of course, Lady Inkwell has heard certain whispers about recent activities at our public library involving unexpected after-hours visitors, but a lady never tells tales about such delicate matters. Some secrets are simply too precious to share, even for this devoted chronicler of social happenings.

Tonight's guest list promises to be absolutely divine! Young Claire Mitchell from the flower shop, Dr. James Rodriguez, the charming Walsh twins, sweet Emma Thompson, and dear Jake Sullivan will all be in attendance. And let's not forget Mrs. Henderson's lovely niece, who's visiting from the city. Lady Inkwell has it on excellent authority that Cupid himself couldn't have orchestrated a more perfect opportunity for romance!

The palace will be absolutely magical tonight, and Lady Inkwell can hardly contain her excitement about the revelations that are sure to unfold when masks come off and true hearts are revealed.

Yours in breathless anticipation, Lady Inkwell

P.S. - May love find its way to every deserving heart tonight, especially those who have been patiently waiting for their perfect match!

19

BELLE

The interior of Thornfield Palace defies every expectation I had, and I thought I'd prepared myself for opulence. The entrance hall soars three stories above us, its domed ceiling painted with murals that seem to move in the flickering light of a dozen crystal chandeliers. Each chandelier is the size of a small car, dripping with what can only be real crystals that catch and throw rainbow light across every surface. The marble floor beneath our feet is so perfectly polished it's like walking on a mirror, and I have to concentrate to keep from stumbling in my heels.

"My God," I whisper, momentarily forgetting my heartbreak as I crane my neck to take it all in.

Adam says nothing, but I catch him staring upward too, his mask unable to hide his awe. For just a moment, we're united in our wonder at this impossible place.

Guests flow around us like a river of silk and jewels, their voices creating a musical hum that echoes off the vaulted ceiling. Everyone is masked, their identities hidden behind elaborate creations that tell stories of their wearer's nature.

The alphas are easy to spot even masked, because of their height and broad shoulders giving them away beneath perfectly tailored tuxedos. Their masks tend toward the bold and imposing: midnight black leather accented with silver, angular designs that suggest predators, or metallic creations that catch the light like armor. One alpha near the champagne table wears a mask of hammered copper shaped like a wolf's face, while another sports an intricate creation of black feathers and onyx that makes him look like a raven.

The omegas move through the crowd like delicate flowers, their smaller frames draped in gowns that seem to float rather than walk. Their masks are works of art in softer palettes with blush pink silk adorned with pearls, ivory lace so fine it looks like spun moonlight, delicate butterfly wings in shimmering blues and greens. One omega glides past us wearing a mask of pale gold leaves that frames her face like a forest crown, while another's creation of white feathers and crystals makes her look like a swan.

But then there are omegas like me, and I feel like jumping up and down with excitement as I see them with curves that fill out their gowns beautifully, others who stand nearly as tall as some alphas, moving with confidence that radiates from every step. A curvy omega in emerald green sweeps past wearing a mask of rich burgundy velvet with gold accents that speaks of boldness rather than delicacy. Another omega, nearly six feet tall in her heels, sports a striking mask of midnight blue and silver that could rival any alpha's for dramatic impact.

I spot one omega with a fuller figure wearing a gorgeous mask of copper and bronze leaves that complements her auburn hair, while a petite omega barely five feet tall has chosen an elaborate creation of peacock feathers that makes her seem larger than life. There's an omega who must be pushing six feet even without heels, and her mask is a work of art in deep purple and black that makes her look regal and commanding.

Each mask seems chosen to reflect not just beauty, but personality where the wearer is confident, dramatic where they want to make a statement, elegant where they prefer understated grace. And I smile, seeing how diverse and beautiful we all are.

Somehow their energy influences me. Usually I don't walk with my head high, keeping my body in an uncomfortable position as I try to hide it with oversized sweaters or cardigans. But tonight I am like one of them, feeling and looking beautiful.

The size difference is striking with their alphas towering over their omega partners, some by a foot or more, their protective stances evident even in formal wear. When they dance, the alphas seem to engulf their partners, while the omegas appear to float in their arms like precious treasures being carefully guarded.

A woman in midnight blue glides past us, her mask adorned with actual diamonds that catch the light like stars. Behind her, a man in deep burgundy velvet has a mask that looks like it's made of hammered gold. Everyone here radiates wealth and sophistication in a way that makes my carefully chosen dress feel suddenly inadequate.

"This way, please," a voice says beside us, and I turn to see a servant in pristine white livery. He appeared so suddenly and silently that I wonder if he was standing there the whole time and I just didn't notice.

He gestures toward an archway that leads deeper into the palace, and we follow the flow of guests through it. But as we move forward, the crowd seems to pull us in different directions. Someone bumps into me from behind, apologizing profusely, and when I turn to respond, I realize Adam is no longer beside me.

"Adam?" I call out, but my voice is lost in the general chatter and music that's beginning to drift from somewhere deeper in the palace.

I stand on my toes, trying to spot his familiar figure among the sea of masked strangers, but it's impossible. Everyone looks mysterious and unknown behind their disguises. Panic starts to flutter in my chest, because I've lost Adam, and he's my anchor in this overwhelming place.

Another servant appears at my elbow, this one carrying a silver tray of champagne flutes. "Champagne, miss?"

I take a glass gratefully, hoping it will calm my nerves. The crystal is so fine it's almost weightless in my hand, and the champagne inside fizzes delicately against my lips when I take a sip.

"The ballroom is through there," the servant says, nodding toward yet another archway. "The dancing has just begun."

I follow his direction, moving with the crowd through a corridor lined with portraits of people in period dress. Their painted eyes seem to follow me as I pass, and I wonder if they’re former owners of this palace, perhaps? Or maybe the mysterious omega who rents it out for these events?

The corridor opens into the ballroom, and I stop dead in my tracks.

If the entrance hall was impressive, the ballroom is absolutely breathtaking. It's enormous, and it can easily accommodate several hundred people with a ceiling painted to look like a starry night sky. But it's not just painted; somehow, the stars actually seem to twinkle, as if the ceiling has been enchanted. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors in gilded frames, making the space feel infinite. Massive arrangements of white flowers from roses, peonies to lilies which fill every corner, their scent mixing with the subtle perfumes of the guests.

An orchestra plays from a raised platform at one end of the room, their music floating over the dancers who've already claimed the polished parquet floor. The musicians are all in white, their faces hidden behind simple white masks that make them look almost ethereal.

Everything about this place feels like stepping into a fairy tale, complete with magic and mystery.

I scan the crowd again, looking for Adam's familiar height and build, but everyone looks different behind their masks. The anonymity is both thrilling and terrifying, because I could be anyone here, but I also have no idea who anyone else really is.

"Quite a sight, isn't it?"

The voice comes from beside me, deep and rich with just a hint of amusement. I turn to find a man in an impeccably tailored black tuxedo, his mask a work of art in black leather and silver accents. It covers the upper half of his face completely, but I can see his strong jawline and the hint of a smile playing at his lips.

Then his scent hits me, it’s warm vanilla and spice, familiar and comforting in a way that makes my breath catch. Felix. I'd recognize that scent anywhere, even through the crowd of other competing fragrances in the ballroom.

"It's incredible," I admit, gesturing at the ballroom with my champagne flute. "I've never seen anything like it."

"First time at one of these?" he asks.

I'm wondering if he's going to continue pretending to be a stranger, or if he will confess that he knows it is me, and I can do the same with him.

"Is it that obvious?" I laugh. There's something about his presence that's both commanding and comforting.

"Not obvious," he says carefully. "But there's a wonder in your voice that suggests you're seeing this with fresh eyes. It's... refreshing."

"Are you a regular at these things then?" I ask.

"You could say that."

Before I can ask what he means, the orchestra begins a waltz, and couples start pairing off on the dance floor. I watch them move together in perfect synchronization, their gowns swirling like flower petals in a breeze.

"Felix," I say quietly, unable to keep pretending any longer.

His smile widens, and he inclines his head slightly. "Hello, Belle. You look absolutely stunning tonight."

"You're not going to pretend you don't know who I am?"

"Would you prefer that I did?" he asks, but there's warmth in his voice now, more genuine than the polite stranger act. "Though I have to say, that dress is quite the transformation from what you wear at the library.”

I feel heat rise in my cheeks. "Is that your way of saying I usually look terrible?"

"That's my way of saying you usually hide how beautiful you are," he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes my breath catch. "But tonight you're not hiding at all."

The music swells around us, and he extends his hand with old-fashioned gallantry.

"Would you care to dance?" Felix asks, extending his hand toward me.

I hesitate, glancing around the room one more time for any sign of Adam. But he's nowhere to be seen, and Felix seems kind enough. Besides, isn't this what the ball is for? Meeting new people, having new experiences?

"I should probably warn you that I'm not very good at waltzing," I say as I place my hand in his.

"Then you're in luck," he replies, leading me toward the dance floor. "I happen to be excellent at it."

His hand is warm and strong as it closes around mine, and when he places his other hand at my waist, I feel a little jolt of electricity. Not the overwhelming, omega-heat reaction I had with Theo, but an attraction that makes me suddenly very conscious of how close we are.

"Just follow my lead," he murmurs as we take our position among the other dancers.

The music swells, and he begins to move, guiding me into the rhythm of the waltz. He wasn't lying about being excellent at it, and he moves with the confidence of someone who's been dancing since childhood, leading me so smoothly that even my inexperience can't trip us up.

"See?" he says after we've completed our first turn around the floor. "You're a natural."

I laugh, feeling more graceful than I ever have in my life. "I think you're just a very good teacher."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps you're simply allowing yourself to trust."

"So," I say as we navigate around another couple, "how's the library extension planning going? I know you've been working on the blueprints."

Felix laughs, and I can hear genuine amusement in his voice. "Does she ever stop? Even at a masquerade ball, Belle Hartwell is thinking about the library."

"Hey!" I protest, though I'm smiling.

"It's important work. That library means everything to our community."

"I know it does," he says, spinning me gracefully.

"And to answer your question, the plans are coming along beautifully. Though I have to ask…do you ever think about anything else besides books and community programs?"

I consider this as we move through another turn. "Well... yes, actually."

"Oh? And what might that be?" He asks.

"Chocolate," I admit, and he laughs so hard he nearly misses a step.

"Chocolate?"

"Don't laugh! It's a serious consideration. There's dark chocolate for when I'm contemplating serious literature, milk chocolate for light romance novels, white chocolate for poetry..." I'm warming to my theme now. "And don't even get me started on chocolate chip cookies. Those are essential for long research sessions."

"You've given this considerable thought," Felix observes, clearly trying not to laugh.

"I have a whole system. Brownies for budget meetings, because they help me deal with the stress. Chocolate croissants for early morning inventory. Hot chocolate with whipped cream for winter evening programs... and chocolate fondant when I want to wrap my best friend around my little finger."

"Ah," Felix says, and there's something knowing in his voice. "So you're not a couple then? You and Adam?"

I shake my head automatically. "No, we're just... we're friends. Best friends."

"Good friends who come to balls together," he observes.

"Friends who fake date to avoid awkward questions from our families," I correct, then immediately clamp my mouth shut. Why am I confessing this? Why am I telling him the truth about everything?

Felix chuckles. "Well, that's refreshingly honest."

"God, I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you all this." I feel heat rise in my cheeks. "Maybe it's the champagne, or the masks, or..."

"Or maybe you're just being yourself," Felix suggests gently.

But that's not it, and I know it. There's something about Felix, his scent, the way he listens that makes me want to tell him everything. Just like with Theo at the library, I seem incapable of controlling what comes out of my mouth when I'm with him.

Why can't I help myself when I'm with one of the Beast Pack alphas? The thought hits me suddenly, and I almost stumble mid-step. It's like they have some kind of effect on me that bypasses my usual filters entirely.

"I need to shut up," I mutter, more to myself than to him.

"Please don't," Felix says, and there's something almost urgent in his voice. "I like hearing what you really think about things."

"Even when I'm rambling about chocolate and fake dating?"

"Especially then," he says, spinning me again.

"It's real. You're real. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

I look up at him, studying what I can see of his face behind the mask. "You make it sound like you're used to people being fake with you."

"Aren't most people? To some degree?" He asks.

I consider this as we continue to dance.

"I suppose. But I've never been good at being fake. I tend to say exactly what I'm thinking, usually at the worst possible moments."

"Like now?" He asks.

"Like always," I say with a laugh.

"It's gotten me into trouble more times than I can count."

"Well," Felix says, pulling me slightly closer, "for what it's worth, I hope you never change that about yourself. Then again, you need to stop talking about chocolate," Felix groans, though he's grinning. "You're making me hungry just listening to you."

"Oh, but I haven't told you about chocolate cake yet! There's the perfect chocolate birthday cake for staff celebrations, chocolate lava cake for when we get good news about funding, and chocolate mousse for when I need to bribe the mayor into approving new programs..."

"Belle," Felix says, shaking his head as we continue to waltz, "I'm putting on weight just talking about this with you."

I burst into laughter. "You asked what else I think about!"

"I was expecting maybe books, or community events, or..." He gestures helplessly.

"I don't know, normal things people think about."

"Chocolate is a perfectly normal thing to think about," I insist. "In fact, I bet half the people in this ballroom are thinking about the dessert table right now."

"The dessert table," Felix repeats thoughtfully.

"You know, now that you mention it..." "See? And I bet it's amazing. Probably chocolate éclairs, and petit fours, and maybe even a chocolate fountain..."

"You're absolutely right," he says, spinning me again.

"I can smell it from here. Chocolate and vanilla and... are those macarons?"

"Oh my god, yes! I love macarons. The way they're crispy on the outside but soft inside, and all those beautiful colors..."

As Felix spins me again, we accidentally bump into another couple. The alpha, a large man in an ornate gold mask, stumbles slightly and immediately turns toward us with a low, threatening snarl that makes my blood run cold.

"Watch where you're going," the alpha begins, his voice dangerous.

But Felix steps smoothly between us, his posture shifting into something protective yet respectful. "My deepest apologies," he says, offering a slight bow that somehow manages to be both deferential and commanding. "Entirely my fault. I was distracted by my partner's beauty."

The compliment makes warmth bloom in my chest even as Felix smoothly spins me away from the confrontation, putting distance between us and the alpha with such practiced ease that I barely feel the movement. His hand on my waist is steady and sure, guiding me back into our dance as if nothing happened.

"That was smooth," I murmur, my heart still racing from the brief encounter.

"I've had practice navigating difficult personalities," Felix replies, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.

We're both laughing now, the formal atmosphere of the ball giving way to something warmer and more genuine.

"I can't believe we're discussing pastries while waltzing in a palace," Felix says.

"I can't believe you brought up the library first and then acted surprised when I wanted to talk about it," I counter.

"Fair point," he concedes.

"Though in my defense, watching you light up when you talk about things you love is... quite something."

The compliment makes heat rise in my cheeks, and I look up at him with new appreciation. Behind his mask, his eyes are warm and genuinely fond.

"You're not so bad yourself, Romano," I say softly.

"Even if you do tease me about my chocolate obsession."

"Who's teasing? I think I might have to revise my dessert preferences after this conversation."

And as the waltz continues, I find myself thinking that maybe this ball is turning out better than I expected.

20

FELIX

The way Belle lights up when she talks about chocolate is absolutely mesmerizing. I've spent my entire adult life focused on work: blueprints, building codes, structural integrity, profit margins. Fun has never been part of my vocabulary. But watching Belle get genuinely excited about chocolate, and library programs makes me want to learn a whole new language.

Her scent has been driving me crazy all evening. Even through the crowd of competing fragrances in the ballroom, I can pick out her unique blend of vanilla and honey. I wonder if she's not suppressing as heavily as usual, and this is why her scent is intoxicating me in a way that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and never come up for air.

When I spin her away from that aggressive alpha, I catch a full wave of her scent and have to concentrate on not letting my own response show. The protective instinct that flares when he snarls at her is immediate and intense, but I force myself to handle it diplomatically. Though honestly, part of me wanted to show him exactly what happens to alphas who threaten what's mine.

"I can't believe we're discussing pastries while waltzing in a palace," I say, trying to regain the lighter mood we'd established.

"I can't believe you brought up the library first and then acted surprised when I wanted to talk about it," she counters, and her smile is so genuine it makes something tight in my chest loosen.

God, when was the last time I smiled like this? When was the last time I talked about anything that wasn't work related? Belle makes me want to throw my whole schedule out the window and just exist in the moment.

"Fair point," I concede. "Though in my defense, watching you light up when you talk about things you love is quite something."

The compliment makes color rise in her cheeks, and she looks up at me with an expression that's part shy, part pleased. Behind her rose gold mask, her eyes are bright with happiness, and I find myself wanting to do whatever it takes to keep that look on her face.

"You're not so bad yourself, Romano," she says softly. "Even if you do tease me about my chocolate obsession."

"Who's teasing? I think I might have to revise my dessert preferences after this conversation."

As the waltz comes to an end, I make a decision that's been building since she started talking about chocolate fountains and macarons. For once in my life, I want to do something just because it sounds fun.

"Speaking of dessert preferences," I say, keeping her hand in mine as the music fades, "would you like to go investigate that dessert table you've been fantasizing about?"

Her face absolutely lights up. "Really? We can do that?"

"Belle, this is a ball designed for pleasure and indulgence. Of course we can sample the desserts." The words feel foreign coming out of my mouth, but right. Like I'm remembering how to be spontaneous.

"And maybe we could see the library too?" she adds hopefully. "I heard they have an incredible collection here, and I've always wondered what a palace library looks like."

The fact that she's thinking about libraries even at a magical ball is so perfectly Belle that I can't help but grin. "I think that can be arranged. I happen to know my way around this place."

"So, you've visited it before? I knew it! Is the library as interesting as I imagine it to be?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I've never ventured inside it."

"Never?!"

"No, never," I admit. "Honestly, I've never really been interested in libraries, until I heard you talk about books. My thing has always been blueprints and designs."

"Ah, but you studied and read to be the great architect you are today."

I nod in agreement. "But reading for pleasure is one thing and reading for your career is another."

"I don't see the difference. Both of them involve reading and both of them give you joy, so there isn't much difference."

She's such an interesting soul, so much so that she has left me speechless. Something no one ever does.

I offer her my arm, and she takes it with a smile that could power the entire palace. As we move through the crowd toward the elaborate dessert display, I'm hyperaware of every point of contact between us. Her hand on my arm burns through the fabric of my tuxedo, and her scent wraps around me like the most expensive silk.

But more than that, there's something about being with her that makes me feel lighter. Like I've been carrying weights I didn't even know were there, and now they're falling away.

The dessert table, is even more spectacular than she imagined. It's less a table and more an architectural marvel, which I can appreciate from a design perspective, a multi tiered display that rises nearly six feet high, laden with every conceivable sweet confection. Chocolate éclairs glisten with perfect ganache, petit fours are arranged like tiny jeweled boxes, and yes, there's absolutely a chocolate fountain cascading dark chocolate in mesmerizing ribbons.

"Oh my god," Belle breathes, her eyes wide with wonder. "It's like something out of a fairy tale."

"The fairy tale where Hansel and Gretel find the candy house?" I suggest, and she laughs.

"Exactly, except I don't think anyone's getting eaten here. Well, except the pastries."

I can't remember the last time I made a joke that wasn't work related or that I wanted to. But something about Belle makes me want to be playful. It's weird and unfamiliar and absolutely addictive.

A server approaches with small crystal plates, and Belle accepts one with the reverence usually reserved for sacred artifacts. I watch as she surveys the options with the serious concentration I usually reserve for structural calculations.

"Decisions, decisions," she murmurs, and I can practically see her categorizing each option according to her chocolate system.

"What's the appropriate chocolate for 'first masquerade ball'?" I ask, genuinely curious about her methodology.

"Hmm." She tilts her head thoughtfully, and her scent shifts slightly, becomes warmer, more complex. "It should be something special, but not overwhelming which acknowledges the significance of the moment without being too presumptuous about what kind of moment it is."

"That's very philosophical for dessert selection,” I reflect on her answer.

“Chocolate is serious business, Felix." But she's smiling as she says it, and the way she uses my name sends warmth shooting through my chest. When was the last time someone said my name like that? Like it mattered?

She finally settles on a small chocolate tart topped with gold leaf and what looks like crystallized violets. I choose a chocolate dipped strawberry, mainly because I want to see her reaction to the choice.

"Strawberry and chocolate," she observes approvingly. "Classic combination. Safe but sophisticated."

"Is that your professional assessment?" I ask.

"Absolutely. Though I have to dock points for playing it safe when there are clearly more adventurous options available."

She gestures toward a display of exotic looking confections that I can't even identify. The enthusiasm in her voice, the way she's treating this like a grand adventure instead of just eating dessert, it's infectious. I feel like a kid sneaking cookies before dinner.

"What about chocolate lavender truffles? Or those salted caramel things with the gold flakes?"

"Too adventurous for a first course," I counter, and I'm surprised to realize I'm actually planning multiple dessert courses. When do I ever eat multiple courses of anything? "I'm saving room for the second round."

"Second round?" Her eyes practically sparkle, and her scent becomes even richer. "You're assuming there will be a second round?"

"Belle, have you seen the size of this display? I'm assuming there will be third and fourth rounds."

She takes a delicate bite of her tart and closes her eyes with an expression of pure bliss that does absolutely nothing good for my self control. Her scent spikes with pleasure, and I have to grip my plate tighter to keep from reaching for her.

"Oh, this is dangerous,” she says.

“The chocolate?"

"The everything. The chocolate, the palace, the way you make me feel like it's perfectly normal to eat cake at a ball while discussing the philosophical implications of dessert choices,” I say.

She's right. None of this is normal for me. I don't eat dessert. I don't discuss philosophy. I definitely don't stand around at parties planning multiple courses of sweets. But with Belle, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

"Belle," I say, stepping closer so I can catch more of her scent, "you bring out a side of me I never knew existed."

"What do you mean?" She asks.

"I mean I haven't thought about work once since we started dancing. I'm standing here planning a dessert tour of a palace instead of mentally reviewing building codes. You make me want to play."

The admission surprises me even as I say it, but it's true. Belle makes me remember that life is supposed to be enjoyable, not just productive.

"Play?" she repeats, and there's something soft in her voice.

"When was the last time you did something just because it was fun?" I ask.

She considers this. "I honestly can't remember."

"Same here. But standing here with you, planning to eat our way through this entire dessert table? That sounds like the most fun I've had in years."

Her scent shifts again, becomes warmer and sweeter, and I realize she's responding to my honesty the same way I respond to hers. We're drawing each other out, making each other braver.

"You know what sounds fun?" she says, and there's a mischievous gleam in her eyes that I've never seen before.

"What?" I ask, curious as to what she has in mind.

"Racing to see who can identify more types of chocolate at that fountain," she says.

It's as if we're not at the ball anymore. I've completely forgotten about my pack, about the reason we're here, about everything except the woman standing in front of me with her eyes bright with playful challenge. My heart is hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and I can feel heat creeping up my neck. She has me doing things that I would never dream of doing, not in a million years, but here I am, ready to throw dignity to the wind just to see that smile on her face.

My eyes widen as the full impact of what she's suggesting hits me. "You want to have a chocolate identification competition?"

"Unless you're chicken," she says.

"Belle Hartwell, are you trash talking me about chocolate?"

"Maybe."

"Then you're on," I say sternly, thinking that maybe too much time with Marcus is rubbing off on me. My chest is sticking out and the only difference between Marcus and I is that he would be flexing his biceps, which for a split second I thought about doing.

We approach the chocolate fountain like we're conducting a scientific expedition, and Belle's excitement is infectious. She points out different chocolate streams dark, milk, white, something that might be ruby chocolate while I find myself getting genuinely competitive about flavor identification.

"That's definitely single origin dark," she says, pointing to one cascade. "Probably Madagascar vanilla notes."

"And that one's got sea salt," I add, pointing to another stream. "I can smell it from here."

"Show off," she teases, but her scent spikes with something that might be impressed pride.

We're both laughing now, leaning over the fountain like kids at a candy store, and I realize this is what I've been missing my entire adult life. Not just fun, but this kind of connection. Someone who makes work feel unimportant and laughter feel essential.

"Speaking of showing off," Belle says, "how many times have you been to the ball?”

The question brings me back to reality slightly. The truth is that Marcus, Theo, and I have been hosting these balls for three years, but explaining that would require explaining a lot more than I'm ready to share while she's still calling me by my last name.

“Three times,” I say, which is technically true. "The architecture is memorable."

She studies my face, and I can see her sharp mind working. Her scent carries a note of curiosity now, and I can practically feel her putting pieces together.

"You know, for someone who works in our little town, you seem very comfortable in places like this."

"Is that a problem?" I ask.

"No, it's just interesting. Most people from Willbrook would be completely overwhelmed by all this." She gestures around the opulent ballroom. "But you act like you belong here."

"Maybe I'm just good at adapting to new environments,” I say.

“Or maybe you're not quite who you seem to be."

The observation is delivered lightly, almost playfully, but there's genuine curiosity underneath it. Belle has always been perceptive, and I should have known she'd pick up on the inconsistencies.

"Are any of us who we seem to be?" I counter. "Isn't that the point of a masquerade? Don’t we hide behind our masks to hide our true idenities?”

"Touché." She finishes her tart and sets down the plate. "So, about that library tour you promised."

"Right this way, my lady."

I guide her away from the dessert table, through a corridor lined with paintings that probably cost more than most people's houses. Belle's head turns constantly, trying to take in every detail, and I find myself seeing the palace through her eyes: the overwhelming wealth, the impossible beauty, the fairy tale unreality of it all.

"Felix," she says as we walk, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"You handled that alpha situation back there like someone who's dealt with territorial alphas before. But you also seem to genuinely enjoy chocolate discussions and library tours. It's like you're two different people."

It's a fair observation, and one I can't fully answer without revealing more than I'm ready to. The truth is that I've spent so many years in alpha dominated business settings that I've learned to navigate them, but Belle brings out parts of me that I've kept buried under professional necessity.

"Maybe I'm just someone who's been waiting for the right omega to bring out his better side," I say.

Her scent shifts at that, becomes richer and more complex, and I can tell the honesty affects her. But there's something else in her expression now, a flicker of uncertainty that crosses her features. She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again, her eyes searching my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle.

Maybe she's wondering if Theo broke their secret, or maybe she's starting to realize that I can smell her scent despite her suppressants. Either way, I can see the wheels turning in that sharp mind of hers, and I know she's putting pieces together.

We reach the library, and I push open the heavy wooden doors to reveal a room that never fails to take my breath away. It's smaller than the ballroom but no less magnificent, with floor to ceiling bookshelves stretching up three stories, connected by a network of spiral staircases and walkways that look like something from a dream.

Belle stops dead in the doorway.

"Oh," she breathes, and the wonder in her voice makes my chest tight. "Oh, Felix, this is..."

"I know."

She steps into the room slowly, reverently, her head tilted back to take in the painted ceiling depicting classical scenes of learning and wisdom. The scent of old leather and aged paper mingles with her natural vanilla and honey, creating something that smells like coming home.

But more than that, her scent is doing something I've never experienced before. It's calling to me on a level that goes beyond attraction, beyond simple alpha omega dynamics. It's like my entire being recognizes her as essential.

"There must be thousands of books here," she whispers, moving toward the nearest shelf.

"Tens of thousands, according to the catalog."

"You've read the catalog?" She turns to look at me with surprise and something that might be respect.

"I told you I've been here before, even though I never entered. Marcus mentioned something about it.”

"What kind of collection is it? Medieval manuscripts? First editions? Contemporary works?"

I watch her run her fingers along the leather spines with the same reverence she might use to touch sacred relics. Her scent deepens with contentment, and I realize this is Belle in her element, surrounded by knowledge and possibility.

"All of the above. There's a particularly impressive section on architectural history on the third level."

"Of course you'd know about the architecture section." But she's smiling as she says it.

"And there's a complete collection of romantic literature from the 18th and 19th centuries on the second level that I thought might interest you."

She turns to face me fully, and there's something different in her expression now. Her scent shifts again, becomes warmer and more inviting.

"You thought about what might interest me?"

"Belle, I think about you more than I think about my own interests."

There’s something about this room, about the way she looks surrounded by books, which makes it impossible to keep playing games.

"That's..." She pauses, seeming to search for words. “Possibly the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"That I thought about books you might like?"

"That you think about me at all." Her voice is soft, almost wondering. "I'm not used to being someone's priority."

I step closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, close enough that her scent surrounds me completely. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

"Belle, you've been my priority since the first time I saw you get excited about a new book shipment at the library."

"That was months ago,” she whispers.

“I know."

"You've been thinking about me for a month?” She asks.

"I've been thinking about you, dreaming about you, and trying to figure out how to get close to you without scaring you away." I reach up and trace the edge of her mask with one finger, and she shivers at the contact. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"What do I do to you?" She asks, but she’s not teasing me. It’s as if she has no idea the power she has on me.

"You make me want to be someone who deserves you. You make me want to learn how to have fun, how to be spontaneous, how to live instead of just existing. You bring out this person I never knew was inside me."

Her scent spikes with something that might be arousal, and I have to fight to keep my own response under control.

"Felix..." Her voice is barely a whisper.

"You make me want to eat dessert for no reason and have philosophical discussions about chocolate and spend entire evenings in libraries just because they make you happy." I'm still tracing the edge of her mask, and her breathing has become shallow and rapid. "You make me want to be the kind of man who knows how to make you smile."

"You already make me smile,” she purrs as if I’m sending her into a trance.

“I want to make you laugh every day. I want to be the person you trust with your dreams and your fears and your terrible jokes about library science."

"They're not terrible jokes."

"They're awful jokes," I say with a grin. "And I want to hear every single one of them."

She places her palm flat against my chest, right over my heart, and the contact sends electricity shooting through my entire nervous system.

"I can feel how fast your heart is beating," she whispers.

"That's what you do to me. That's what you've always done to me."

"I don't understand how this is happening so fast," she says, but she doesn't move her hand. "I don't understand how you can make me feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

"Maybe you are."

"This is crazy. We work in the same town, but I barely know anything about your life outside of architectural plans and building permits,” she admits.

"Then ask me. Ask me anything you want to know."

"What do you do for fun?" She asks.

I laugh, and it's probably the most honest sound I've made all evening. "Before tonight? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I work, I sleep, I work some more. I haven't had fun since god, I can't even remember."

"That's sad."

“Thanks!” I chuckle. “I didn't think it was sad until I met you. Now I realize I've been sleepwalking through my life, waiting for someone to wake me up."

Her scent becomes richer, more complex, and I can see her pupils dilating as she processes what I'm saying.

"And you think I woke you up?"

"Belle, you don't wake me up. You set me on fire. You make me want to throw away my schedule and just exist in moments like this."

"What kind of moments?"

"Moments where we're standing in a palace library surrounded by thousands of love stories, and I'm thinking about how none of them could possibly be better than this. Moments where you're looking at me like I might be someone worth knowing, and I'm trying to figure out how to be worthy of that look."

She's quiet for a long moment, her hand still pressed against my chest, her scent growing stronger and more intoxicating with every breath.

"Felix," she says finally, "I think you might be the most dangerous thing that's ever happened to me."

"Dangerous how?"

"Because you make me want things I never let myself want. Because you make me feel like the version of myself I always wished I could be."

"What version is that?"

"Someone who's worth this." She gestures between us.

"Belle, you are worth this, and everything."

I can see the exact moment when her last wall crumbles. Her scent shifts again, becomes open and vulnerable and completely trusting, and I know that whatever happens next is going to change both of our lives forever.

"I want to know you," she whispers. "Really know you. Not just the professional architect, but the man who's standing here telling me I'm worth everything."

"Then stay with me tonight. Let me show you who I am when I'm not hiding behind work and responsibility. Let me show you what it looks like when someone puts you first."

"What does that look like?"

"It looks like spending the rest of this ball learning everything that makes you happy and then making sure it happens. It looks like dancing until dawn and eating every dessert on that table and talking about books and dreams and everything else you've never had someone to share with."

Her answer is to rise up on her toes and press her lips to mine, and the kiss tastes like chocolate and possibility and coming home to a place I never knew I was looking for.

When we break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against hers and marvel at how perfectly she fits against me.

"Belle," I murmur against her lips, "you bring out the child in me. The one I never knew existed. The one who wants to play and laugh and discover magic in ordinary moments."

"I want to meet that person," she whispers back.

"Then let's go find some magic."

And as I take her hand and lead her back toward the ballroom, toward the dessert table and the dancing and whatever other adventures the night might hold, I know that I've found my missing piece.

The part of me that Belle was always meant to wake up.

21

THEO

The east wing of Thornfield Palace at midnight is a network of shadows and whispered secrets. I should know. I've been walking these corridors for the better part of two hours, my black dress shoes silent against the ancient Persian runners that line the marble floors. The formal jacket of my tuxedo feels like a straightjacket after spending so many years in tactical gear, but Marcus insisted we dress the part tonight. "We're hosts," he'd said. "We need to look the part. Better than we’ve ever done before!”

Right now, I'd trade this entire monkey suit for my old combat fatigues and boots.

The bow tie is the worst part. I've loosened it twice already, letting it hang undone around my neck like a silk noose. My dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the edge of a scar that disappears beneath the crisp white cotton, a souvenir from my last tour that serves as a constant reminder of why I left the military behind.

I'm alone because I needed air. A place to breathe that didn't smell like expensive perfume and political ambition. The main ballroom had become suffocating with all those masked faces, all those forced smiles, all those people trying to figure out who was important enough to impress. Marcus thrives in that environment, and Felix can disappear into conversations about art and architecture, but me? I'm better suited to perimeter security than small talk.

So I'd excused myself, claiming I needed to check on the palace's security systems. It wasn't entirely a lie, because old habits die hard, and I'd spent the first hour of the evening doing exactly that, walking the less-traveled corridors and making sure all the exit routes were clear. But mostly, I needed to escape the suffocating weight of expectation that comes with hosting these events.

Three years we've been organizing this ball, and hoping that maybe this time, we'll find her. Our omega. The missing piece that would complete our pack and fill the aching void that's been eating at us since we first bonded as alphas.

But every year, it's the same story. We meet beautiful women, intelligent women, accomplished women, but none of them are ours. None of them smell right, feel right, fit into the spaces we've carved out in our hearts and our home and our lives.

Yet Belle is the one. That night after she went into heat, I realized more than anything that she's the omega we've been searching for. We've been holding these events to find the one who was right here in town all along. The irony of it all.

The east wing is particularly quiet tonight, because most guests stick to the central areas where the action is. The walls are thick stone, built to withstand sieges, and the windows are narrow slits that once served as archer positions. It's a warrior's architecture, practical and defensive, and it speaks to something deep in my military-trained soul.

The rapid staccato of heels against marble, accompanied by what sounds suspiciously like muttered cursing. Someone's moving fast through the corridors, and from the sound of it, they're not entirely in control of their direction.

I round the corner and freeze at the sight before me.

"Pretty lady, you look lost!" I call out, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.

She's a vision in rose gold silk, all dark hair pinned up in an elaborate style that's clearly taken a beating from whatever frantic searching she's been doing. Loose tendrils frame her face, which is flushed with exertion and what looks like mounting panic. The dress she's wearing is stunning. It's rose gold, a color that makes her skin glow, with a fitted bodice that emphasizes her curves without making her look self conscious about them. The skirt flows in layers of silk and tulle that move like water when she walks, and the overall effect is both elegant and playful. But it's also clearly not designed for running through palace corridors. The full skirt keeps getting tangled around her legs, and the heels she's wearing are definitely more fashion than function.

She's moving like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, all desperate energy and diminishing grace. Every few steps, she wobbles precariously, her arms windmilling as she fights to maintain balance in those ridiculous shoes. She looks like she's been wandering for a while, growing more frustrated and more panicked with each wrong turn.

But then her scent hits me, and everything else fades to background noise.

Even through whatever suppressants she's taking, I can smell her clearly. Warm vanilla and honey with something sweeter underneath, something that calls to every instinct I have. Her suppressants might fool other alphas, but they don't work on us. She smells like home, like everything we've been searching for without even realizing it.

Our omega. She's here.

She spins around at my voice, and I can see the mix of embarrassment and defiance written across her flushed face. Behind her ornate rose gold mask, her eyes are wide with what looks like exhaustion and barely controlled anxiety.

"No," she says, lifting her chin in a gesture that's probably meant to look commanding but mostly just looks adorable. "I'm not an omega. I don't need a big bad alpha to come and rescue me."

Feisty. Despite my dark mood, I find myself grinning.

Most people in Willbrook either cross the street when they see me coming or try to butter me up because they want something from Marcus. But this woman, our omega, just looked me dead in the eye and essentially told me to fuck off. There's something refreshing about that kind of directness, even if she's clearly lying through her teeth about not being an omega.

Her body language is screaming defensive anxiety. She's holding herself carefully, maintaining distance, ready to bolt at the first sign of unwanted alpha attention. Smart woman. For all her protests about not being an omega, her instincts are clearly telling her to be cautious around an unknown alpha in a deserted corridor.

"Excuse me for wanting to help you get out of here," I say, matching her tone with exaggerated politeness while I cross my arms and settle in to watch the show. "Seeing as you're not an omega and you don't need a BIG BAD alpha to help you, I'll leave you to it."

I can't believe that after helping her through her heat, even though I was knotted and wanted to take her so badly, she still can't trust us. I take a deliberate step back, making it clear that I'm not going to force my assistance on her. But I don't actually leave. Because despite her protests, she clearly does need help. She's been wandering in circles for who knows how long, getting more lost and more frustrated with each wrong turn. The palace is a maze even when you know your way around. For someone unfamiliar with the layout, it's damn near impossible to navigate, especially in heels and a ball gown.

After everything we shared that night at the library, after I sat with her for hours and proved I could control myself, she's still treating me like I'm some random alpha who might hurt her. It stings more than I want to admit.

She glares at me for a moment, her jaw set with stubborn determination, then turns and marches off down the corridor with as much dignity as she can muster. I count to ten, then start following at a distance, just close enough to keep her in sight but far enough back that she can maintain the illusion of independence.

The corridor she's chosen leads deeper into the east wing, toward areas that haven't been fully renovated with the rest of the palace. The lighting gets dimmer, the carpets more worn, the air mustier with age and disuse. She's heading in completely the wrong direction if she's trying to get back to the main areas of the palace, but I don't intervene. She made it clear she doesn't want my help, so I'll let her figure that out on her own.

Sure enough, within five minutes she's hit a dead end. This particular corridor terminates in what used to be servants' quarters back when the palace had a full residential staff. Now it's mostly storage. Furniture covered with dust sheets, old paintings waiting to be restored, boxes of holiday decorations and seasonal items that haven't been touched in years.

She stands there for a long moment, staring at the wall like she's willing a door to appear through sheer force of determination. The set of her shoulders broadcasts pure frustration, and I can smell the spike of distressed omega pheromones even from twenty feet away.

"Son of a bitch," she mutters, and I have to bite back a grin at hearing such colorful language from someone who looks like she should be gracing the cover of a romance novel.

She turns around, clearly intending to retrace her steps, and nearly walks straight into my chest. I'd been closing the distance while she was having her moment of defeat, figuring she might be ready to accept help now that reality had made its point.

"Still not lost, Belle?" I ask, unable to keep the smugness entirely out of my voice.

The look she gives me could melt steel. "I'm... temporarily turned around."

"Uh-huh." I glance around the storage area, with its cobwebs and covered furniture and general air of abandonment. "This is definitely where all the best parties happen. Very exclusive. Most people never find this place."

"Are you mocking me?"

"Would I do that?"

"Yes," she says without hesitation, and there's real heat in her voice now. Then she pauses, tilting her head as she studies my face more carefully. "Theo? Is that you?"

I reach up and pull off my mask, meeting her eyes directly. "Yeah, it's me."

Her shoulders sag with something that might be relief mixed with embarrassment, but then her expression shifts to something harder. "Thank god. I thought I was going to be wandering these corridors until dawn."

"What are you doing all the way out here, Belle?" I ask, my voice taking on that protective edge I can never quite hide around her. "After everything we've been through, who are you running from?"

She wraps her arms around herself, looking suddenly vulnerable in that rose gold dress. "I'm not running from anyone. I just needed some air, some space to think."

"Belle." I step closer, using the tone I perfected during interrogations. Gentle but persistent. "What happened?"

She's quiet for a long moment, then lets out a shaky breath. "Felix tried to kiss me."

The words hit me like a physical blow, followed immediately by a surge of protective anger. "He what?"

"It was in the library. We were talking, and there was this moment, and he..." She gestures helplessly. "It was too much, too soon. I panicked and ran."

I can smell the distress radiating off her, the way her scent spikes with anxiety as she relives whatever happened. "Did he push? Did he make you feel unsafe?"

"No," she says quickly. “It wasn't like that. He was respectful when I pulled away. It's just..." She runs her hands through her hair, messing up the elaborate style. "This is all happening so fast, Theo. The ball, the feelings, everything. I don't know how to process it."

Then her eyes narrow, and I can see the exact moment when the pieces click together in her mind. "You knew, didn't you?" she says, her voice getting sharper. "That night at the library, when you found me in heat, when you held my hand for hours and made me feel safe. You knew I'd be here tonight."

It's not really a question, and I don't insult her intelligence by pretending otherwise. "Yeah, I knew."

"And you said nothing." Her voice cracks with betrayal, and her scent spikes with hurt so sharp it makes my chest ache. "All those hours you spent with me, all that time you let me trust you, and you never once mentioned that you'd be here too. That this whole thing was..."

"Belle, it's not what you think."

"Isn't it?" She steps back from me, her arms wrapping tighter around herself. "You let me believe you were just some random alpha who happened to find me. You sat there while I told you about Sarah, about why I was scared of alphas during heat, and the whole time you knew we'd see each other again. You knew, and you said nothing."

The pain in her voice cuts through me like a blade. "I was trying to protect you."

"By lying to me?" Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "By letting me think that what happened between us was just... just some isolated incident that would never have consequences?"

"I didn't lie to you."

"You didn't tell me the truth either." She shakes her head, and one tear finally spills over. "God, I'm so stupid. I actually thought... after that night, after the way you took care of me, I thought maybe I'd been wrong about alphas. Maybe some of you could actually be trusted."

"Belle, please..."

"See?" she says, her voice breaking completely. "Alphas can't be trusted. You're all the same. You say what you think we want to hear, you make us feel safe, and then you have your own agenda the whole time."

The accusation hits me harder than any physical blow ever could. To be lumped in with the alpha who hurt her friend, to see the trust I worked so hard to build crumbling in real time, it's devastating.

"That's not fair, and you know it," I say, my own voice rougher than I intended. "I stayed with you for three hours. I could have taken advantage, could have claimed you when your heat was at its peak, but I didn't. I kept you safe."

"While knowing the whole time that this wasn't over," she shoots back.

"There are no expectations, Belle. Not from me."

"Then what is this?" She gestures between us, then around at the palace. "What are you doing here, Theo? Because I'm pretty sure this isn't just a coincidence."

I want to tell her everything. About Marcus's suspicions, about the invitations, about how we've been searching for our omega without knowing she was right under our noses. But looking at her face, seeing the betrayal and hurt written across her features, I know she's not ready for that truth.

"I came because I hoped I'd see you again," I say instead, which is at least partially honest. "Because that night meant something to me, even if you don't believe that right now."

"What it meant," she says, wiping angrily at her eyes, "was that I was vulnerable and you were there. Nothing more."

"You don't believe that."

"Because if I believe it was more, if I let myself think that what I felt was real, then I'm just setting myself up to get hurt again,” she whispers.

The fear in her voice, the way she's trying so hard to protect herself from feeling anything, breaks something inside me. "Belle..."

"No," she says firmly, straightening her shoulders. "Just... show me how to get back to the library. I need to find Adam and get out of here."

I want to argue, want to make her understand that whatever she's feeling isn't wrong or dangerous. But I can see that pushing right now will only make things worse.

"Okay," I say quietly. "The library it is."

But as I offer her my arm and she reluctantly takes it, I know this conversation is far from over. Because whether she trusts me or not, whether she wants to admit it or not, she's our omega. And I'm not giving up on her that easily.

Even if it means earning her trust all over again.

We walk in tense silence through the dimly lit corridors, her hand barely touching my arm, like she's ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Her scent is a chaotic mix of hurt, anger, and something that might be lingering attraction, and it's making it damn near impossible for me to think straight.

"This way," I murmur, guiding her left at a junction. The route back to the library isn't direct from here, which means we'll have at least ten more minutes of this awkward tension. Part of me is grateful for the time to figure out how to fix this mess. The other part of me wants to find the shortest route possible and get her away from me before I say something that makes things worse.

"You know," Belle says suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade, "I keep thinking about that night. About how safe you made me feel."

I can hear the 'but' coming, and it makes my chest tight with anticipation.

"But now I can't stop wondering if it was all calculated. If you knew exactly what to say and do to make me trust you."

"Belle, that's not…”

"Isn't it?" She stops walking, forcing me to turn and face her. In the dim lighting of the corridor, her eyes look almost silver behind her mask. "You used every single one of my fears against me. You mentioned your military training, your control, your ability to keep me safe. You said all the right things to make a scared omega trust you."

"I said those things because they were true," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "And because you needed to hear them."

"Did I? Or did you need me to believe them?"

The accusation stings because there's a grain of truth in it. I did use my training to calm her, did say exactly what she needed to hear to feel safe. But it wasn't manipulation only because I care.

"You want the truth?" I ask, stepping closer despite the warning in her posture. "Fine. Yes, I used my training that night. I used every skill I had to keep you calm and safe. But not because I was trying to manipulate you. Because watching you suffer was killing me, and I would have done anything to make it stop."

Her scent spikes with something complex such as uncertainty. "Why? You barely knew me."

"Because..." I struggle with how much to reveal. "Because something about you called to every protective instinct I have."

She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face. "That doesn't make sense."

"No," I agree. "It doesn't. But it's the truth."

We start walking again, but the silence between us has shifted slightly. Less hostile, more thoughtful. I can smell the way her scent is changing, confusion mixing with the hurt and anger.

"The things you told me about your friend," I say carefully. "About Sarah. That wasn't just you explaining your fears, was it?"

Belle's steps falter slightly. "What do you mean?"

"You were testing me. Seeing how I'd react to hearing about an alpha who lost control."

She doesn't deny it, which is answer enough.

"And when I didn't get defensive or make excuses for him, when I agreed that he'd failed her completely, that helped you trust me."

"Maybe,” she whispers.

"It wasn't manipulation, Belle. It was you being smart. You were protecting yourself, gathering information, making sure I wasn't like him before you let me help you."

"And you just happened to pass all my tests?"

"No," I say quietly. "I happened to be someone who would never hurt you. The tests just proved it."

She's quiet again, but I can smell the way her anger is starting to fade, replaced by hope. It's progress, even if it's fragile.

"The night we shared," she says suddenly. "Was any of it real?"

The question stops me in my tracks. We're in a wider corridor now, with tall windows that let in moonlight, and I can see her face more clearly. There's vulnerability there, underneath all the hurt and defensive anger.

"Every second of it was real," I tell her, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended. "Every time I brought you water, every word I said to calm you down. It was all real, Belle."

"Then why does it feel like a lie now?"

"Because you're scared," I say simply. "And when you're scared, it's easier to believe that people are trying to hurt you than it is to believe they might actually care about you."

Her scent shifts again, becomes more complex. "You think you know me so well."

"I know that you've been hurt before. I know that trusting people is hard for you. And I know that what happened between us was real, even if you're trying to convince yourself it wasn't."

"Stop," she says, but there's less heat in it now.

"Stop what?"

"Stop seeing through me like that..." She trails off, shaking her head.

"Like what?"

"Like I matter," she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.

The admission hits me harder than her anger did. "Belle, you do matter."

"To who? To you? To some alpha I met during a heat episode who probably thinks of me as just another omega in distress?"

"Is that really what you think?" I ask, stopping again and turning to face her fully. "That you're just another omega to me?"

"I don't know what to think anymore."

I study her face, taking in the exhaustion and confusion and lingering hurt. "Can I tell you something?"

She nods reluctantly.

"In my entire life, I have never spent three hours sitting with someone through a crisis without feeling like it was a duty or an obligation. But with you? Those three hours felt like the most important thing I'd ever done."

Her breath catches, and I can smell the way her scent sweetens slightly.

"When you fell asleep holding my hand," I continue, "I sat there for another hour just watching you breathe. Not because I had to, but because I couldn't bring myself to leave. Because for the first time in years, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be."

"Theo..."

"So no, Belle. You're not just another omega to me. You're not even close to just another omega to me."

She's quiet for a long moment, her hand tightening slightly on my arm. "But you still didn't tell me about the ball,” she says.

“No, I didn't."

"Why?" She asks.

I consider how to answer that without revealing too much. "Because I was afraid you'd run. I thought if you knew there might be expectations or complications, you'd disappear before I had a chance to see you again."

"So you decided to surprise me instead?"

"I decided to hope that when you saw me here, you'd be happy instead of terrified," I confess. If I tell her that Marcus had told us why he'd sent her an invitation before I even turned up at the library, and that we're the ones who organize the ball, she'll be running in the opposite direction in a matter of seconds.

"Well, that backfired," she says, but there's the faintest hint of amusement in her voice.

"Yeah, it did."

We're walking again, and I realize we're getting close to the main corridors. Soon we'll be back among the other guests, and this conversation will have to end. The thought makes something panic in my chest.

"Belle," I say, "can I ask you something?"

"I suppose."

"When Felix tried to kiss you, what were you feeling? Besides panic,” I say.

She's quiet for so long I think she might not answer. "Confused," she finally says. "Overwhelmed. Like everything was moving too fast and I couldn't keep up."

"But not afraid of him specifically?"

"No," she admits. "Not afraid of him. Just... afraid of what it meant."

"What do you think it meant?"

"I don't know. That's the problem. I don't know what any of this means. The ball, the invitations, meeting you again, Felix being so..." She gestures helplessly. "I feel like I'm in the middle of something I don't understand."

She's closer to the truth than she realizes, and it makes me want to tell her everything. But I can smell the fragility in her scent, the way she's barely holding herself together. She's not ready for the whole truth yet.

"Maybe it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean," I suggest.

"Everything means something, Theo. Especially things like this,” she says.

"Things like what?"

"Like finding out that the alpha who helped me through my heat is at the same exclusive ball I am, and then having another alpha try to kiss me in a palace library while I'm supposed to be on a fake date with my best friend. The thing that scares me the most is finding out that these alphas are part of a pack, which could mean…”

It’s dawning on her, that she is part of our pack. She knows the answer to her own question.

The bitterness in her voice makes my chest ache. "Belle..."

"Do you know what the really pathetic part is?" she continues. "For a few hours tonight, I actually felt beautiful, as if I belonged somewhere fancy and magical."

"You are worth more than that."

"Am I? Because right now I feel like the universe's favorite chew toy."

We've reached the main corridor that leads to the library, and I can hear music and laughter drifting from the ballroom. Soon she'll disappear back into the crowd, back to her fake date and her careful walls, and I'll have lost my chance to fix this.

"Belle, wait," I say, catching her arm gently. "Before we go back, there's something else I need to tell you."

She turns to look at me, and I can see the wariness creeping back into her expression. "What now?"

"That night at the library, when you asked me why I wanted to help you?"

"You said it was because I was too chatty and too pretty,” Belle says.

“That was part of it. But not all of it."

"What was the rest of it?"

I take a deep breath, knowing this is a risk but needing to say it anyway. "The rest of it was that from the moment I walked into that library and smelled your scent, something in me recognized you. Not just as an omega in distress, but as someone important. Someone I'd been waiting for without knowing I was waiting."

Her scent spikes with confusion, and underneath it all, a warmth that makes my alpha senses calm at the same time.

"That's impossible," she whispers.

"Is it? Because I think you felt it too. That connection, that recognition. I think that's why you trusted me so quickly, why you let me stay with you through the worst of it."

"I was in heat. I wasn't thinking clearly,” Belle says dismissing the night.

"Maybe. Or maybe you were thinking more clearly than you ever have."

She stares at me for a long moment, her breathing shallow and rapid. "What are you saying, Theo?"

"I'm saying that whatever's happening between us, it's real. It's not manipulation or coincidence or heat-induced confusion. It's real, and it's worth exploring."

"And if I don't want to explore it?" Belle asks.

The question hurts, but I force myself to answer honestly. "Then I'll respect that. But Belle, I think you do want to explore it. I think you're just scared of what you might find."

"Of course I'm scared," she says, her voice breaking slightly. "Do you know what happens to omegas who trust the wrong alpha? Do you know what I've seen happen to people who let themselves believe in fairy tales?"

"This isn't a fairy tale, Belle. It's real life. Messy, complicated, scary real life. But that doesn't mean it can't be good."

"How can you be so sure?" She asks.

"Because I can smell how you respond to me, and I felt how you melted into me that night when you finally let yourself trust me."

She's trembling now, and her scent is a chaotic mix of need and fear and want. "This is too much."

"I know. But Belle, what if it's also exactly what you've been looking for without knowing it?"

"I can't," she whispers. "I can't do this right now. It's too much, too fast, too everything."

The rejection stings, but I can smell the conflict in her scent. She wants this as much as I do, but she's not ready to admit it yet.

"Okay," I say quietly. "But Belle? When you're ready to stop running from this, I'll be here. We'll be here."

"We?"

Shit!

The slip makes my blood run cold, but it's too late to take it back. "I meant I'll be here."

But she's too sharp to miss the plural, and I can see the wheels turning in her mind. "We, Theo. You said we'll be here. Who's we?"

"Belle..."

"Oh my god," she breathes, stepping back from me. "Felix. That's why he was so comfortable at the palace, why he knew his way around. You're together. You and Felix, you're... what? A pack?"

Fuck! There’s no holding back now. I can't lie to her, not when she's looking at me with that expression of dawning realization and betrayal.

"Yes," I say simply.

"And Marcus? Is he part of this too?"

"Belle, let me explain…” I trail off, but then she interjects.

“Is this why I got an invite? And I suspected that it was Mrs. Chen, was it you?”

She's putting it together faster than I hoped, her sharp mind connecting dots with ruthless efficiency.

"You've been watching me," she says, her voice flat with realization. "All three of you. This whole thing was planned."

"Not the way you think…”

"Then how?" she demands, her scent spiking with fury and hurt. "How exactly was it planned, Theo? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like three alphas decided they wanted a particular omega and arranged to trap her at a masquerade ball."

"We didn't trap you. We didn't even know for sure that you were…”

"That I was what?" She snaps.

I can't say it. Can't tell her that we suspected she was our mate, our destined omega, because that will only make this worse.

"That you were the one we've been looking for," I say instead.

"The one you've been looking for," she repeats, her voice dangerous. "Like I'm some kind of prize to be won?"

"No, Belle, it's not like that…”

"Then what is it like, Theo? Because it really seems like three alphas saw something they wanted and decided to take it."

"We haven't taken anything," I say firmly. "We've been hoping. We've been waiting for you to choose us."

"Choose you for what?"

"For everything," I say, and the honesty in my voice seems to surprise her. "For pack, for home, for the future we could build together."

She stares at me for a long moment, her breathing rapid and shallow. "You're insane. All of you. You think you can just decide I belong with you and arrange elaborate schemes to make it happen?"

"We think you might be our mate," I say quietly. "Our omega. And yes, we hoped that if you met us, if you spent time with us, you might feel the same connection we do."

"Your mate," she repeats, like the words don't make sense.

"Yes."

"Based on what? My scent? The way I react to you? Some biological imperative that says omegas and alphas are supposed to bond?"

“Everything about you feels like coming home. I've never wanted to protect someone the way I want to protect you. I spent three hours, and it felt more real than anything I've experienced in my entire life."

She's crying now, tears streaming down her face behind her mask. "You can't just decide that, Theo. You can't just pick someone and declare them your mate."

"We didn't pick you, Belle. We recognized you."

"Well, I don't recognize you," she says, backing away from me. "I thought I was going to a ball with my best friend, and I would have some fun. Instead, I find out I'm the guest of honor at my own kidnapping."

"Belle, please…”

"No," she says firmly. "No, I'm done. I'm going to find Adam, and we're leaving. Tonight. Right now."

"You can't just leave…”

"Watch me."

And before I can stop her, she's running again, her rose gold dress streaming behind her as she disappears around the corner toward the library.

I stand there for a moment, breathing in the lingering scent of her distress and fury, and realize that I've just made everything infinitely worse.

Marcus and Felix are going to kill me.

But more importantly, I've probably just lost our omega forever.

22

BELLE

There's only one guy who would have his shirt half open and his blazer undone, and that's Adam. I rush over to him, at last seeing a familiar face, even if everyone's wearing a mask.

"Hey," I smile, as I notice that he's not alone. He had his back to me, but I know that frame anywhere.

He turns around slowly, and I feel as if he's sucking all the air out of the room as he does it.

"Hey."

Not the normal upbeat Adam I know, but one who looks haunted.

The woman beside him is petite and elegant, with golden blonde hair styled in soft waves that catch the light like spun silk. She's wearing a soft lavender gown that seems to float around her like morning mist, and her delicate silver filigree mask complements her porcelain complexion perfectly. When she looks up at me, I can see stunning blue eyes that sparkle with warmth Adam desperately needs right now. Everything about her seems to shimmer with an ethereal beauty that makes her absolutely radiant.

"Belle," Adam says, and there's a careful tension in his voice that makes my heart sink. "I'd like you to meet Seraphina. Seraphina, this is Belle, my... closest friend."

The pause before 'closest friend' is hesitant, as if he's trying to figure out how to introduce someone he couldn't trust until recently.

"It's lovely to meet you," Seraphina says, her voice is soft with just a hint of nervousness. She extends a gloved hand, and I notice the way she keeps glancing at Adam, like she's drawing strength from his presence.

"You too," I manage, though my voice sounds strained even to my own ears. "Are you from around here?"

“No,” she replies. "I almost didn't come tonight, because these sorts of events make me terribly anxious, but my sister insisted I needed to get out more."

"Seraphina's a teacher," Adam says, and there's warmth in his voice when he talks about her. I can smell the way his scent shifts as his clean beta scent becomesricher, warmer, tinged with something that might be contentment. "Third grade. She was telling me about her students and their latest art project."

“Great,” I say, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice. Seraphina's scent is soft and comforting, like vanilla cupcakes and fresh linens, with an underlying sweetness that speaks of genuine kindness. It's the kind of scent that would make children feel safe, that would calm anxious parents during conferences.

"It is," Seraphina agrees, her face lighting up as she launches into a detailed description of her classroom's latest project. "We're doing a unit on community helpers, and the children are creating their own storybooks about the people who make their neighborhoods special."

Adam's scent deepens with interest, and I watch as he leans closer to her, completely captivated. "That's brilliant. You're teaching them that everyone has value, that every job matters."

"Exactly!" Seraphina's eyes sparkle with enthusiasm. "Yesterday, little Emma wrote a story about the crossing guard who always waves at her. And Ken's writing about the librarian who helped him find books about dinosaurs."

At the mention of libraries, I expect them to include me in the conversation, but they're so focused on each other that it's like I've become invisible. Adam's scent is practically humming with contentment as he listens to her talk about her students.

"I've always thought teaching was one of the most important professions," Adam says, and his voice has taken on that soft quality he usually reserves for talking about things he's passionate about. "Shaping young minds, helping them discover who they are..."

"It's not always easy," Seraphina admits, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Some of the children come from difficult situations. Last month, I had a little girl who was acting out because her parents were getting divorced. It took weeks to help her feel safe enough to talk about what was happening at home."

Adam's scent spikes with protective concern. "How do you handle situations like that? The emotional weight of caring for children who are hurting?"

And suddenly they're deep in conversation about childhood development and emotional support strategies, their voices overlapping with excitement as they discover shared philosophies about nurturing young people. Adam's usual careful reserve has completely disappeared around Seraphina, and her shy nervousness has melted away as she talks about her passion.

I stand there watching them, feeling increasingly like a third wheel. Their scents are mingling now, creating something warm and harmonious that speaks of natural compatibility. Adam's protective instincts, which can sometimes feel overwhelming with me, seem perfectly matched with Seraphina's gentle nature.

"The key is consistency," Seraphina is saying, her hand unconsciously moving closer to Adam's on the table beside them. "Children need to know that adults in their lives are reliable, that they'll show up no matter what."

"Yes," Adam agrees fervently. "Stability and trust. That's the foundation of everything."

They're talking about seven-year-olds, but I can hear the deeper conversation underneath, about the kind of partnership they both want, about shared values and life goals. It's beautiful to watch, honestly, but it's also making me feel incredibly alone.

"I've always wanted children of my own," Seraphina admits softly, and her scent carries a note of wistful longing. "A family where everyone feels safe and loved."

"Me too," Adam says, and his voice is so tender it makes my chest ache. "I think you'd be an amazing mother. Your students are lucky to have you."

The way they're looking at each other, the way their scents are harmonizing, it's like watching two people fall in love in real time. And while part of me is happy for Adam, another part feels like I'm intruding on something intimate and private.

"Excuse me," someone says behind me, and I turn just as a server carrying a tray of drinks tries to navigate past our little group. But there are more people crowding around now, other couples drawn to this section of the library, and the server misjudges the space.

The collision happens in slow motion. The server bumps into me, hard, sending me stumbling forward. The tray tilts, and suddenly I'm drenched in what smells like champagne punch, the sticky liquid soaking through the bodice of my rose gold dress and dripping down onto the floor.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry!" the server exclaims, looking horrified.

"It's okay," I say automatically, even though the fabric is already staining and I can feel the liquid seeping through to my skin. "Accidents happen."

I look over at Adam and Seraphina, expecting them to notice the commotion, to ask if I'm okay. But they're still deep in conversation about classroom management techniques, completely absorbed in each other. Adam's hand has found Seraphina's, and they're standing close enough that their shoulders are touching.

"Really, it's fine," I tell the server, who's frantically trying to blot at my dress with cocktail napkins. "Don't worry about it."

But it's not fine. My dress is ruined, I smell like fruit punch, and my supposed date hasn't even noticed that I've been drenched in alcohol. The irony isn't lost on me, because I've spent the evening running from any alpha who tries to come close to me, only to end up standing alone in a soggy dress while my best friend finds his perfect match.

"I should go clean this up," I announce, though I'm not sure anyone's listening.

"There's a ladies' room just down the hall," the server offers helpfully. "I can show you…”

"I'll find it, thanks," I say, glancing one more time at Adam and Seraphina. They're now discussing the challenges of reaching reluctant readers, their heads bent close together as they share teaching strategies.

I slip away from the group, my heels squelching slightly with each step. No one calls after me, no one notices I'm leaving. Adam's scent trail leads in the opposite direction, growing fainter as I walk away, mixing with Seraphina's vanilla sweetness in a way that speaks of new beginnings and perfect matches.

And me? I'm heading to a bathroom to clean fruit punch out of my dress, alone at a masquerade ball where I was supposed to be having the most magical night of my life.

The irony is funny. Almost.

If it wasn't so completely pathetic.

I have three alphas who want to be with me, but here I am with my best friend who has forgotten that I'm supposed to be his fake date in the middle of cleaning fruit punch off my dress in a palace bathroom.

I stare at my reflection in the ornate mirror, watching champagne punch drip from the bodice of my rose gold dress onto the marble floor. My carefully styled hair is coming loose, my makeup is smudged, and I look exactly like what I am, a woman who's been forgotten by her own date.

Three alphas. Three impossibly attractive, successful alphas who claim I'm their destined mate, who can smell my scent through suppressants that fool everyone else. And where are they now? Nowhere to be found when I actually need help getting fruit punch stains out of silk.

Meanwhile, Adam who's supposed to be helping me navigate this whole fake dating charade is probably planning his future family with a woman he met two hours ago. A woman whose scent mingles with his like they were made for each other.

I grab a handful of paper towels and start dabbing at the worst of the stains, but it's hopeless. The fabric is already setting, and the rose gold silk is definitely ruined. Just like my evening, apparently.

The bathroom door opens behind me, but I don't look up. Probably just another guest who'll pretend not to notice the disaster I've become.

"Belle?"

I freeze. I know that voice.

23

MARCUS

I've been searching high and low trying to track Belle.

Her scent has been calling to me all evening, that intoxicating blend of vanilla and honey that cuts through every other fragrance in the palace. Even with her suppressants working overtime, I can follow her trail like a bloodhound. It's stronger tonight than it's ever been, richer and more complex, and it's driving my alpha instincts absolutely crazy.

I know Felix found her first, spent time with her in the library, and he tried to kiss her. Then Theo found her later, lost and panicked in the storage corridors. And I know she ran from both of them, overwhelmed and scared and not ready to face what we all know is inevitable.

Our omega. Our Belle. The missing piece we've been searching for without even knowing we were looking for her.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar when I reach it, and I can hear the soft sounds of distress coming from inside. Paper towels being unrolled, quiet sniffles, the kind of defeated sighs that make my chest ache with the need to fix whatever's wrong.

I knock gently on the doorframe. "Belle?"

The sounds stop immediately, and I can smell the spike of surprise and something that might be relief in her scent.

"It's Marcus," I add, keeping my voice low and non-threatening. "Can I come in?"

There's a pause, then a shaky "Yeah."

I push the door open and step inside, taking in the scene before me. Belle is standing in front of the ornate mirror, her rose gold dress soaked with what smells like champagne punch, her carefully styled hair coming loose, her makeup smudged. She looks like she's been through a war, and the defeat in her posture makes something protective and fierce rise in my chest.

"What happened?" I ask, though I can guess. Palace servers, crowded spaces, accidents waiting to happen.

"Someone spilled drinks on me," she says, not meeting my eyes in the mirror. "My dress is ruined, I smell like a fruit bowl, and my date is too busy falling in love to notice I exist."

The bitterness in her voice makes me want to find Adam Chen and have a very pointed conversation about priorities. But that's not what she needs right now.

"The dress isn't ruined," I say, moving closer to assess the damage. "Stained, maybe, but not ruined. And you smell like vanilla and honey with a hint of champagne. Trust me, there are worse combinations."

She lets out a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"I'm saying it because it's true." I meet her eyes in the mirror, noting the exhaustion and frustration written across her face. "But more importantly, you look like you could use some air. How about we step outside for a few minutes?"

She turns to face me, and I can see her trying to read my expression behind my mask. "What, now you're reading minds?"

I can't help but grin at the tartness in her voice. Even defeated and covered in fruit punch, Belle Hartwell has attitude. "Lucky guess. You have that look people get when they've had enough of crowds and small talk and being polite."

"And you think taking me to the gardens will help? Are we going to discuss the historical significance of roses and the proper pruning techniques for topiary?"

I laugh, genuinely amused by her assumption. "No, Belle. I just want to talk. In fact, we all do."

"We?" She asks.

"Felix and Theo are waiting outside. We thought it might be time for a conversation that's been a long time coming."

I can see the exact moment when understanding hits her, the way her scent shifts from tired resignation to something sharper and more wary.

"All three of you," she says, and it's not a question.

"All three of us."

She's quiet for a long moment, processing this information. "And if I don't want to have this conversation?"

"Then we'll respect that," I say simply. "But Belle, I think you do want to have it. I think you've been waiting for someone to give you answers instead of more questions."

She stares at me for another beat, then nods slowly. "Okay. But Marcus? No more surprises after this. I don't think I can handle any more surprises tonight."

"I'll do my best," I tell her, though I know I can't promise that. The night is far from over, and there are still revelations to come that she's not ready for.

I'm about to offer her my arm when the bathroom door swings open and two women in elaborate gowns enter, chatting animatedly about the evening's events. They stop short when they see me, their conversation cutting off abruptly.

"Excuse me," one of them says, her voice sharp with disapproval. "This is the ladies' room."

"Women only," the other adds firmly, crossing her arms and giving me a look that could freeze fire. "You need to leave."

Heat rises in my cheeks as I realize how this looks—a masked alpha cornering an obviously distressed omega in a bathroom. "I was just—"

"Leaving," the first woman finishes pointedly. "Now."

Belle steps forward slightly, and I can smell the spike of embarrassment in her scent. "It's okay, he was helping me—"

"Honey, we can help you," the second woman says gently, her tone shifting from hostile to protective as she focuses on Belle. "Are you alright? Do you need us to call security?"

"No, really, I'm fine," Belle assures them quickly, but the women are clearly unconvinced.

"Out," the first woman says to me, pointing toward the door with all the authority of someone who's used to being obeyed. "We'll take care of her."

I look at Belle, trying to communicate with my eyes that this conversation isn't over, that I'll be waiting for her. She nods slightly, understanding.

"I'll be right outside," I tell her quietly, then address the two women. "She's had an accident with some drinks. If you could help her..."

"We've got this," one of them says firmly, already moving toward Belle with the kind of immediate female solidarity that I've seen before. "Go."

I reluctantly head toward the door, but before I leave, I turn back to Belle. "When you're ready, we'll be in the gardens. Near the garden house."

She nods again, and I can see something in her expression that might be relief mixed with anticipation.

As I step out into the corridor, I can already hear the women inside fussing over Belle, offering hair pins and makeup touch-ups and the kind of practical help that women seem to instinctively provide for each other.

I lean against the wall outside the bathroom, close enough that I can hear the murmur of voices but far enough away that I'm not obviously lurking. My phone buzzes with a text from Felix:

Found a quiet spot in the gardens. How did it go?

Still in progress, I text back. She'll meet us outside when she's ready.

And if she doesn't come?

I stare at that question for a long moment before typing back:

Then we wait. However long it takes.

Because that's what you do for your omega, even when she doesn't know she's yours yet. You wait, and you hope, and you prove that you're worth the risk.

Even if it takes all night.

Twenty minutes later, the bathroom door finally opens. Belle emerges looking significantly better than when she went in with her hair re-pinned into something resembling its original style, her makeup has been touched up, and while her dress is still stained, it's no longer dripping. The two women who helped her nod approvingly at their handiwork before heading back toward the ballroom.

Belle looks around the corridor until she spots me leaning against the wall where I said I'd wait. There's something different in her posture now as if she’s more determined.

"Thank you," she says simply as she approaches. "For waiting."

"I told you I would," I reply, straightening up. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. Those women were incredibly kind. They had emergency sewing kits and stain removal pens and about six different types of makeup in their purses." She smooths down her skirt with nervous hands. "They also gave me some very pointed advice about not trusting strange alphas in bathrooms."

"Smart women!”

"They are." She takes a deep breath, and I can smell the way her scent has shifted to still nervous, but more resolved. "So. The gardens?"

I offer her my arm, and after only a moment's hesitation, she takes it. Her hand is small and warm through the fabric of my tuxedo, and the contact sends electricity shooting through my nervous system. Even through her gloves, even with the scent of spilled champagne still clinging to her dress, she feels perfect against me.

We walk through the palace corridors in relative silence, her heels clicking softly against the marble floors. I can feel the tension radiating off her, the way she's holding herself carefully, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. But she doesn't pull away from me, doesn't try to put distance between us, and I take that as a good sign.

The gardens at Thornfield Palace are spectacular at night, with strategically placed lighting that illuminates the carefully manicured paths without destroying the magical atmosphere. Moonlight filters through ancient oak trees, casting shadows across flower beds that smell of jasmine and night-blooming cereus. It's romantic and peaceful and exactly the kind of place where difficult conversations can happen without feeling confrontational.

Felix and Theo are waiting near the garden house, a small stone structure that was once used for storing gardening tools but has been converted into a charming retreat space. They both straighten when they see us approaching, and I can smell the way their scents shift with anticipation and something that might be nervousness.

Belle stops walking when she spots them, her hand tightening slightly on my arm. "So this is really happening."

"This is really happening," I confirm.

But before we can reach Felix and Theo, movement from the garden house catches our attention. The door opens, and an omega emerges, followed by four alphas. They're all slightly disheveled, their formal wear rumpled and their hair mussed, and the scent that hits us is unmistakable.

They've been knotted. Recently and thoroughly, if the satisfied purrs coming from the alphas and the blissful expression on the omega's face are any indication.

Belle's scent spikes with something sharp and unexpected that it takes me a moment to identify. Jealousy. She's jealous of the omega who just spent time with multiple alphas, who experienced the kind of pleasure and connection that Belle has been denying herself.

"Lucky her," Belle mutters under her breath, but I catch it.

"Being with alphas doesn't have to be all bad," I say carefully, watching her reaction.

She glances up at me, and there's something vulnerable in her expression. "Doesn't it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty terrifying."

"What looks terrifying about it?" I ask.

"The loss of control. The vulnerability. The way they're all looking at her like she's something precious they want to protect and possess at the same time."

"And that scares you?" I ask.

"That scares me," she admits quietly.

We reach Felix and Theo, and I can see them both cataloguing Belle's appearance, taking in the stained dress and the tired expression and the way she's holding herself like she's expecting another blow.

"Belle," Felix says softly, and there's so much warmth in his voice that it makes my chest tight. "How are you holding up?"

"I've been better," she says with a weak smile. "But I'm here. That's something, right?"

"That's everything," Theo says, and the certainty in his voice seems to surprise her.

We arrange ourselves in a loose circle near the garden house, close enough for conversation but far enough apart that Belle doesn't feel trapped or cornered. The scent of night-blooming flowers mingles with our combined alpha pheromones and Belle's sweet omega fragrance, creating something that smells like possibility and hope.

"So," Belle says, looking between the three of us. "Who wants to start?"

I step forward slightly, taking the lead the way I always do in business situations. "I'll start. Belle, you're our omega. Our destined mate. And we've been looking for you for three years without knowing we were looking for you."

Her scent spikes with surprise and something that might be fear. "That's impossible."

"Is it?" Felix asks gently. "You felt the connection with Theo that night at the library. You felt it with me tonight when we danced. And you're feeling it right now, standing here with Marcus."

She can't deny it because we can all smell the way her scent responds to us, the way it becomes richer and more complex when we're near. Her suppressants might fool other alphas, but they can't hide the biological recognition that happens between true mates.

"But I'm on suppressants," she protests. "You shouldn't be able to smell me at all."

"Suppressants work by masking omega pheromones," I explain, keeping my voice gentle and educational rather than predatory. "They create a chemical barrier that most alphas can't penetrate. But true mates have a deeper connection, one that goes beyond surface chemistry. We can smell you, Belle, because we're supposed to smell you."

"That's..." She struggles for words. "That's not how it works. That's not how any of this works."

"Isn't it?" Theo steps closer, his military bearing softened by genuine care. "Belle, how many alphas have you been around since you started suppressants?"

"Dozens. Hundreds, maybe,” she confesses.

“And how many of them could smell your scent?" I ask.

She's quiet for a long moment, processing the implication. "None of them. Until you three."

"Because we're your pack," Felix says simply. "Your alphas. The ones you're supposed to be with."

"I don't believe in supposed to," Belle says, but there's less conviction in her voice now. "I believe in choice. In making decisions based on logic and compatibility, not on biological imperatives."

"Then choose us," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended. "Not because biology says you should, but because we're good for you. Because we make you laugh and feel safe and want to eat chocolate in palace libraries."

"Because we see you for who you really are," Theo adds. "Not just the helpful librarian or the accommodating friend, but the brilliant, passionate, caring woman who deserves to be cherished."

“We want to build something beautiful with you," Felix finishes. "A life where you never have to hide parts of yourself, where you're valued for everything you are."

Belle is quiet for a long moment, her scent shifting through a complex array of emotions. Fear, hope, longing, uncertainty, and underneath it all, a growing warmth that speaks of recognition and want.

"This is terrifying," she whispers finally.

"We know," I say gently. "But Belle, we're not going to force anything. We're not going to claim you or pressure you or try to override your choices. We're asking you to consider the possibility that what you're feeling isn't fear of us, but fear of how much you want this."

"What if I'm not ready?" she asks, and the vulnerability in her voice makes all three of us step closer unconsciously.

"Then we wait," Theo says simply. "For as long as it takes."

"What if I'm never ready?" She asks.

"Then we spend the rest of our lives proving to you that you're worth waiting for," Felix says, and the sincerity in his voice makes her breath catch.

She looks between the three of us, her eyes bright with unshed tears behind her mask. "You really mean that."

"Every word," I confirm. "Belle, we've been incomplete without you. We didn't even know what we were missing until we found you. But now that we have, now that we know what it feels like to be near our omega, we're not giving up. Even if it takes years to earn your trust."

"I want to trust you," she admits quietly. "God, I want to trust you so much it scares me."

"Then start small," Theo suggests. "Trust us with tonight. Trust us to keep you safe, to respect your boundaries, to be honest with you about what we want and why."

"What do you want?" she asks, and there's genuine curiosity in her voice now.

"Everything," I say simply. "Your laughter, your stories, your terrible jokes about library science. Your passion for helping people, your chocolate obsession, your way of making everyone around you feel important. We want to be the pack that supports you, protects you, loves you the way you deserve to be loved."

"We want to give you a home where you never have to pretend to be smaller than you are," Felix adds. "Where your intensity is celebrated, not tolerated."

"We want to prove that not all alphas are like the one who hurt your friend," Theo finishes. "That some of us know how to control ourselves, how to put your needs first, how to love without possession."

Belle is crying now, tears streaming down her face behind her mask, but her scent is shifting toward something warmer and more hopeful.

"I'm so tired of being scared," she whispers. "I'm so tired of hiding and pretending and convincing myself that being alone is safer than taking a risk."

"You don't have to be alone anymore," I tell her, stepping close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from my body. "Not ever again, if you don't want to be."

"But what if…”

She's cut off by a sudden change in the air pressure, a shift that makes all of our instincts prick with warning. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees in the past few minutes, and what started as a gentle evening breeze has become something stronger and more insistent.

I look up at the sky and feel my stomach drop. The stars that were visible when we came outside have disappeared behind rapidly moving clouds, and there's a greenish tint to the air that every alpha in tornado country learns to recognize.

"Shit," I mutter, pulling out my phone to check the weather alerts.

The screen lights up with emergency notifications just as the first tornado siren begins to wail in the distance, its haunting cry cutting through the night air like a knife.

"What's that?" Belle asks, her voice tight with new fear.

"Tornado warning," I say grimly, scanning the alerts. "Severe weather moving in fast. We need to get inside, now."

"The palace has a basement," Felix suggests, but I'm already shaking my head.

"Too far, and too many people. I know a better place." I look around, orienting myself in the gardens. "There's an underground shelter about fifty yards from here. Built during the Cold War as an air raid shelter, reinforced concrete, completely underground. It'll be safer than anything else on the property."

The wind is picking up now, strong enough to whip Belle's dress around her legs and send loose petals and leaves swirling through the air. I can hear the distant sound of the tornado siren growing louder, joined by others from neighboring towns.

"This way," I call out, taking Belle's hand and pulling her toward a section of the garden that looks like nothing more than decorative landscaping. But I know what's hidden underneath the artfully placed shrubs and ornamental stonework.

Felix and Theo fall into step behind us, their military training and security experience making them natural guards for our rear flank. The wind is getting stronger by the minute, and I can hear something that might be hail starting to fall in the distance.

"Marcus, are you sure about this?" Belle calls out over the increasing noise of the wind.

"Positive," I reply, leading her toward what looks like a garden shed but is actually the entrance to the underground shelter. "I helped oversee the renovation of this property three years ago. Had to make sure all the historical features were preserved and brought up to code."

I pull open what appears to be a decorative wooden door but is actually reinforced steel disguised to look like garden storage. Behind it, concrete steps lead down into darkness.

"Ladies first," I say, but Belle shakes her head.

"I'm not going down there alone."

"Felix will go first," I decide, understanding her reluctance to enter an unknown underground space without backup. "Then you, then me, then Theo."

Felix nods and disappears down the steps, his phone's flashlight creating a pale circle of light in the darkness. "It's clear," he calls back up. "And there are lights down here."

Belle takes a deep breath and follows him down, her rose gold dress rustling against the concrete walls. I'm right behind her, close enough to catch her if she stumbles, close enough to smell the way her scent spikes with anxiety as we descend into the underground space.

The shelter is larger than I remembered, a long rectangular room with concrete walls and a reinforced ceiling. But it's not empty the way I expected it to be. There's furniture down here – a bed, a dresser, a small kitchenette, bookshelves lined with novels and personal items. It looks like someone has been living here, using this space as more than just an emergency shelter.

"What is this place?" Belle asks, looking around with wide eyes.

Felix and I exchange a glance, and I can see the same recognition in his expression. This isn't just any underground shelter. Someone has been using this as a residence, and based on the scent lingering in the air, I know exactly who.

"It's Seraphina's place," Felix says quietly, and I can hear the careful neutrality in his voice.

"Seraphina?" Belle repeats. "The woman with Adam?"

“She left here to move to a cottage a few weeks ago, but before that she used to live here," Felix explains, settling into a chair that's clearly been arranged for comfort rather than storage. “Everyone in her pack died, and she blamed herself for the longest time for it.”

"She's been living underground?" Belle asks, and there's concern in her voice. "That's so..."

"Independent," Theo finishes, taking up a position near the entrance where he can monitor the stairs. "She wanted to be self-sufficient, to prove that omegas don't need alphas to survive."

"But Adam was with her tonight," Belle says, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "They looked..."

"Happy," I confirm. "They looked happy together. Sometimes independence isn't about proving you don't need anyone, but choosing who you want to need."

The wind outside is howling now, loud enough that we can hear it even through several feet of concrete and earth. Occasionally, there's a sound that might be debris hitting the ground above us, or hail pounding against whatever surface it can find.

"Adam," Belle says suddenly, her scent spiking with worry. "He's still in the palace. What if…”

"He's fine," I assure her quickly. "The palace has been through dozens of severe weather events. The staff know the protocols, they'll get everyone to the basement or interior rooms. Adam is safe, Belle."

"You can't know that for sure."

"I can know that Adam Chen is smart enough to follow emergency procedures and get himself and Seraphina to safety," Theo says firmly.

Belle nods reluctantly, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she's holding herself like she's ready to bolt back up those stairs and into the storm if it means making sure Adam is okay.

"Besides," Felix adds gently, "from what we saw tonight, I don't think Adam is going to let anything happen to Seraphina, and vice-versa. They'll take care of each other."

"Maybe tonight has changed things," Belle says thoughtfully, her voice growing softer as she processes what we've all observed. "I've never seen Adam like that with anyone. The way he looked at her,they just... connected. Maybe finding each other was exactly what they both needed."

"Maybe it was," I agree, settling into another chair that gives me a clear view of both the entrance and Belle. "Sometimes the right person comes along at exactly the right moment, even when you're not looking for them."

Belle looks up at me, and there's something in her expression that makes my chest tight with hope. "Is that what happened with us? Right person, right time?"

"I think," I say carefully, "that might be exactly what happened. Though the timing could have been better."

"How so?" She asks.

"Well, for starters, we could have met under circumstances that didn't involve emergency heat situations and tornado warnings,” I explain.

That gets a small laugh out of her, and the sound goes straight to my heart. "Yeah, our meet-cute story needs some work."

"We'll work on it," Felix promises. "Maybe next time we can arrange for something involving libraries and chocolate fountains instead of medical emergencies and severe weather."

"Next time?" Belle asks, and there's something tentative but hopeful in her voice.

"If you want there to be a next time," Theo says. "We're hoping there will be lots of next times, but that's up to you."

The storm outside seems to be intensifying, the wind howling like something alive and angry. But down here in the underground shelter, surrounded by the evidence of another omega's determination to build a safe space for herself, it feels almost peaceful.

"Can I ask you something?" Belle says, looking between the three of us.

"Anything," I tell her.

"That night at the library, when Theo found me. Did you all know what was happening?"

I exchange glances with Felix and Theo, weighing how much truth she's ready for. “No.”

"Belle," Theo says gently, "even before we knew you were ours, you’re still your own person. What happened that night was about you being in crisis and me being in a position to help. The fact that you turned out to be our mate was just... destiny, I guess."

"I don't believe in destiny," Belle says, but there's less conviction in her voice than there was earlier.

"Then believe in choice," Felix suggests. “When you needed help, you trusted Theo enough to let him stay."

"I'm still scared," she admits quietly.

"We know," I say. "And that's okay. Being scared doesn't mean you're weak, Belle. It means you're human. It means you understand the magnitude of what we're talking about."

"What are we talking about, exactly?" she asks. "Because I feel like we're dancing around something big, but no one wants to say it directly."

I take a deep breath, knowing this is the moment of truth. "We're talking about mating, Belle. About pack bonds and claiming and building a life together. We're talking about you becoming our omega in every sense of the word."

Her scent spikes with fear, desire and longing all tangled together. "And if I say yes? What does that look like?"

"It looks like whatever you want it to look like," Theo says immediately. "Fast or slow, traditional or completely unconventional. The only thing that matters is that you're comfortable and happy and choosing every step of the way."

"We're not going to drag you off to some isolated cabin and keep you barefoot and pregnant," Felix adds with a grin. "Though if you want the cabin, we can probably arrange that."

"I like my job," Belle says firmly. "I like my life, my independence, my ability to make my own decisions."

"Then keep them," I say simply. "Belle, we don't want to change you or control you or turn you into someone else. We want to love you exactly as you are, and support you in becoming whoever you want to be."

"Even if I want to keep working? Keep living in my own apartment? Keep making my own choices about everything from what I eat for breakfast to whether I want children?"

"Especially then," Theo confirms. "Belle, the last thing any of us want is an omega who's been forced or coerced into being with us. We want a partner, not a possession."

"Partners," she corrects softly. "Plural."

"Partners," I agree, and the word sounds perfect coming from her lips.

The storm outside is starting to calm slightly, the howling wind becoming more of a strong breeze. But none of us make any move to leave the shelter. This conversation feels too important, too fragile, to interrupt for anything less than a genuine emergency.

"I need time," Belle says finally. "To think, to process, to figure out what I actually want versus what I think I should want."

"How much time?" Felix asks.

"I don't know. Days? Weeks? However long it takes to be sure."

"Then take it," I tell her. "Take all the time you need. We'll be here when you're ready."

"What if I'm never ready?" Belle asks.

"Then we'll accept that," Theo says, though I can hear the pain the admission costs him. "We'll be disappointed, and probably heartbroken, but we'll accept it."

"Really?"

"Really," I confirm. "Belle, consent isn't just about saying yes. It's about being free to say no. If you don't feel that freedom, then anything you say yes to is meaningless."

She's quiet for a long moment, her scent shifting through various emotions as she processes everything we've discussed. I find myself hoping that Belle will remember this night not as the night three alphas cornered her and demanded a decision, but as the night she realized she had options she'd never considered before.

The night she learned that being wanted doesn't have to mean being trapped. The night she discovered that sometimes, the scariest thing isn't taking a risk, but admitting how much you want to take it.

24

MARCUS

The storm outside is beginning to calm, but none of us seem eager to leave the underground shelter. There's something about being intimate, and removed from the outside world that feels perfect for the conversation we're having. Belle is sitting on the edge of Seraphina's bed, her rose gold dress spread around her like flower petals, and even with the champagne stains and the exhaustion written across her face, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"So," she says, looking between the three of us, "if we're going to do this then I need to know more about you. About all of you."

"What do you want to know?" Felix asks, settling more comfortably in his chair. The formal mask is gone now, literally and figuratively, and I can see the genuine interest in his expression.

"Everything," Belle says simply. "Your lives, your work, your histories. How you became a pack. What you want for the future. If I'm supposed to trust you with my life, my body, my heart, then I need to understand who you really are."

The honesty in her voice, the straightforward way she's approaching this, reminds me why she's perfect for us. No games, no manipulation, just direct communication about what she needs to feel safe.

"I'll start," I say, leaning forward in my chair. "You know I'm in development and construction. What you probably don't know is that I started the company when I was twenty-five with nothing but a business degree and more ambition than sense."

"How did you manage that?" Belle asks, genuine curiosity in her voice.

"Eighteen-hour days, sleeping in my truck on job sites, learning every aspect of construction from the ground up because I couldn't afford to hire experts." I run a hand through my hair, remembering those early years. "I wanted to prove that an alpha could build something meaningful, something lasting, without relying on intimidation or old boys' networks."

"And you succeeded," Belle observes.

"Eventually. But success came at a cost. I worked so much that I forgot how to have relationships, how to connect with people outside of business contexts. I was successful and miserable and didn't even realize it until I met these two."

"How did you meet?" Belle asks, looking between Felix and Theo.

"College," Felix says with a slight smile. "Marcus was the business student who actually understood what architects were trying to accomplish. Most business majors looked at our designs and saw dollar signs or impracticalities. Marcus saw possibilities."

"He helped me get my first major commission," Felix continues, his expression growing warmer as he remembers. "A community center that no one else wanted to touch because the budget was tight and the neighborhood was considered 'difficult.' Marcus figured out how to make the numbers work, and I designed something that actually served the people who would use it."

"And Theo?" Belle asks.

"Came later," Theo says, his voice carrying that quiet intensity that's purely him. "I was fresh out of the military, trying to figure out what civilian life looked like. Marcus needed security consulting for some of his projects, and developments in areas where construction crews were getting harassed or threatened."

"What kind of military service?" Belle asks, and I can see her trying to piece together the picture of who Theo really is.

"Special forces," Theo says simply. "Eight years of deployments, tactical operations, the kind of work that teaches you how to function under extreme stress but doesn't prepare you for things like grocery shopping or small talk at dinner parties."

Belle's scent shifts slightly, becoming warmer with what might be understanding. "That must have been a difficult transition."

"It was," Theo admits. "Until I started working with Marcus and Felix. They gave me purpose that wasn't about destruction or combat. I could use my skills to protect people, to keep construction workers safe, to make sure communities could develop without fear."

"When did you realize you were a pack?" Belle asks, and there's something almost wistful in her voice.

"Gradually," I say. "It wasn't some dramatic moment of recognition. It was more like slowly realizing that we functioned better together than apart. That we balanced each other's strengths and weaknesses."

"Marcus handles the business and big picture strategy," Felix explains. "I focus on design and creative problem-solving. Theo manages security and logistics. We each have our areas of expertise, but we trust each other completely."

"More than trust," Theo corrects quietly. "We're family. The kind of family you choose, not the kind you're born into."

Belle is quiet for a moment, processing this information. "And you've been together how long?"

"Seven years," I tell her. "Seven years of building something together, creating a life that works for all of us."

"What's your life like? Day to day, I mean."

Felix and I exchange glances, and I can see him fighting not to smile. "Probably more boring than you'd expect," Felix says. "We work, we come home, we argue about whose turn it is to cook dinner."

"Felix always wins because he actually enjoys cooking," I add. "Theo and I can manage basic survival food, but Felix turns meals into art."

"I like taking care of people," Felix says with a slight shrug. "It's satisfying to create something that nourishes the people I love."

"The people you love," Belle repeats softly, and I can smell the way her scent shifts with something that might be longing.

"Each other," Theo confirms. "And hopefully, eventually, you."

The direct honesty of it makes Belle's breath catch, and I can see her struggling with the magnitude of what we're offering. She shifts in her seat, clearly looking for safer ground.

"Okay, but your lives have to be more interesting than cooking and working," she says. "What do you do for fun? Sports?"

"Which ones?" she asks when we all nod.

I feel heat creep up my neck. "Boxing, mostly. For me, anyway." I clear my throat. "We love watching two alphas beat the shit out of each other."

"Football too," Theo jumps in, probably sensing my embarrassment. "And sometimes soccer."

"Nothing beats baseball though," Felix adds with conviction.

Belle stares at us for a moment. "What, just sports?"

The three of us look at each other with completely blank faces.

"Yeah," we say in unison.

Belle laughs, and the sound makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "What about your families?" she asks, still smiling but clearly trying to steer the conversation into safer territory. "Do they know about your... arrangement?"

"My parents know," I say. "They've met Felix and Theo multiple times, and while they don't entirely understand the dynamics, they accept that this is my life and these are the people I've chosen."

"Mine are similar," Felix adds. "My mother keeps asking when we're going to 'find a nice omega and settle down,' not realizing that the settling down part already happened and we're just waiting for the omega part."

"Your parents know you're looking for an omega to complete your pack?" Belle asks, and there's surprise in her voice.

"They know we want a family," Theo says. "They know we're not complete as we are. My parents died when I was young, but Marcus and Felix's families have essentially adopted me. They want us to be happy."

"And you think an omega would make you happy?"

"We think you already do," I say simply. "Belle, watching you light up when you talk about books, seeing the way you care about your community, experiencing the way you challenge us to be better than we are hat's actual happiness, right now."

Her scent spikes with pleasure, fear, and want all tangled together. "This is terrifying," she whispers.

"What specifically terrifies you?" Felix asks gently. "Maybe if we understand what you're afraid of, we can address it."

Belle is quiet for a long moment, her hands fidgeting with the fabric of her dress. "I'm afraid of losing myself," she finally says. "I'm afraid of becoming someone whose entire identity revolves around making three alphas happy instead of pursuing my own goals and dreams."

"What are your goals and dreams?" Theo asks, and there's genuine curiosity in his voice.

"I want to finish the library expansion project," Belle says immediately. "I want to see the literacy programs we've developed reach more people, and write a book someday about community-based education initiatives."

"Those are beautiful goals," Felix says softly. "And they're completely compatible with being part of a pack."

"Are they? Because every omega I've known who's mated has essentially disappeared into domestic life. Children and household management and supporting their alphas' careers instead of pursuing their own interests."

"Is that what you think we want from you?" I ask, and I can't keep the hurt out of my voice.

"I don't know what you want from me," Belle admits. "That's part of what scares me."

"We want you to be yourself," Theo says firmly. "We want you to pursue your goals, and passions, and we want to support you in achieving them."

"We want to add to your life, not replace it," Felix adds. "Belle, the last thing we want is for you to become smaller or less ambitious or less yourself. We fell in love with who you are, not who we think you could become."

"Fell in love?" Belle repeats, and her voice is barely above a whisper.

The words hung in the air between us, more honest than I'd intended to be this soon. But it's too late to take them back, and honestly, I don't want to.

"Yes," I say simply. "We're in love with you, Belle. Maybe that's too much too soon, but it's the truth."

"How can you be in love with me? You barely know me."

"We know that you stay late at the library to help struggling students with their research projects," Felix says. “You remember everyone's favorite books and always have recommendations ready. We know that you organized a community fundraiser for Mrs. Peterson's cancer treatment without being asked."

“You get genuinely excited about new book acquisitions and chocolate fountain competitions," I add. “And you make everyone around you feel important and valued and seen."

“You're brave enough to help someone through a crisis even when you're scared," Theo finishes. “You have the biggest heart of anyone we've ever met, and that you use it to make the world a better place."

Tears are streaming down Belle's face now, and her scent is shifting toward something warmer and more open. "You see me," she whispers.

"We see you," I confirm. "All of you. The brilliant librarian, the passionate advocate, the woman who hides her light because she's afraid it might be too bright for other people to handle."

"We want to handle your light," Felix says softly. "Who can match it, complement it, help it shine even brighter."

Belle is crying harder now, but it's not the desperate tears of earlier. These are tears of recognition, of relief, of something that might be hope.

"I want that too," she admits quietly. "God help me, I want that so much."

"Then let us try," Theo says. "Let us show you what it could look like."

"How?" Belle asks.

"Let’s date,” I suggest. "Properly. Individual dates where we can get to know each other better without the pressure of making immediate decisions about forever."

“Dating,” Belle repeats, and there's something almost amused in her voice. "That sounds very traditional for such a non-traditional arrangement."

"Some traditions exist because they work," Felix points out. "Taking time to build trust and understanding before making permanent commitments isn't a bad idea."

"What would that look like?" Belle asks.

"Whatever you want it to look like," I tell her. "Dates with each of us individually, or group activities, or just spending time together without any romantic pressure. The goal is to give you space to figure out what you want without feeling rushed or overwhelmed."

"And if I decide I don't want this? If I realize that I'm not ready for pack life or that we're not compatible?"

"Then we accept that," Theo says, though I can smell the pain the admission costs him. "Belle, this only works if you choose it freely. If you feel pressured or trapped, then whatever we build together will be built on a foundation of coercion, and that's not love."

Belle is quiet for a long moment, her scent shifting through various emotions as she processes everything we've discussed. Outside, the storm has calmed to a gentle breeze, and I can hear the distant sounds of sirens and emergency vehicles responding to whatever damage the tornado caused.

"Okay," she says finally, and the word is so soft I almost miss it.

"Okay?" Felix asks, and there's hope in his voice.

"Okay, let's try," Belle says more firmly. "Let's see what dating looks like. But I have conditions."

"Name them," I say immediately.

"I stay in my own apartment for now. I keep my job and my independence. And we take this slowly with no pressure for physical intimacy beyond what I'm comfortable with."

"Agreed," Theo says without hesitation.

"And I want honesty," Belle continues. "Complete honesty about everything. If this is going to work, it has to be built on truth."

"Anything else?" I ask.

"If I say stop, if I decide this isn't working, you respect that decision. No arguments, no attempts to change my mind, no making me feel guilty for choosing differently."

"Belle," Felix says gently, "we would never try to force you to stay if you wanted to leave. The only relationship we want with you is one where you choose to be with us every single day."

She studies our faces, searching for deception or hidden agendas. Whatever she sees seems to satisfy her, because her scent shifts toward something warmer and more trusting.

"Then yes," she says. "Let's see what happens."

The relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost overwhelming. I want to pull her into my arms, kiss her until she's breathless, claim her in every way possible. But I can see the fragile hope in her expression, the way she's still holding herself carefully, ready to run if we push too hard too fast.

"Thank you," I say instead, putting all my gratitude and relief into the words. "Thank you for giving us a chance."

"Don't thank me yet," Belle says with a weak smile. "You might regret it when you realize how much I actually talk about library science."

"Never," Felix says fervently. "We want to hear every thought in your head, every story you want to tell, every passionate speech about literacy programs and community welfare."

"You say that now," Belle says, but she's smiling more genuinely. "Wait until I start explaining the intricacies of the Dewey Decimal System."

“We’re looking forward to it," Theo says, and the sincerity in his voice makes Belle's breath catch.

The sound of sirens is getting closer now, and I realize we should probably get back to the palace to check on the other guests and assess any damage. The staff will be doing headcounts, making sure everyone is accounted for.

"We should head back," I say reluctantly. "Make sure everyone's okay, help with cleanup if needed."

Belle nods, though I can see her reluctance to leave this intimate space where we've made such progress. "What about my dress? I still look like I've been through a war."

"You look beautiful," Felix says immediately. "Rumpled and champagne-stained and absolutely beautiful."

"Besides," Theo adds, standing and offering Belle his hand, "I suspect most of the other guests won't be in much better shape after hiding from a tornado."

Belle takes Theo's hand and allows him to help her to her feet. The simple gesture sends a jolt of satisfaction through me—she's starting to trust us, starting to accept our help and protection.

We make our way back up the concrete steps and into the storm-washed night. The air smells clean and fresh, washed by rain and wind, and the temperature has dropped enough to be genuinely comfortable. But as we walk back toward the palace, it becomes clear that the storm has left its mark.

Tree branches litter the carefully manicured paths, and several of the garden's ornamental structures have been damaged or destroyed entirely. The outdoor lighting system is partially down, leaving sections of the grounds in darkness. But the palace itself appears to have weathered the storm well, its solid construction and strategic design protecting it from the worst of the wind damage.

The main entrance is bustling with activity when we arrive. Staff members are coordinating cleanup efforts and checking on guests, while several emergency vehicles are parked in the circular drive. The atmosphere is one of controlled chaos rather than panic—everyone working together to address the situation efficiently.

"Thank God," someone calls out as we approach. "We were worried about anyone who might have been caught outside."

A staff member with a clipboard hurries over to us, relief evident in her expression. "Are you all alright? We've been doing headcounts, trying to make sure everyone made it to safety."

"We're fine," I assure her. "Found shelter in the old bunker. How is everyone else?"

"A few minor injuries from people who panicked during the evacuation, but nothing serious. Most of the guests have already left, because their drivers came to collect them as soon as the all-clear was given."

Belle's scent spikes with sudden worry. "What about Adam Chen? He was here with a woman named Seraphina."

The staff member consults her clipboard, flipping through several pages. "Chen... yes, he left about three hours ago with his companion. They were among the first to be evacuated when the weather warnings started."

I feel Belle go very still beside me, and I can smell the hurt and disappointment radiating from her scent. Three hours ago. Adam left three hours ago, which means he evacuated right after the first tornado sirens started, and long before the worst of the storm hit, long before Belle would have had a chance to get back to the palace even if she'd tried.

"He didn't wait," Belle says quietly, and the pain in her voice makes my chest ache. "My supposed date didn't even wait to see if I was okay."

"Miss, I'm sure he tried to find you," the staff member says gently. "But when the emergency evacuation began, we had to move quickly. Perhaps he assumed you'd already left?"

"Perhaps," Belle agrees, but I can hear the hurt she's trying to hide. "It's fine. I'm sure he and Seraphina are safe, and that's what matters."

Adam Chen left without making sure his date was safe, without waiting to see if she needed help or protection. He prioritized his new romantic interest over his best friend's safety, and the betrayal is written across Belle's face even as she tries to pretend it doesn't matter.

"Let's get you home," I say quietly, placing a gentle hand on her back. "It's been a long night."

Belle nods, suddenly looking exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical tiredness. The adrenaline of the storm and the emotional intensity of our conversation are catching up with her, and I can see her beginning to shut down as the reality of Adam's abandonment sinks in.

The drive back to Belle's apartment is conducted in near-silence. She sits in the passenger seat of my car while Felix and Theo follow behind us, staring out the window at the storm damage visible even in the dark. Downed power lines, debris scattered across the roads, the occasional emergency vehicle responding to weather-related incidents.

"I can't believe he just left," Belle says suddenly, her voice small and hurt. "Twenty years of friendship, and he didn't even check to see if I was okay before running off with someone he met five hours ago."

"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it completely. "That must feel like a betrayal."

"It does," she admits. "I mean, I'm happy he found someone. Seraphina seems perfect for him, and they clearly have a connection. But I thought our friendship meant more than that."

"Maybe he tried to find you," I suggest, though I don't really believe it.

"Marcus," Belle interrupts gently. "You don't have to make excuses for him. We both know he was so caught up in his new romance that he forgot I existed."

There's no anger in her voice, just hurt and disappointment and the kind of resignation that comes from being let down by people you trust.

"His loss," I say firmly. "Adam Chen is an idiot if he doesn't realize what an incredible friend he's throwing away."

"Maybe," Belle says softly. "Or maybe this is just how it goes. People find their person and everything else becomes secondary."

"That's not how it has to be," I tell her. "Belle, when you find your person, they don't replace your other relationships. They enhance them. They make you better at being a friend, a daughter, a member of your community."

"Is that how it works for you three?"

"Yes," I say without hesitation. "Felix and Theo make me better at everything I do. Better businessman, better friend, better man. Love doesn't diminish your capacity for other relationships, but expands it."

We're pulling up to her apartment building now, and I can see Felix and Theo parking behind us. The building looks exactly the same as it did before, unchanged by the night's revelations. It's strange how the world can look identical when everything inside it has shifted so fundamentally.

"Thank you," Belle says as I put the car in park. "For tonight, for the conversation, for... everything."

"Thank you for giving us a chance," I reply. "For being brave enough to try something new."

Felix and Theo approach the car as Belle and I get out, and I can see them both taking in her subdued mood, the way she's holding herself like she's been bruised in places that don't show.

"Are you okay?" Felix asks gently.

"I will be," Belle says, and there's determination in her voice despite the hurt. "I just need some time to process everything that's happened tonight."

"Of course," Theo says. "Take all the time you need."

"When can we see you again?" I ask, and then immediately worry that I'm pushing too hard too fast. "I mean, when you're ready. No pressure."

Belle considers this, her head tilted slightly as she thinks. "Give me a few days to wrap my head around everything. Then maybe we can start with something simple. Coffee, or lunch, or..."

"Chocolate," Felix suggests with a slight smile. "We could explore that chocolate fountain theory you mentioned."

That gets a genuine laugh out of Belle, the first real smile I've seen from her since we learned about Adam's abandonment. "That sounds perfect."

"I'll call you," I promise. "In a few days, when you've had time to think."

"I'd like that," Belle says, and the honesty in her voice gives me hope.

We watch her disappear into her building, waiting until we see the lights come on in her apartment before getting back into our cars. The drive back to our place is quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts about the night's events.

I pull into our driveway, and I find myself feeling more hopeful than I have in months. Yes, Belle is hurt and overwhelmed and still scared. Yes, there are obstacles ahead of us and no guarantee that she'll ultimately choose us.

But she's willing to try. She's brave enough to step outside her comfort zone and explore the possibility of something bigger than she's ever allowed herself to want.

And for now, that's enough.

Our omega is finally ready to let us court her. The real question is whether we'll be able to prove ourselves worthy of her trust.

I think we will. I think we're going to surprise Belle Hartwell with just how good love can be when it's built on respect and honesty and genuine care.

And I can't wait to get started.

25

MARCUS

The drive back to our house feels different than the journey to Belle's apartment. Where the earlier trip was heavy with Belle's hurt and disappointment, the car now hums with a different kind of tension—anticipation mixed with nervous energy. In my rearview mirror, I can see Felix and Theo following behind us, and I know they're feeling the same mixture of hope and terror that's currently making my hands shake slightly on the steering wheel.

She said yes. Belle actually said yes to letting us court her.

"Did that really just happen?" Felix asks the moment we're all inside our front door, his voice carrying the same disbelief I'm feeling.

"It happened," Theo confirms, but he sounds as stunned as the rest of us. "She agreed to individual dates. To getting to know us better."

"She agreed to let us try," I correct, because the distinction feels important. "This isn't a guarantee of anything beyond the opportunity to prove ourselves."

Felix runs both hands through his hair, messing up the careful styling that survived the entire evening until this moment. "I can't believe Adam just left her there. What kind of friend does that?"

"The kind who gets distracted by a pretty face and forgets about the people who matter," Theo says, and there's an edge of anger in his voice that I recognize. Theo doesn't get angry often, but when he does, it's usually on behalf of someone he cares about.

"His loss is our gain," I say, though the words feel inadequate. "But Belle is hurt, and she's going to need time to process what happened with us and Adam too."

"How long do you think we should wait before calling her?" Felix asks, settling into one of the leather armchairs in our living room. The formal jacket is gone now, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and he looks more like the man I know than the polished alpha from the ball.

"She said a few days," I remind them. "We should respect that."

"A few days," Theo repeats, like he's testing the words. "That feels like forever."

I understand the sentiment completely. Now Belle has opened up to us, the thought of waiting even a few days feels almost unbearable. But pushing too hard too fast is exactly how we could lose her before we've even really had her.

"It gives us time to plan," I point out. "To figure out how we want to approach the future of our pack. What we want our individual dates to look like."

"Individual dates," Felix muses. "I keep thinking about that. She specifically asked for time with each of us separately."

"She wants to know us as individuals, not just as a pack," Theo says. "Which makes sense. If she's going to commit to all three of us, she needs to understand what each relationship would look like."

"Are you nervous about that?" I ask, genuinely curious. "About spending time with her one-on-one?"

"Terrified," Felix admits immediately. "What if she realizes she doesn't actually like you guys individually? I mean, I'm the one she really gets on with, but you guys are a different story."

"Very funny!" I say. Felix then winks at me, as if to let me know that he's teasing and trying to make us not take everything so seriously.

"What about you?" I ask Theo. "Any concerns about solo time with our potential omega?"

Theo is quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "I'm worried about intimidating her," he says finally. "You and Felix are easier to be around,because you both have natural social skills, know how to make conversation flow. I'm better at being part of a group where I can listen more than I talk."

"Belle specifically mentioned wanting to know our past,” I remind him. "She's going to want to hear about your military service, your transition to civilian life. Those aren't stories that need social finesse, Theo. They just need honesty."

"And she's not easily intimidated," Felix adds. "Did you see the way she handled herself tonight? The way she stood up to us when we were being presumptuous? Belle can hold her own."

I think about this, about the woman who faced down three alphas when she thought we were being manipulative, who helped a stranger through a panic attack despite her own fear, who agreed to consider something that terrifies her because she's brave enough to want more than safety.

"She's amazing,” I say quietly. "I still can't quite believe she's willing to give us a chance."

"We have to make sure we don't waste it," Theo says.

"Agreed. So what's our strategy? How do we approach dating?”

Felix leans forward in his chair, his expression growing more focused. "I think we should each plan something that reflects who we are, what we're passionate about. Give her a real sense of what life with each of us would look like."

"What do you have in mind?" I ask.

"For me? I'm thinking something creative. Maybe a visit to an art gallery or a cooking class. Something where we can create together, where she can see how I approach problem-solving and aesthetics,” Felix says.

"That sounds perfect for you," Theo agrees. "What about you, Marcus?"

I've been thinking about this since Belle first agreed to the dating, and the answer comes easily. "Something that shows her my work, my passions. Maybe a visit to one of our current construction sites, followed by dinner somewhere we can talk about our goals and dreams."

"She'll love that," Felix says immediately. "Belle is all about understanding people's motivations, what drives them. Showing her your work will give her insights into who you are that she can't get any other way."

"And you, Theo?" I ask.

Theo is quiet for a longer moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I'm not sure yet," he admits. "I want to show her that there's more to me than just security and protection, but I don't want to pretend to be someone I'm not either."

"What makes you feel most like yourself?" Felix asks gently. "Outside of work, what brings you joy?"

"Reading," Theo says after a moment. "Hiking. Quiet spaces where I can think."

"Belle loves reading," I point out. "Maybe something book-related? A used bookstore, or that little café that has the poetry readings?"

"Or a hike," Felix suggests. "Somewhere beautiful and peaceful where you can talk without distractions."

"Both of those feel right," Theo says, and I can see him beginning to relax as he considers the possibilities. "Maybe I'll give her options, let her choose what sounds most appealing."

"That's a good approach," I agree. "It shows you're thinking about her preferences, not just trying to impress her."

We spend the next hour talking through logistics, timing, how to coordinate our individual dates without overwhelming Belle or making her feel like she's being passed around between us. It's important that each interaction feels genuine and organic, not like some kind of scheduled evaluation process.

"We should probably space them out," Felix suggests. "Give her time to process each date before moving on to the next one."

"Agreed. And we should check in with each other afterward, make sure we're all getting a sense of how she's feeling, whether she's comfortable with the pace."

"What about pack time?" Theo asks. "Should we plan any group activities, or focus entirely on individual connections for now?"

"I think we follow her lead on that," I say. "If she suggests group activities, we're open to them. But the priority right now is helping her understand what a relationship with each of us would look like."

"This feels surreal," Felix says suddenly. "Six months ago, we were convinced we'd never find our omega. Now we're planning dating strategies with the most perfect woman we've ever met."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," I warn, though I'm fighting the same sense of disbelieving hope. "Belle is still figuring out what she wants. There's no guarantee this leads where we hope it will."

"But there's a chance," Theo says quietly. "For the first time in years, there's actually a real chance."

After years of countless failed attempts at finding someone who could complete our pack, we finally have a real opportunity with someone who matters.

"We have to do this right," I say firmly. "No pressure, no attempts to rush her toward a decision. We court her properly, we show her what we can offer, and we let her choose at her own pace."

"Agreed," Felix and Theo say simultaneously, and I can smell the determination in both their scents.

The next three days pass with agonizing slowness. I throw myself into work, spending extra hours at construction sites and in meetings, trying to distract myself from the urge to call Belle every few hours just to hear her voice. Felix buries himself in design projects, and Theo takes on additional security consultations. We're all keeping busy, but the undercurrent of anticipation runs through everything we do.

On Wednesday evening, exactly three days after the ball, I finally allow myself to call her.

"Hello?" Belle's voice comes through the phone, and just the sound of it makes my chest tighten with want.

"Hi, Belle. It's Marcus."

"I was wondering when you'd call," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "I was starting to think you'd changed your mind."

"Never," I say immediately. "I wanted to give you the time you asked for, but I've been counting the hours."

"That's sweet," she says softly. "I've been thinking too. About our conversation, about what dating might look like."

"And what conclusions have you reached?"

"That I'm still terrified, but also more curious than I expected to be. I keep wondering what it would be like to really get to know each of you without the buffer of group dynamics."

"Would you like to find out?" I ask, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Yes," she says without hesitation. "I would."

"What's your schedule like this weekend? I'd love to take you somewhere, show you a bit more about my world."

"This weekend works. What did you have in mind?"

"Have you ever been to a construction site?" I ask, then immediately worry that it sounds boring or presumptuous. "I mean, I know it might not sound particularly romantic, but I thought you might be interested in seeing one of our current projects. We're building a new community center in Riverside, and it's the kind of work that really means something to me."

"I would love that," Belle says, and the genuine enthusiasm in her voice makes my relief almost overwhelming. "I've always been curious about how buildings actually come together."

"Really?"

"Really. And Marcus? I appreciate that you want to show me something meaningful to you rather than just taking me to a generic dinner and movie. It says a lot about how you're approaching this."

"Good things, I hope."

"Very good things," she confirms, and I can hear the warmth in her voice that makes me want to drive to her apartment immediately and kiss her until she's breathless.

But we're taking this slowly. We're building trust and understanding before we let physical attraction take over.

"Should I pick you up Saturday morning? Say, around nine?"

"That sounds perfect. Should I dress for actual construction site conditions, or is this more of a tour situation?"

"Actual conditions," I tell her. "Closed-toe shoes, clothes you don't mind getting dusty. I want you to see what the work really looks like."

"I like that even better," Belle says. "See you Saturday, Marcus."

"See you Saturday, Belle."

After I hang up, I find Felix and Theo in the kitchen, both of them looking at me expectantly.

"Saturday morning," I tell them. "Construction site tour followed by lunch."

"She said yes," Felix says, and it's not a question.

"She said yes. And she sounded excited about it."

"Our omega wants to see your work," Theo observes, and there's something almost reverent in his voice. "She wants to understand what drives you."

"It's a good sign," Felix agrees. "Belle could have suggested something safer, more traditional. The fact that she's willing to step outside her comfort zone shows she's taking this seriously."

"Now I just have to make sure I don't mess it up," I say, though my nerves are overwhelmed by excitement.

"You won't," Theo says firmly. "Marcus, you're in your element when you're talking about construction and development. Belle is going to see exactly why we fell in love with your passion and vision."

"I hope so," I say. "I really hope so."

Saturday morning arrives bright and clear, with the kind of crisp autumn air that makes everything feel full of possibility. I dress carefully—work boots, jeans, a flannel shirt that's professional enough for Belle but practical enough for the job site. The goal is to look like myself, not like I'm trying to impress her with anything other than authenticity.

Belle is waiting outside her apartment building when I pull up, and the sight of her takes my breath away. She's wearing dark jeans, sturdy boots, and a soft sweater in a shade of blue that makes her eyes look even more striking. Her hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she looks both beautiful and ready for an adventure.

"Good morning," she says as she slides into the passenger seat, and her scent fills the car with warmth and something that might be anticipation.

“Hey. You look perfect," I tell her, then worry that I'm coming on too strong.

But Belle just smiles, settling into the seat and buckling her seatbelt. "So do you. Very authentically Marcus."

"Is that a good thing?"

"It's exactly what I was hoping for," she says. "I want to see who you really are, not some polished version you think I want to meet."

The drive to the construction site takes about twenty minutes, and we spend the time talking about everything and nothing. Belle tells me about her week at the library, about a new literacy program she's developing for adult learners. I tell her about the challenges we've been facing with the community center project, the way neighborhood politics can complicate even the most straightforward construction.

"It must be frustrating," Belle observes, "when you know you're trying to build something good for the community but still have to navigate all the bureaucracy and competing interests."

"It can be," I admit. "But it's also what makes the work meaningful. Anyone can throw up a building. Creating something that actually serves the people who will use it, that becomes part of the fabric of a neighborhood that requires understanding the community, listening to what they need."

"Is that how you approach all your projects?"

"The ones that matter, yes. We could make more money building generic strip malls and cookie-cutter developments. But I started this company because I wanted to create spaces that improve people's lives."

Belle is quiet for a moment, and I can smell her scent shifting toward something warmer and more interested. "That's beautiful," she says finally. "It's not just about the construction for you. It's about the impact."

"Exactly. And this community center is a perfect example. The old one was damaged in a flood last year, and the neighborhood has been without a central gathering space ever since. No place for kids to go after school, no venue for community meetings or events. We're not just rebuilding, but improving it, making it more resilient and more functional."

"What kinds of improvements?"

"Better flood protection, obviously. More flexible spaces that can serve multiple purposes. A commercial kitchen for community dinners and cooking classes. A computer lab for job training and homework help. Green building features that will keep operating costs low long-term."

"You've thought of everything," Belle says, and there's admiration in her voice that makes my chest swell with pride.

"I've tried to. But the real test is whether the people who use the building feel like it works for them."

We're pulling into the construction site now, and I can see Belle taking in the organized chaos of the work in progress. The foundation is complete, and the framing is about half finished. Workers in hard hats are scattered across the site, each focused on their particular piece of the larger puzzle.

"It's bigger than I expected," Belle says as I park the truck.

"Community centers need to be big enough to actually serve the community," I explain, grabbing two hard hats from the back seat. "This one will have space for about 200 people for events, plus the smaller specialized rooms."

I hand Belle one of the hard hats, and she puts it on without complaint, adjusting the strap to fit properly. The sight of her prepared for the work site, taking the safety requirements seriously, sends a jolt of attraction through me that I have to work to suppress.

"Ready for the tour?" I ask.

"Absolutely."

I start by showing her the foundation work, explaining how we had to design special flood protection features, how the building will be elevated enough to stay dry even in another major flood event. Belle asks thoughtful questions, clearly trying to understand not just what we're building, but why each decision was made the way it was.

"The community had input on all of this?" she asks as we walk around the perimeter.

"Extensive input. We held six public meetings before we even finalized the design, and we incorporated dozens of suggestions from residents. The kitchen layout, the storage solutions, even the color scheme, are all of that came from listening to what people actually wanted."

"That's so different from what I expected," Belle admits. "I guess I thought construction was more... dictatorial. Architects and developers deciding what a space should be and building it whether people like it or not."

"Some companies work that way," I say. "But it leads to buildings that don't actually serve their purpose. If you want to create something that matters, you have to start with the people who will use it."

We move into the framed structure, and I show Belle how the different spaces will flow together, how the main hall can be divided for smaller events, how the kitchen will be accessible from both the dining area and the outdoor pavilion for festivals.

"Can you see it?" I ask, watching her face as she looks around the skeleton of what will become the main gathering space. "Can you imagine what it will look like when it's finished?"

Belle closes her eyes for a moment, and I can see her trying to picture the completed building. When she opens them again, her expression is soft with something that might be wonder.

"I can see families having birthday parties here," she says quietly. "Teenagers playing basketball in the gym. Elderly residents taking exercise classes. Community meetings where people actually show up because they know their voices will be heard."

"That's exactly what I see," I tell her, and the fact that she understands, that she can envision the same future I'm working toward, makes my heart race.

"This is why you do this work," Belle says, and it's not a question.

“Yeah,” I confirm. "Buildings aren't just structures, Belle. They're the framework for connection, for community life. When you get it right, you're not just constructing a building—you're building relationships, opportunities, hope."

Belle turns to look at me directly, and the intensity in her expression takes my breath away. "I've never heard anyone talk about construction the way you do," she says. "Most people see buildings as just... functional necessities. But you see them as possibilities."

"Is that... is that interesting to you?" I ask, suddenly uncertain. "I know it's not the most romantic worldview."

"Marcus," Belle says firmly, stepping closer to me, "passion is always romantic. Listening to you talk about your work, seeing how much you care about creating something meaningful—that's incredibly attractive."

The sincerity in her voice, the way she's looking at me like I'm someone worth admiring, makes me want to pull her into my arms and kiss her right here surrounded by two-by-fours and concrete dust. But we agreed to take things slowly, to build trust before we let physical attraction take over.

"I'm glad you think so," I say instead, my voice rougher than I intended. "Because this is who I am, Belle. This work, this mission, it's not separate from my personal life. It's part of who I am as an alpha, as a pack member, as a man."

"I'm starting to understand that," Belle says softly. "And I like what I'm seeing."

We spend another hour at the site, with me introducing Belle to some of the crew members and showing her the more technical aspects of the construction process. She's genuinely curious about everything, asking questions about timeline and budget and how we coordinate all the different trades working on the project.

"The complexity is incredible," she says as we walk back toward my truck. "I had no idea how many different specialists have to work together to create something like this."

"It's like conducting an orchestra," I tell her. "Everyone has their instrument, their part to play, but it only works if everyone is playing the same song."

"And you're the conductor."

"One of them. Felix handles a lot of the design coordination, and Theo manages security and logistics. It really is a pack effort."

Belle is quiet as we drive away from the site, and I can smell her scent shifting through various emotions as she processes what she's seen.

"Where to for lunch?" I ask. "I know a place that has great food and a quiet atmosphere where we can actually talk."

"That sounds perfect," Belle says. "But Marcus? Thank you for showing me the site. I feel like I understand something important about you now that I didn't before."

"What's that?"

"Everything you do is aimed at making the world a little bit better than you found it."

The simple honesty of the observation, the way she's seen straight to the heart of what drives me, makes my chest tight with emotion.

"That's all I've ever wanted," I admit. "To use whatever talents and opportunities I have to create something meaningful."

"It's working," Belle says softly. "You're definitely creating something meaningful."

The restaurant I've chosen is a small bistro in the arts district, the kind of place that focuses on good food and comfortable conversation rather than trying to impress with fancy atmosphere. We get a corner table with good natural light, and Belle looks relaxed and content as she settles into her chair.

"So," she says after we've ordered, "I've seen your professional passion. What about personal passions? What do you do when you're not building community centers?"

"Honestly? I don't have a lot of hobbies outside of work," I admit. "Most of my personal time is spent with Felix and Theo, just... being together. Cooking dinner, watching movies, arguing about whose turn it is to do laundry."

"That sounds nice," Belle says, and there's something wistful in her voice. "Simple and comfortable."

"What about you? What does Belle Hartwell do when she's not revolutionizing library science?"

"Reading, obviously. I volunteer with a literacy program for adults, help people who are learning to read later in life. And I write on and off, lately it has been more off than on. I've never shown my writing to anyone,” she confesses.

"What kind of writing?"

"Essays, mostly. About education and community development and social justice. Things that matter to me but might not be interesting to anyone else."

"I'd love to read your writing sometime," I tell her. "If you're ever willing to share it."

Belle's scent spikes with something that might be pleased surprise. "Really? You wouldn't just be saying that to be polite?"

"Belle," I say seriously, "I'm not capable of being polite about things that don't genuinely interest me. If I'm asking to read your writing, it's because I actually want to understand your thoughts about the issues you care about."

"I... that means a lot," she says softly. "Most people assume that librarian equals boring, that anything I'd write would be dry and academic."

"Most people are idiots," I say bluntly, which gets a laugh out of her. "You're one of the most passionate people I've ever met, Belle. I can't imagine anything you write being boring."

We spend the next two hours talking about everything her work at the library, my plans for the construction company, books we've both read, places we'd like to travel, childhood memories that shaped who we became. The conversation flows easily, naturally, like we've known each other for years instead of days.

"I have a confession," Belle says as we're finishing dessert.

"What's that?"

"I was nervous about today. About spending time with you one-on-one. I was worried it would be awkward or that we wouldn't have anything to talk about."

"And how do you feel now?"

"Like I could talk to you for hours more," she admits. "This has been... really wonderful, Marcus. Thank you."

"Thank you for giving me the chance," I tell her. "For being willing to step outside your comfort zone."

"When do I get to have individual time with Felix and Theo?" Belle asks, and the eagerness in her voice makes my heart soar.

"Whenever you want. They're both eager to plan their own dates with you."

"Good," she says firmly. "I want to understand all of you, individually and as a pack."

As I drive Belle home, I can't help but feel like today was a success beyond my wildest hopes. She didn't just tolerate my work passion, but she embraced it, understood it, saw the deeper meaning behind what I do. She asked thoughtful questions and shared her own dreams and goals. Most importantly, she seemed genuinely happy to be spending time with me.

"This was perfect," Belle says as I walk her to her apartment door. "Exactly what I needed to start understanding who Marcus Chen really is."

"I hope you like what you're discovering," I say.

"I do," she says without hesitation. "Very much."

For a moment, we just stand there looking at each other, and I can smell the way her scent is shifting toward something warmer and more interested. The urge to kiss her is almost overwhelming, but I force myself to remember our agreement about taking things slowly.

"Good night, Belle," I say instead, my voice rougher than I intended.

"Good night, Marcus," she replies, and I can see in her eyes that she's feeling the same pull I am.

But she doesn't suggest that I stay, and I don't ask. We're building something real here, something worth taking the time to get right.

As I drive home, I can't stop smiling. Our omega is starting to trust us, starting to see the possibilities we could create together. Felix and Theo are going to be over the moon when they hear how well today went.

And Belle wants to see them next. She wants to continue dating, to keep exploring what we could mean to each other.

For the first time in years, I'm allowing myself to believe that we might actually get our happy ending after all.

Our omega is saying yes, one careful step at a time. And I couldn't be more grateful for her courage, her curiosity, and her willingness to let us prove ourselves worthy of her trust.

The dating has officially begun, and I can't wait to see where it leads us.

26

THE WILLOWBROOK CHRONICLE

Dearest Drama Devotees,

Well, well, WELL! What an absolutely divine evening the Masquerade Ball turned out to be! Lady Inkwell is practically beside herself with the delicious developments that unfolded at Thornfield Palace, and oh my stars, where does one even BEGIN?

Our dear librarians certainly provided the evening's most fascinating plot twist! Miss Belle Hartwell may have arrived on the arm of Mr. Adam Chen, but she most decidedly did NOT leave with him, darlings! No, no, no - our sweet Belle was spotted emerging from beneath the palace grounds (during that dreadful tornado, no less!) in the company of not one, not two, but THREE devastatingly handsome alphas!

Could it be? Has our beloved librarian found herself courted by the infamous "Beasty Pack" - those mysterious, brooding alphas who've been the subject of such whispered speculation around town? Lady Inkwell has it on excellent authority that a certain construction magnate, a brilliant architect, and a deliciously dangerous security specialist were all seen departing the palace with stars in their eyes and the scent of our dear Belle clinging to their formal wear!

And speaking of Mr. Chen - mercy me! - it appears Cupid struck TWICE in the library that evening! Our dashing librarian was observed leaving the festivities with a stunning omega beauty, looking absolutely smitten beyond all reason. Has anyone seen hide or hair of either of our literary lovebirds since the ball? Lady Inkwell suspects they're both far too busy with romantic pursuits to worry about book cataloguing!

But wait, there's MORE, my precious gossip-hunters! The evening was simply rife with romantic revelations:

• Young Claire Mitchell from the flower shop was seen sharing rather intimate conversations with Dr. James Rodriguez (wedding bells, perhaps?)

• The Walsh twins appeared to have found their perfect matches in visiting cousins from the countryside

• Sweet Emma Thompson looked positively radiant dancing with that handsome newcomer from the shipping company

• And dear Jake Sullivan? Well, let's just say Mrs. Henderson's lovely niece won't be returning to the city alone!

However, Lady Inkwell must report one rather scandalous development that has tongues wagging from here to the county line! There are WHISPERS of a certain omega who was spotted at various points throughout the evening with no fewer than TEN different alphas! Ten! Really, darling, isn't that just a touch... greedy? Some of us are still searching for our ONE perfect match, and here this mysterious omega appears to be collecting alphas like party favors!

The tornado may have damaged some of the palace gardens, but it certainly blew in a whirlwind of romance that has left our entire community absolutely transformed! Lady Inkwell can barely contain her excitement about the dating, engagements, and perhaps even weddings that are sure to follow!

One does wonder what other secrets the storm might have revealed... and what new romances might be blooming in the aftermath!

Yours in delirious romantic satisfaction, Lady Inkwell

P.S. - Has anyone else noticed that the library has been suspiciously quiet these past few days? Lady Inkwell suspects our dear librarians are far too busy writing their own love stories to worry about organizing anyone else's! How perfectly delicious!

27

FELIX

I've been standing outside the chocolate shop for fifteen minutes, checking my watch every thirty seconds like some nervous teenager. The irony isn't lost on me, but I’ve designed million-dollar buildings without breaking a sweat, but the thought of spending an afternoon with Belle has my hands actually trembling.

When I called her yesterday to ask about our date, the conversation had flowed so naturally I'd almost forgotten how terrified I was. "I thought we might explore that chocolate theory of yours," I'd said, and the way her voice had lit up over the phone made my chest tight with anticipation.

"You remember my chocolate philosophy?" she'd asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Belle, I remember everything you've ever said about chocolate. Which is apparently more than most people say about their actual careers."

Her laugh had been warm and genuine, and when she'd agreed to meet me at Marseille's Chocolaterie, I'd spent the rest of the evening researching chocolate making techniques like I was preparing for a client presentation.

Now, watching through the shop window as Belle approaches down the sidewalk, I'm struck again by how beautiful she is. She's wearing a soft cream sweater that makes her skin glow and jeans that hug her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, catching the afternoon sunlight, and when she spots me through the window, her face lights up with a smile that could power the entire downtown district.

"Felix!" she calls as she pushes through the door. "I can't believe you actually planned a chocolate date."

"You seemed pretty passionate about the subject at the ball," I say, stepping forward to greet her. "And I wanted to understand what makes Belle Hartwell so excited about confections that she develops entire philosophical frameworks around them."

"Oh god, you're never going to let me live down the chocolate theory, are you?"

"Never," I confirm, grinning. "In fact, I've been looking forward to seeing it in action."

The shop around us is like something from a fairy tale with warm woods and copper accents, glass cases filled with handcrafted chocolates that look more like jewelry than food. The air smells like cocoa and vanilla and something indefinably rich that makes my mouth water despite the fact that I rarely eat sweets.

Belle takes a deep breath and actually sighs with contentment. "This place is perfect, Felix. How did you even find it?"

"Research," I admit. "I may have spent last night reading reviews of every chocolate shop within fifty miles and cross-referencing them with your stated preferences for 'ethical sourcing and artistic presentation.'"

She turns to stare at me, and there's something soft and wondering in her expression. "You researched chocolate shops based on things I said at a ball?"

"I researched chocolate shops because I wanted to see that look on your face," I say honestly. "The one you're wearing right now."

Her scent shifts slightly, becomes warmer and sweeter, and I have to fight not to step closer just to breathe her in more deeply. Even with her suppressants, Belle's natural fragrance is intoxicating with vanilla and honey with something uniquely her underneath that makes my alpha instincts hum with satisfaction.

"Welcome to Marseille's!" A cheerful voice interrupts my Belle-induced trance, and I turn to see a woman in her fifties approaching with a warm smile. "I'm Claire Marseille. Are you here for the tasting experience?"

"Actually," I say, an idea forming, "do you offer private chocolate making classes?"

Belle's eyes widen. "Felix, you can't be serious."

"Completely serious. Claire, would it be possible to book a private class for two? Something hands-on where we can learn about the process while actually creating something?"

Claire's face lights up. "Absolutely! We have a wonderful couples' truffle-making class that includes tasting different cacao origins and learning about flavor pairing. It takes about two hours and you'll leave with a box of truffles you made yourselves."

"Perfect," I say, then turn to Belle. "If you're interested, that is. I don't want to assume you want to spend two hours making chocolate with me."

"Are you kidding?" Belle's voice is bright with excitement. "Felix, this sounds incredible. But are you sure? This is definitely more adventurous than I expected from our date."

"Belle, everything about you makes me want to be more adventurous."

I've spent my entire adult life following carefully planned schedules, creating detailed blueprints for every aspect of my existence. But something about Belle makes me want to throw the plans away and just see what happens.

Claire leads us to a small workshop area behind the main shop, where copper-topped tables are arranged with all the tools and ingredients for truffle making. The space is warm and intimate, designed for exactly this kind of hands-on experience, and I can see Belle already cataloguing every detail with the focused attention she usually reserves for new book acquisitions.

"First," Claire says, tying aprons around both of us, "we'll taste different types of chocolate so you understand how origin and processing affect flavor. Think of it as building your chocolate vocabulary."

She sets out a tray of small squares, each labeled with information about origin and cacao percentage, and Belle's face takes on the expression of someone approaching something sacred.

"This is like wine tasting, but better," she murmurs, picking up the first sample.

"Better how?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Wine tasting is about subtlety and sophistication. Chocolate tasting is about joy and comfort and the way sweetness can make everything feel possible."

She takes a small bite and closes her eyes, and the expression of pure pleasure that crosses her face does absolutely nothing good for my self-control. Her scent spikes with happiness, and I have to grip the edge of the table to keep from reaching for her.

"Try this one," she says, offering me a piece of what looks like very dark chocolate. "It's from Madagascar. It has single origin with vanilla notes."

I take the chocolate, and our fingers brush as she hands it to me. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and from the way her breath catches, I know she feels it too.

The chocolate is rich and complex, with exactly the vanilla undertones she described, but I'm more interested in watching her face as she tastes each sample. Belle approaches chocolate the way she approaches with complete focus and genuine appreciation for craftsmanship.

"What do you think?" Claire asks after we've worked through the entire tasting.

"I think I've been missing out on something incredible," I say honestly. "I always thought chocolate was just... sweet. I didn't realize how complex it could be."

"Most people don't," Belle says. "That's why I have such strong opinions about it. When something brings that much pleasure, it deserves to be appreciated properly."

"And what's your verdict on this selection?" I ask her.

"The Madagascar is beautiful, but I think the Ecuador has the most interesting flavor profile. It's bold without being overwhelming, sophisticated but still accessible."

"Excellent choice," Claire says. "That's exactly what we'll use for your truffles. Now, let's talk about flavor pairings..."

The next hour passes in a blur of melting chocolate, whisking ganache, and Belle getting increasingly animated as she discusses the merits of different flavor combinations. She suggests lavender and honey, I vote for sea salt and caramel, and we eventually compromise on a selection that includes both plus a few more experimental options.

"You're a natural at this," Belle says, watching me pipe ganache into molds with the same precision I'd use for architectural drafting.

"It's not so different from design work," I tell her. "Attention to detail, understanding how different elements work together, creating something that's both functional and beautiful."

"Is that how you approach everything? Like it's a design problem to be solved?"

I consider this while I finish the current truffle. "I used to. Everything in my life was planned, optimized, designed for maximum efficiency and minimal mess."

"Used to?"

"Before I met you," I say, setting down the piping bag and turning to face her fully. "Belle, you make me want to embrace the mess. You make me want to try things just because they might be fun, not because they fit into some grand plan."

Her scent shifts again, becomes richer and more complex, and I can see something change in her expression. She sets down her own tools and steps closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.

"Fun is good," she says softly. "I think I'd forgotten how to have fun until recently."

"Recently?"

"Since the ball. Since Marcus showed me the construction site and made me remember that work can be passion instead of just obligation. Since you made me realize that someone could find my chocolate obsession charming instead of embarrassing,” she says.

"Belle, there's nothing embarrassing about having passions. The way you light up when you talk about things you love, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She's standing close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, close enough that her scent surrounds me completely. Behind us, Claire has discretely moved to the front of the shop, giving us privacy in the workshop space.

"Felix," Belle says, her voice barely above a whisper, "I have something to tell you."

"What is it?" I ask.

"Adam quit his job at the library. I hadn’t seen him since the ball, I assumed he’d been sick, he never answered my call. Then he just handed in his notice, and left town with Seraphina."

The information hits me like a physical blow, not because I care about Adam Chen, but because I can smell the hurt underneath Belle's carefully neutral tone.

"Belle..." I start, but she holds up a hand.

"It's fine. Really. I mean, it's not fine that he left without even talking to me about it, but I'm starting to understand that maybe our friendship wasn't as important to him as I thought it was."

"That doesn't make it hurt less."

"No, it doesn't," she admits. "Twenty years of friendship, and he couldn't even be bothered to say goodbye properly. Just a text message saying he'd left his keys with the other librarian and that he hoped I'd understand."

Her scent carries notes of sadness and betrayal, and my protective instincts flare so strongly I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.

"I'm sorry," I say. "You deserved better than that."

"You know what the worst part is?" Belle continues, her voice getting slightly stronger. "I'm not even surprised. Adam has always been someone who gets completely absorbed in whatever's new and exciting. I just never thought I'd be something he could abandon so easily."

"His loss," I say firmly. "Belle, Adam Chen is an idiot if he can't see what an incredible friend he's throwing away."

"Maybe. Or maybe this is just how it goes when people find their perfect match. Everything else becomes secondary."

The interruption gives me a moment to collect myself, and I can see Belle using the time to process what I've told her. When Claire hands us our boxes and we've thanked her for the lesson, Belle and I find ourselves standing on the sidewalk outside the shop, both of us holding chocolate we made together and trying to figure out what comes next.

"Felix," Belle says finally, "I like you. More than I expected to, more than might be smart given how little time we've known each other. But I need honesty if this is going anywhere."

"I want to be honest with you," I tell her. "More than anything, I want you to know exactly who I am and what I'm offering. But some things are better experienced than explained."

"When?" she asks. "When will you show me whatever it is you think I need to see?"

"How about now?" I suggest, the decision forming as I speak. "Come home with me, Belle. Come and see how all three of us live. Let me show you what I mean when I say I'm part of something bigger."

Her scent spikes with nervousness, but also with curiosity and something that might be excitement.

"Your home," she says. "With the people who matter most to you."

"Yes. Belle, I promise you'll be safe. I promise that everything I've told you about my feelings is true. And I promise that what I'm going to show you is something wonderful, not something scary."

She looks down at the box of truffles in her hands, and I can practically see her weighing her options. Trust me and potentially discover something amazing, or play it safe and always wonder what might have been.

"Okay," she says finally, looking up to meet my eyes. "Show me."

The relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost overwhelming. "Really?"

"If this turns out to be some elaborate scheme to get me into bed, I will make your life very unpleasant."

"Noted," I say, grinning despite my nerves. "Though I have to ask, how exactly would you make my life unpleasant?"

"I'm a librarian, Felix. I know where all the information is buried, and I have very strong opinions about people who waste my time."

The threat should probably concern me, but instead it just makes me want to kiss her more than I already did.

"Belle Hartwell," I say, stepping closer, "you are the most magnificent woman I've ever met."

"Flattery won't save you if this goes badly," she warns, but she's smiling as she says it.

"Good thing I'm planning for it to go very, very well."

The drive to our house only takes about fifteen minutes, and I spend the entire time trying to figure out how to prepare Belle for what she's about to see.

When I pull into our driveway, I can see Marcus's truck and Theo's SUV already there, which means they're both home from work. The house looks the same as always, large but not ostentatious, modern but warm, designed to be a home rather than a showplace. But seeing it through Belle's eyes, I suddenly wonder if it looks like the kind of place where three alphas might live together.

The drive to our house only takes about fifteen minutes, and I spend the entire time trying to figure out how to tell Belle that the three men she's been dating aren't competing for her attention—they're working together. How do you explain that you and your pack mates have been coordinating a courtship? How do you reveal that what she thought were three separate relationships have actually been part of one bigger plan?

"You're nervous," Belle observes from the passenger seat of my car.

"Terrified," I admit. "Belle, what I'm about to tell you is going to change everything between us. Between all of us. Either for the better, or... well, hopefully for the better."

"Felix, just tell me one thing honestly. This thing you need to tell me—it's not going to hurt me, is it?"

"Not if I can help it. Belle, I would never intentionally do anything to cause you pain."

"Then whatever this is about, we'll figure it out."

Her simple faith in me, in us, makes my chest tight with emotion. Belle is brave in ways she doesn't even realize, willing to trust that we won't hurt her even when she can sense something big is coming.

When I pull into our driveway, I can see Marcus's truck and Theo's SUV already there, which means they're both home from work. Belle looks up at the house, and I can see genuine surprise cross her features.

"This is beautiful," Belle says, staring up at the house in amazement. "It's so... elegant. Modern. I wasn't expecting..."

"What were you thinking our home would be like?” I ask, genuinely curious about what image she'd formed of the notorious "Beasty Pack's" living situation.

Belle has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Honestly? Something more like a rustic cabin. Maybe a bit run-down, definitely more... rough around the edges."

I can't help but laugh. "What did you think we were, Belle? Wild animals living in a cave?"

"Pretty much," she admits with a sheepish smile. "The way people talk about you all in town, I imagined something very different from this architectural masterpiece."

"I designed it," I tell her. "For myself and my pack."

When I pull into our driveway, I can see Marcus's truck and Theo's SUV already there, which means they're both home from work. Belle looks up at the house, and I can see genuine surprise cross her features.

"This is beautiful," Belle says, staring up at the house in amazement. "It's so... elegant. Modern. I wasn't expecting..."

"What were you expecting?" I ask, genuinely curious about what kind of home she expected us to live in.

Belle has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Honestly? Something more like a rustic cabin. Maybe a bit run-down, definitely more... rough around the edges."

I can't help but laugh. "What did you think we were, Belle? Wild animals living in a cave?"

"Pretty much," she admits with a sheepish smile. "The way people talk about you alphas in town, I imagined something very different from this architectural masterpiece."

"I designed it," I tell her with obvious pride. "For myself and my pack."

Belle nods, still looking impressed as she takes in the clean lines and warm materials. We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the evening settling between us.

"Felix," she says finally, "I don't think I'm ready to go inside tonight."

I feel a flicker of disappointment, but I understand. "Too much too soon?"

"Not too much," she says quickly. "Tonight was perfect. The chocolate making, getting to know you better, seeing this side of you. But tonight was about us - you and me. I'm not ready to complicate that yet."

"I understand," I say, and I do. "Can I take you home?"

"I'd like that."

The drive back to her apartment building is quiet but not uncomfortable. Belle seems lost in thought, processing everything from our chocolate-making adventure to seeing where I live.

When I pull up to her building, she turns to face me with a soft smile.

"Thank you for tonight, Felix. For sharing something you love with me, for being patient with all my questions."

"Thank you for being brave enough to try something new," I reply. "And for giving me a chance."

She leans across the center console, and I meet her halfway. What starts as a gentle brush of lips quickly becomes something deeper, hungrier. Her hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as I pull her closer despite the awkward angle. She tastes like chocolate and desire, sweet with hints of vanilla that make my head spin. When her tongue traces my lower lip, I can't suppress a low growl.

"Are you sure about this?" I murmur against her mouth, even as my thumb traces the curve of her jaw.

"Very sure," she breathes, and the certainty in her voice undoes me completely.

I capture her lips again, deeper this time, drinking in the soft sounds she makes against my mouth. Her skin is impossibly soft under my fingertips, warm and inviting, and when she shifts closer, her scent of vanilla and honey intensifies with something purely Belle that makes every nerve ending come alive. The center console digs into my ribs, but I don't care because she's kissing me like she's been thinking about this all evening, like she wants to memorize the taste of me. When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, her lips swollen and her scent thick with arousal that makes my alpha instincts sing with satisfaction.

"Goodnight, Felix," she says, her hand on the door handle.

"Belle, wait," I say as she starts to get out. "Can I walk you up?"

She shakes her head with a gentle smile. "Not tonight. Tonight ends right here, with chocolate on our hands and no complications."

I watch her walk to her building, admiring her strength in knowing what she needs and asking for it. She turns to wave before disappearing inside, and I sit in my car for a long moment, replaying every perfect moment of our evening together.

Belle Hartwell is worth waiting for. And if she needs time to process this at her own pace, then that's exactly what I'll give her.

28

THE WILLOWBROOK CHRONICLE

Beloved Tattletales,

Well, well, WELL! Lady Inkwell simply cannot contain herself any longer! The romantic developments in our charming little town have reached such delicious heights that this correspondent can barely keep track of all the swoon-worthy happenings!

Our dear Miss Belle Hartwell has been positively busy these past few days, and Lady Inkwell means BUSY, darlings! First, our sweet librarian was spotted at the construction site downtown, sharing what appeared to be a rather intimate lunch with none other than the devastatingly handsome Marcus Sterling! The two were seen deep in conversation, and Marcus was positively glowing as he showed Belle around his latest project. How absolutely romantic!

But wait, there's MORE! Just days later, our Belle was observed emerging from Marseille's Chocolaterie looking absolutely radiant in the company of the brilliant architect Felix Romano! The pair had clearly enjoyed a private chocolate-making session, both carrying elegant boxes and looking rather... smitten, shall we say? The way Felix gazed at our dear librarian was enough to melt even Lady Inkwell's cynical heart!

Now, Lady Inkwell is no mathematician, but this can only lead to the suspicion that Belle is an omega. Both gentlemen appeared completely besotted, and our Belle seemed equally enchanted by each encounter.

The very thought makes Lady Inkwell positively dizzy with excitement! A true pack bond would explain so much - the way each alpha seems completely devoted to Belle, the lack of territorial tension one might expect, and most tellingly, the way our dear librarian appears to be blossoming under all this romantic attention rather than feeling torn between choices!

Lady Inkwell will be watching with the utmost attention for any signs of a third date, because if her suspicions prove correct, we may be witnessing the formation of the most romantic pack bond this town has ever seen!

Yours in breathless anticipation, Lady Inkwell

P.S. - Speaking of romantic mathematics, Lady Inkwell couldn't help but notice that the library has been positively glowing with contentment lately. Perhaps love really is the best organizational system of all!

29

THEO

I’ve been standing outside the Metropolitan Opera House for ten minutes, checking my watch and scanning the crowd with the same systematic attention I used to reserve for potential threats in hostile territory. Old habits die hard, even when the only danger tonight is the possibility that I might say something stupid and ruin everything we've built with Belle.

The suit I'm wearing feels foreign after years of tactical gear and construction site clothing, but Marcus insisted I "clean up nice" for tonight. The black wool jacket fits well enough, and the crisp white shirt doesn't feel like a straightjacket the way formal wear usually does. But I keep reaching for weapons that aren't there, keep scanning exits and sight lines like I'm expecting trouble.

When I called Belle three days ago to ask about our date, I'd spent an hour staring at my phone before finally dialing. Marcus and Felix make conversation look effortless, but I've never been good at small talk. Give me a tactical situation to assess or a security problem to solve, and I'm in my element. Ask me to plan a romantic evening with the woman who's become the center of my universe, and I'm completely out of my depth.

"An opera?" Belle had asked when I finally worked up the courage to suggest it, and I could hear the surprise in her voice.

"If you hate the idea, we can do something else," I'd said quickly, already second-guessing myself. "I just thought... you mentioned at the ball that you love stories, and opera is essentially storytelling through music. But if it's too boring or pretentious..."

"Theo," she'd interrupted gently, "I think an opera sounds wonderful. I've never been to one."

"Really?"

"Really. What made you think of it?"

The honest answer was that I'd spent two hours researching date ideas that would show Belle a different side of me, something beyond the military background and security work that defined most people's perception of who I am. The opera felt like a chance to share something beautiful with her, something that required nothing from either of us except the willingness to sit in the dark and let music tell us a story.

"I used to go sometimes when I was stationed overseas," I'd told her. "It was one of the few things that could quiet my mind after difficult missions. There's something about the music, the way it can express emotions that are too big for words."

The pause on her end had stretched long enough to make me panic. "Belle? If you'd rather do something else..."

"No," she'd said softly. "Theo, that sounds perfect. What opera are we seeing?"

"La Bohème. It's about artists and love and loss, set in 1800s Paris. Tragic but beautiful."

"Of course you'd pick something tragic," she'd said, but there was warmth in her voice. "I should have expected that from you."

Now, watching the well-dressed crowd stream into the opera house, I'm questioning every decision I made. Maybe Marcus was right when he suggested dinner and a movie. Maybe Felix had the better idea with his chocolate-making adventure. This feels too formal, too serious, too much like I'm trying to impress her instead of just spending time with her.

"Theo!"

I turn at the sound of my name and nearly forget how to breathe. Belle is walking toward me in a dress that makes my chest tight with want and pride and possessiveness all tangled together. It's deep navy blue, almost black, with a fitted bodice and a skirt that flows around her legs like water. The neckline is elegant without being revealing, and she's wearing a simple strand of pearls that catches the light as she moves.

But it's not just the dress. It's the way she carries herself, the confidence in her step, the smile that lights up her entire face when she sees me. This is Belle choosing to be here, choosing to try something new because I asked her to. The trust implicit in that choice makes something fierce and protective rise in my chest.

"You look beautiful," I tell her as she reaches me, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.

"You clean up pretty well yourself," she says, reaching up to straighten my tie. The simple gesture, so domestic and intimate, sends electricity shooting through my entire nervous system. "I have to admit, when you said opera, I wasn't sure what to expect. But this..."

She gestures at the grand facade of the opera house. "This is incredible."

"Wait until you see the inside," I say, offering her my arm. "The architecture is almost as impressive as the performances."

Belle takes my arm without hesitation, and the way she fits against my side makes every protective instinct I have purr with satisfaction. Her scent, vanilla and honey with something uniquely Belle underneath, surrounds me as we walk toward the entrance.

"Have I mentioned that I love how your mind works?" she says as we join the crowd moving into the building. "Most people would suggest dinner and a movie for a third date. You suggest something that's going to challenge me, make me think and feel things I've never experienced before."

"Is that good or bad?" I ask, genuinely uncertain.

"It's perfect," she says simply, and the sincerity in her voice makes my chest tight with emotion.

The interior of the opera house is exactly as magnificent as I remembered from the research photos—soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers, rich red velvet and gold leaf details that speak to an era when art and beauty were considered essential to the human experience. Belle's sharp intake of breath tells me she's as impressed as I hoped she'd be.

"Oh my god," she breathes, tilting her head back to take in the painted ceiling. "Theo, this is like stepping into a fairy tale."

"Better than a fairy tale," I tell her, watching her face more than the architecture. "Fairy tales are fiction. This is real beauty, created by real people who believed that art matters."

She turns to look at me, and there's something soft and wondering in her expression. "You really believe that, don't you? That art and beauty matter."

"I believe that anything that can make people feel less alone in the world matters," I say honestly. "And beauty, real beauty, does that. It reminds us that there's more to existence than just survival."

Her scent shifts, becomes warmer and more complex, and I can see something changing in her expression. Like she's seeing a part of me she didn't expect to find.

"Where did this come from?" she asks softly. "This appreciation for beauty and art? Because it doesn't exactly fit with the military background and security work."

"Maybe that's exactly why it matters," I say as we make our way to our seats. "When you've seen the worst that humanity can do to itself, when you've spent years focused on tactics and survival and keeping people alive, you need something to remind you what you're protecting. What makes life worth living."

Belle is quiet as we settle into our seats, which are close enough to see the expressions on the performers' faces but not so close that we'll miss the full scope of the staging. The opera house is filling around us, the low murmur of conversation mixing with the orchestra tuning their instruments.

"The music was the only thing that could quiet my mind," I continue, because something about the intimate setting makes me want to be honest with her. "After difficult missions, when I couldn't sleep, when my brain wouldn't stop replaying everything that had gone wrong or could have gone wrong, I'd find a recording of something beautiful and just... listen. Let it wash over me until I remembered that there was still beauty in the world."

"What kind of missions?" Belle asks gently.

I'm quiet for a moment, considering how much to share. "The kind where you see things that stay with you. The kind where you make decisions that save lives but cost you pieces of your soul."

She reaches over and takes my hand, her fingers interlacing with mine. The contact is warm and grounding, and I can smell the way her scent deepens with something that might be understanding.

"Is that why you left the military?" she asks.

"Partly. But mostly I left because I realized I was good at protecting people, but I wanted to protect something positive instead of just destroying threats. Marcus and Felix gave me a way to do that—using my skills to keep construction workers safe, to make sure communities can develop without fear."

"And now?" she asks. "What do you protect now?"

The honest answer is that I protect her, that every instinct I have has recalibrated around keeping Belle safe and happy. But that feels like too much to say on a third date, even though we both know this is building toward something bigger than casual dating.

"The things that matter," I say instead. "The people who matter."

Before she can ask me to elaborate, the lights dim and the conductor takes his place. The first notes of the overture fill the opera house, and I watch Belle's face as the music begins.

La Bohème is the perfect choice, I realize as the story unfolds. It's about artists struggling to survive, about love that transcends circumstances, about the way beauty can exist even in the midst of poverty and hardship. The music is lush and emotional, carrying the story forward with a power that words alone could never achieve.

But more than the opera itself, I'm captivated by Belle's reaction to it. She leans forward in her seat during the dramatic moments, her face reflecting every emotion the characters express. When Mimì and Rodolfo fall in love in the first act, her scent spikes with something sweet and hopeful. When the story turns tragic in the final act, I can smell the salt of tears she's trying not to shed.

During intermission, we walk to the lobby for champagne, and Belle is practically vibrating with excitement.

"Theo, this is incredible," she says, accepting a glass from the server. "I had no idea music could be this powerful. The way it makes you feel everything the characters are feeling, even when you don't speak the language..."

"That's the point," I tell her, watching the way her eyes shine with enthusiasm. "Music is a universal language. It goes straight to your emotions without having to pass through your rational mind."

"Is that why you love it? Because it bypasses all the analytical parts and just makes you feel?"

"Maybe," I admit. "I spend a lot of time analyzing things, assessing threats, thinking through worst-case scenarios. Music is one of the few things that can make my brain shut up and just exist in the moment."

She steps closer to me, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her eyes. "What moment are you existing in right now?"

"This one," I say honestly. "Standing in an opera house with the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, watching her discover something new that brings her joy."

Her scent shifts again, becomes richer and more inviting, and I have to grip my champagne glass tighter to keep from reaching for her.

You're absolutely right! If Theo rescued her during her heat, she would trust him, not be scared of him.

"Theo," she says softly, "I need to tell you something."

"What is it?"

"I was so confused about tonight. About spending time alone with you again after everything that happened at the ball, after all the revelations about the pack bond. I didn't know what to expect from myself, from you, from... this."

My chest tightens with something that might be uncertainty. "And now?"

"Now I'm realizing that being confused was pointless," she says. "Because you sharing something you love with me is exactly what I needed."

"What you needed for what?"

"To understand that what I feel for you isn't just heat-induced gratitude or pack bond confusion," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's real. You're real. This thing between us is real."

The admission hits me harder than any physical blow ever could. "Belle..."

"I know we're taking things slowly," she says. "I know there are complications with the pack dynamic and my own fears about alphas and all of that. But Theo, sitting here watching you watch the opera, seeing the way your face changes when the music gets emotional, understanding that you chose this because you wanted to share something meaningful with me..."

"What about it?"

"It makes me want to stop being so careful with my heart,” she admits.

This is more than I expected from her, more hopeful than I dared to let myself imagine. Before I can respond, the lights flicker to signal the end of intermission.

"We should get back to our seats," I say, though what I really want is to find somewhere private where we can continue this conversation.

"Yes," she agrees, but she doesn't move away from me. "But Theo? Thank you. For this, for sharing something so personal with me."

"Thank you for being open to it," I reply. "For trusting me enough to try something new."

The second half of the opera is even more emotional than the first, and I find myself watching Belle more than the stage. She's completely absorbed in the story, her emotions shifting with every aria, every dramatic moment. When Mimì dies in Rodolfo's arms, Belle openly cries, not caring who might see.

As the final notes fade and the curtain falls, the audience erupts in applause that seems to go on forever. Belle is on her feet immediately, clapping enthusiastically, her face radiant with the kind of joy that comes from experiencing something truly beautiful.

"That was incredible," she says as we make our way out with the crowd. "Heartbreaking and beautiful and just... incredible."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," I tell her, and I mean it completely. Watching Belle discover opera has been better than any performance I've ever seen.

"Theo, that was life-changing. I had no idea I was missing something like that."

We're outside now, walking slowly toward where I parked the car, neither of us seeming eager to end the evening. The night air is cool and crisp, perfect for walking, and Belle has taken my arm again like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Can I ask you something?" she says as we reach the car.

"Of course."

"Why did you really choose La Bohème? Out of all the operas you could have picked?"

I consider the question, weighing how honest to be. "Because it's about people who choose love even when circumstances are against them. Even when it's impractical or dangerous or likely to end in heartbreak."

"And you think that's romantic?"

"I think it's brave," I say simply. "I think choosing to love someone despite the risks is the most courageous thing a person can do."

Belle stops walking and turns to face me fully. In the dim light from the street lamps, her face is soft with something that might be wonder.

"Is that what you think we're doing?" she asks. "Choosing love despite the risks?"

"I think I already chose," I tell her honestly. "The night I sat with you through your heat, I chose. Everything since then has just been waiting for you to choose too."

Her breath catches, and her scent shifts to something warm and open and utterly trusting. "Theo..."

"You don't have to say anything," I tell her quickly. "I know this is complicated, I know there are still things we need to figure out..."

"Shut up," she says softly, and then she rises up on her toes and kisses me.

"Belle," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. "I need you to know something. What I feel for you... it's not just pack instinct or alpha protectiveness. When I held you during your heat, when I helped you through that, it wasn't duty. It was the most natural thing I've ever done because you're..."

I struggle to find the words. "You're everything I never knew I was looking for."

She looks up at me, her eyes soft and understanding. "Theo..."

"I've spent so many years keeping people at a distance, keeping myself controlled and contained. But with you, I want to let you in. I want to share all the parts of myself I've kept hidden."

My thumb traces along her jawline. "You make me want to be vulnerable."

Her breath catches, and I can see the exact moment something shifts in her expression.

I lean down slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, until my lips are barely brushing hers. "Can I kiss you, Belle? Really kiss you?"

Her smile is soft and certain. "What are you waiting for?"

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like she's testing the waters. But when I respond, when I bring my hands up to frame her face and kiss her back with all the carefully controlled want I've been carrying, she melts into me with a sound that's half sigh, half surrender.

She tastes like champagne and possibility, like everything I've been waiting for without knowing I was waiting. Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, pulling me closer as her mouth opens under mine. When I trace her lower lip with my tongue, she makes a small sound that goes straight through me. Her scent surrounds me completely, vanilla and honey and something uniquely Belle that makes my alpha instincts sing with satisfaction.

I kiss her deeper, slower, memorizing the taste of her, the way she responds to every touch. Her hands slide up to tangle in my hair, and when she tugs gently, I can't suppress the low growl that rumbles in my chest. She shivers against me, pressing closer, and I realize I could spend eternity just like this just lost in the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her skin, the way she fits perfectly against me.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark with desire, and the scent of her arousal mixed with that vanilla sweetness makes every protective, possessive instinct I have roar to life.

This is what coming home feels like. This is what all those years of searching were leading to.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, she rests her forehead against mine and smiles.

"That was worth waiting for," she whispers.

"Was it worth the risk?" I ask, because I need to know she's not going to regret this in the morning.

"Ask me again in fifty years," she says, and the promise implicit in that response makes my heart race.

I want to kiss her again, want to pull her closer and never let her go, but my phone buzzes insistently in my pocket. I ignore it the first time, but when it buzzes again immediately, I know it must be important.

"I should check this," I tell Belle reluctantly.

"Of course," she says, stepping back slightly but staying close enough that I can feel her warmth.

The text is from Marcus, and the words make my blood run cold: Emergency. Come home now. Lost the courthouse contract.

"What is it?" Belle asks, clearly reading the change in my expression.

"Marcus," I say, already moving toward the car. "There's been some kind of crisis with work."

Belle doesn't hesitate. "Then we need to get to him."

The simple acceptance, the immediate assumption that his crisis is our crisis, makes something tight in my chest loosen. This is what pack feels like. This is what it means to have someone who doesn't question whether they belong in your life.

The drive back to our house takes twenty minutes, and I spend the entire time trying to figure out what could have gone wrong with the courthouse renovation project. It's Marcus's biggest contract this year, the kind of project that could establish his company as a major player in historic preservation. Losing it would be devastating, both financially and professionally.

Belle doesn't try to make small talk during the drive. She seems to understand that I need to focus, need to process whatever we're about to walk into. But she keeps her hand on my arm, a steady presence that helps keep me grounded.

When we pull into the driveway, I can see Marcus pacing in the living room through the front windows. Felix is sitting on the couch, his head in his hands, and the sight of both of them looking defeated makes my protective instincts flare.

"Stay close to me," I tell Belle as we get out of the car. "Marcus doesn't handle setbacks well, especially when they involve his work."

"Is he dangerous when he's angry?" she asks, and I can smell the spike of concern in her scent.

"Not dangerous," I say quickly. "Just... intense. He takes business failures personally, and when he's upset, he tends to lash out at whatever's closest."

Belle nods, squaring her shoulders like she's preparing for battle. "Then let's go help him."

We find Marcus exactly where I expected to find him, standing in the middle of the living room, his suit jacket discarded, his tie loosened, running his hands through his hair in the way he does when he's trying not to punch something.

"What happened?" I ask without preamble.

Marcus turns to face us, and I can see the fury and hurt warring in his expression. "Ashwood Construction," he says, spitting the name like a curse. "

They undercut our bid by thirty percent. Thirty fucking percent, Theo. There's no way they can do the job properly for that price."

"Maybe they can't," Felix says from the couch, his voice tired.

"But the city council doesn't care about that. They care about saving money, and Ashwood convinced them they could deliver the same quality for less."

"It's bullshit," Marcus snarls, resuming his pacing.

"Richard Ashwood doesn't know the first thing about historic preservation. He's going to butcher that courthouse, strip out all the original architectural details, turn it into some generic municipal building."

I can smell the rage radiating off him, the way his alpha pheromones are spiking with territorial aggression. This isn't just about losing a contract. This is about watching something beautiful and historic get destroyed by someone who doesn't understand its value.

"There has to be something we can do," I say. "Legal challenges, public pressure..."

"Like what?" Marcus snaps. "They followed all the proper procedures. The city council voted unanimously to accept the lower bid. It's done, Theo. Three years of planning, months of research into period-appropriate materials and techniques, all wasted because some hack convinced them he could do it cheaper."

Belle has been quiet through this exchange, standing close to my side, taking in the full scope of Marcus's distress. I can smell the way her scent is shifting, becoming calmer and more grounding, like she's unconsciously trying to balance the emotional chaos in the room.

"Marcus," she says gently, and something in her voice makes him stop pacing and look at her. "Can you tell me about the courthouse? What makes it so special?"

"What?" Marcus's voice is sharp with confusion, like he can't understand why she's asking about architectural details when his entire business is falling apart.

"The courthouse," Belle repeats, moving slightly away from my side and toward him.

"You said it has original architectural details that are worth preserving. Tell me about them."

"Belle, I don't think this is the time..." Felix starts, but she holds up a hand.

"Please," she says, still looking at Marcus. "I want to understand what we're trying to save."

The shift from 'you' to 'we' isn't lost on any of us, and I can see some of the tension leave Marcus's shoulders as he processes the implication that Belle considers herself part of this fight.

"It's a 1890s Romanesque Revival building," Marcus says slowly, his voice losing some of its angry edge as he shifts into explanation mode. "One of the finest examples in the state. The stonework is hand-carved Indiana limestone, and the interior still has the original oak paneling and stained glass windows."

"What would Ashwood do to it?" Belle asks.

"Gut it," Marcus says, and pain flickers across his face. "Replace the wooden details with cheap laminate, cover the stone with aluminum siding for 'easier maintenance,' install fluorescent lighting that will destroy the ambiance completely."

"That's terrible," Belle says, and the genuine distress in her voice seems to surprise Marcus. "A building like that isn't just architecture, it's history. It's part of the community's identity."

"Exactly," Marcus says, some of his passion returning. "That courthouse has been the center of civic life for over a century. People have gotten married on those steps, held rallies on the lawn, brought their children to see where democracy happens. It's not just a building, it's a symbol."

"So we save it," Belle says simply.

"Belle," Felix says gently, "it's not that simple. The contract is signed, the decision is made..."

"Then we change the decision," she says, turning to face all three of us. "Look, I don't understand construction or city politics, but I do understand community organizing. I've run successful campaigns to save library funding, to get literacy programs approved, to convince the city council to support projects they initially opposed."

"This is different," Marcus protests. "This involves millions of dollars, legal contracts..."

"But it also involves public opinion," Belle counters. "And public opinion can be changed if you know how to tell the right story."

I can see the exact moment when the idea takes hold in Marcus's mind, when his business brain starts connecting the dots Belle is laying out for him.

"You're talking about a public campaign," he says slowly.

"I'm talking about making the community understand what they're about to lose," Belle clarifies. "Most people probably don't even know there's a difference between preservation and renovation. They hear 'cheaper' and think that's obviously better. But if you could show them what Ashwood's plan would actually do to their courthouse..."

"We'd need documentation," Marcus says, his voice getting stronger as he starts thinking through the logistics. "Before and after comparisons, expert opinions on the historical significance..."

"And we'd need media coverage," Belle adds. "Local newspapers, social media, maybe even some of the regional news stations if the story is compelling enough."

"The story of a historic courthouse being destroyed by corporate greed?" Felix says, sitting up straighter. "That could definitely get attention."

"Especially if we can frame it as a community heritage issue rather than just a business dispute," Belle continues. "This isn't about one company losing a contract. This is about preserving something irreplaceable for future generations."

Marcus has stopped pacing entirely now, his mind clearly racing through possibilities. "We'd need to move fast. Ashwood will probably start work within a month, and once they begin tearing things out..."

"How long do you think we'd need?" Belle asks.

"To organize a proper campaign? Get enough public pressure to make the city council reconsider?" Marcus runs his hands through his hair again, but this time it's thoughtful rather than frustrated. "Six weeks, maybe eight."

"Then that's what we do," Belle says firmly. "We save the courthouse."

The room is quiet for a moment, all of us processing the shift from despair to hope, from defeat to the possibility of victory. I can smell the way the emotional atmosphere has changed, Marcus's rage transforming into determined focus, Felix's dejection lifting into cautious optimism.

"Belle," Marcus says quietly, "you don't understand what you're offering. This would be a massive undertaking, and there's no guarantee it would work. You could spend weeks fighting for this and still lose."

"So could you," she points out. "But that doesn't mean it's not worth trying."

"Why?" Marcus asks. "Why would you do this? It's not your company, not your contract..."

Belle looks around at all three of us, and her scent shifts to something warm and determined and absolutely sure. "Because it matters to you. All of you. And that makes it matter to me."

The simple honesty of it, the way she's claiming her place in our pack without hesitation or reservation, makes my chest tight with emotion.

"Besides," she continues with a slight smile, "I'm a librarian. Preserving important community resources is literally what I do for a living."

Marcus stares at her for a long moment, and I can see something changing in his expression. Not just gratitude, but recognition. The acknowledgment that Belle isn't just someone we're courting, but someone who's already become essential to who we are as a pack.

"Okay," he says finally. "Let's save the courthouse."

And as we spend the next two hours planning strategy and dividing responsibilities, as Belle seamlessly integrates herself into our problem-solving process and proves that her mind is every bit as sharp as her heart is generous, I know that we've found our omega.

Not just because she kissed me under the stars after experiencing something beautiful together, but because when our pack was in crisis, she didn't hesitate to make it her crisis too.

Belle Hartwell is going to be our mate, our partner, our everything. And if she can help us save the courthouse too, well, that's just one more reason why she's perfect for us.

The campaign starts tomorrow, but tonight, sitting in our living room watching Belle argue passionately about media strategy with Marcus and Felix, I'm already claiming victory.

We've found her. We've found our home.

30

THE WILLOWBROOK CHRONICLE

Sweet Eavesdroppers,

Oh my stars and garters! Lady Inkwell is practically bursting with the most delicious revelations that have come to light this week! If you thought the post-ball romantic drama was settling down, think again, my precious gossip-hunters!

First and foremost, if you haven't figured it out by now, then let Lady Inkwell spell it out for you in letters of gold: our sweet little librarian Miss Belle Hartwell is clearly an omega, darlings! Who knew? Our supposedly innocent book-cataloguing belle has been hiding her secondary nature all this time! Though really, the way she has three devastatingly handsome alphas completely smitten should have been our first clue!

Lady Inkwell's eagle-eyed sources report that our dear Belle was spotted just last evening at the Metropolitan Opera House looking absolutely luminous on the arm of a certain brooding security specialist! The two emerged from what appeared to be a very romantic evening, and witnesses report seeing them share what looked like a rather passionate kiss under the stars! Swoon! Could this be the next alpha to fall completely under our omega's spell?

But here's what has Lady Inkwell absolutely beside herself with curiosity: how will this devastating professional setback affect our budding pack romance? Will our dear Belle's newfound happiness be enough to weather such storms? Can love truly conquer all, including municipal politics and cutthroat business competition?

Even more intriguing, darlings - Lady Inkwell has heard whispers that our mysterious omega was spotted at a certain pack's residence well past midnight following the opera debacle, and sources suggest she didn't leave until the wee hours of the morning! Could our sweet Belle be providing comfort during this time of professional crisis? How perfectly scandalous!

Meanwhile, the gossip mill is absolutely churning with speculation about whether this courthouse catastrophe might actually bring our unlikely foursome closer together! Nothing bonds people quite like adversity, and Lady Inkwell suspects that our omega's fierce loyalty and community organizing skills might be exactly what her alphas need right now!

Speaking of which, Lady Inkwell has it on excellent authority that certain heated discussions have been taking place at City Hall regarding both the courthouse decision AND our beloved library's future! Could these two crises be connected? Are we witnessing some sort of municipal conspiracy against our town's most precious cultural institutions?

Lady Inkwell is simply dying to see how this delicious drama unfolds! Will business disappointments drive wedges between our star-crossed lovers, or will adversity prove that their bond is stronger than professional setbacks? Will our omega rally her pack to fight back against bureaucratic betrayal?

Yours in breathless anticipation and slight concern,

Lady Inkwell

P.S. - Has anyone else noticed that our dear Belle seems to have developed quite the glow recently? Lady Inkwell can't help but wonder if all this alpha attention is agreeing with her! And might we expect some very interesting announcements in the near future? How perfectly thrilling!

31

MARCUS

Istretch my legs from my position at the corner of our massive sectional, trying to find a comfortable spot that doesn't exist. This fight is absolute shit. These guys are dancing around like they're afraid to actually hit each other, and I'm starting to think I've wasted our first real break in three days.

"This fight is shit," I announce, gesturing at the screen where two fighters circle each other with all the urgency of people waiting for coffee to brew. "What happened to boxers who actually wanted to fight?"

Theo grunts from his armchair, not bothering to look away from the screen. "Used to be about skill and heart. Now it's all about image and pay-per-view numbers."

Felix glances up from whatever architectural detail he's sketching, even though we agreed tonight was supposed to be a break from all courthouse campaign work. "Everything's performance now. No one knows how to be real anymore."

He's not wrong, but tonight I'm more interested in the fourth member of our little group than I am in philosophical discussions about the decline of authentic competition. Belle is curled up in the middle of the sectional, her legs tucked under her, wearing one of my old college t-shirts that swallows her whole and a pair of soft cotton shorts that make her look younger and more vulnerable than usual.

She's been living with us for two weeks now, ever since that night when Theo came home from their opera date with news about Ashwood Construction stealing our courthouse contract. Two weeks since she looked at our devastation and said "So we save it" like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Two weeks of campaign strategy sessions at our kitchen table, media interviews in our living room, and Belle transforming our house into the headquarters for the most ambitious historic preservation campaign our town has ever seen.

The guest room has become her command center, filled with petition sheets and voter registration forms, press releases and social media content calendars. Our dining room table is permanently covered with architectural drawings, historical documentation, and comparison photos showing what Ashwood's renovation would do to the courthouse versus what proper preservation would accomplish.

But she's been restless tonight, shifting position every few minutes, fidgeting with the remote, getting up to refill her water glass three times in the past hour. I've been watching her out of the corner of my eye, trying to figure out what's got her so agitated when we're finally taking a break from the campaign work that's consumed our lives for the past two weeks.

"Seriously though," Belle says suddenly, pointing at the screen where one fighter is literally backing away from his opponent, "this is painful to watch. Are they actually going to fight, or are they just going to dance in circles until someone gets dizzy and falls down?"

"Thank you!" I say, throwing my hands up. "I've been saying that for the past twenty minutes!"

"It's like watching people play patty-cake in boxing gloves," Belle continues, getting more animated. "Where's the strategy? Did he just trip over his own feet?"

We all turn our attention back to the screen, where one of the fighters has indeed stumbled slightly while trying to throw a jab that wouldn't have knocked over a paper cup.

"Jesus Christ," Theo mutters. "I've seen more aggressive conflict resolution in city council meetings."

Belle snorts with laughter. "Speaking of which, did you see Councilman Peterson's face yesterday when I presented the petition signatures? I thought he was going to have a stroke when I told him we had over three thousand names."

"Three thousand and forty-seven," Felix corrects with obvious pride. "I helped count them twice."

"The look on Ashwood's lawyer's face was even better," I add, remembering the satisfaction of watching Richard Ashwood's smug confidence crack when Belle systematically dismantled his renovation proposal in front of the entire city council.

"Mrs. Patterson alone got us sixty-three signatures," Belle says with obvious affection. "That woman is a force of nature when she's defending something she believes in."

"The eighty-year-old who volunteers with your literacy program?" Felix asks, looking up from his sketch with amusement.

"She's seventy-five, and she once made a grown man cry because he returned 'Fifty Shades of Grey' three days late," Belle says solemnly. "Mrs. Patterson doesn't mess around when it comes to things that matter to the community."

"Note to self," I say, "never cross Belle's volunteer army."

"Damn right," Belle agrees, settling back into the couch with obvious satisfaction. "We librarians stick together. Especially when historic preservation is involved."

The comfortable domesticity of the moment hits me harder than it should. Six months ago, our Friday nights consisted of Theo analyzing security footage, Felix sketching building designs, and me reviewing construction contracts. Three weeks ago, they involved desperate strategizing about how to save my biggest project from corporate destruction. Now we're sitting here making jokes about elderly library volunteers while Belle steals popcorn from the bowl I made specifically for her, taking a well-deserved break from the campaign that she's been running like a military operation.

"Fuck this," I say, pushing off the couch. "I'm making more popcorn. At least then this waste of time will involve better snacks."

"Can you add extra butter?" Belle calls after me. "And maybe some of that fancy salt you got last week?"

"The truffle salt?" I ask, already heading toward the kitchen.

"That's the one! It makes everything taste expensive and sophisticated."

"Unlike this fight," Theo adds dryly.

I'm measuring oil with the kind of precision that drives my business partners crazy when Belle appears in the kitchen doorway, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floors.

“Do you need help?" she asks, moving to lean against the counter.

"Just keeping me company," I tell her, though the truth is that having her close makes everything feel more settled. "You seemed restless tonight. Everything okay? Campaign stress getting to you?"

Belle is quiet for a moment, and I can see her weighing something in her mind. "Actually," she says slowly, "there's something I need to tell you. All of you. Something that's not about the courthouse."

"Good something or bad something?" I ask, turning to give her my full attention.

"Different something," she says cryptically. "But I'd rather tell everyone at once."

The oil starts heating, and I add the kernels while Belle hops up to sit on the counter beside the stove. She's close enough that I can smell her natural vanilla and honey scent, sweet and warm and completely addictive.

"How are you doing?" I ask quietly. "Really doing. With everything that's changed. Moving in here, running this campaign, living with three alphas who probably drive you crazy with their organizational obsessions."

Belle tilts her head, considering the question. "Happy," she says finally. "Happier than I've been in years, honestly. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"It's an adjustment," she admits. "Going from complete independence to pack life. Not bad, just different."

The first kernels start popping, and I shake the pot while studying her face. "Different how?"

"Like, yesterday I spent ten minutes standing in front of the coffee maker trying to figure out if I should make a full pot or just a cup for myself," Belle says with a self-deprecating laugh. "Because for one year, I've only had to think about what I needed. Now I'm constantly calculating whether anyone else might want coffee, or if I should wait and ask, or if making assumptions about people's caffeine needs is presumptuous."

"Belle," I say gently, "you can make coffee whenever you want. You live here now. This is your home too."

"I know that intellectually," she says, swinging her legs slightly. "But emotionally? There's still part of me that feels like I'm visiting, like I need permission for things. Even though you guys have been incredible about making space for me and my campaign chaos."

The popcorn is going crazy in the pot now, and I turn down the heat while processing what she's telling me. "Is there anything we can do to help you feel more settled?"

"You're already doing it," Belle says immediately. "Just by being patient while I figure out how to be part of something instead of just being by myself. And by letting me turn your house into campaign headquarters without complaining about the mess."

"Take all the time you need," I tell her, dumping the finished popcorn into a large bowl. "There's no timeline on feeling at home. And Belle, the campaign isn't chaos. It's the most organized, strategic effort I've ever been part of. You've turned what could have been a hopeless fight into something we might actually win."

"Actually," Belle says, and there's something different in her voice now, something more purposeful, "about timelines and winning battles..."

"Yeah?"

"That's part of what I need to talk to you about. All of you."

I add the truffle salt she requested, then turn to face her fully. "Should I be worried?"

"No," Belle says quickly. "Definitely not worried. Just... prepared."

Before I can ask what she means by that, Felix appears in the doorway carrying his sketchpad and looking mildly exasperated.

"The fight's over," he announces. "It went to a decision, which is probably the most exciting thing that happened all evening."

"Who won?" I ask, carrying the popcorn toward the living room.

"Nobody," Theo calls from his chair. "Least of all the people who paid to watch that."

"In my professional opinion," Belle says, hopping down from the counter, "that wasn't boxing. That was interpretive dance with safety equipment."

"Harsh but accurate," Felix agrees, settling back into his usual spot on the sectional.

I reclaim my corner, and Belle curls up in the middle again, immediately reaching for the popcorn. For a moment, we all sit in comfortable silence, the terrible fight forgotten in favor of good snacks and better company.

"So," Theo says eventually, "what's next? Another fight, or do we admit defeat and find something actually entertaining? Or do we go back to reviewing those media interview schedules Belle organized?"

"Actually," Belle says, setting down the popcorn bowl, "before we decide on entertainment or more campaign work, I have something to tell you. Something personal."

The shift in her tone makes all three of us focus on her immediately. Belle straightens up slightly, tucking her legs under her, and I can smell the change in her scent—not distress, but nervous anticipation.

"Okay," I say carefully. "What's going on?"

Belle takes a deep breath, and when she speaks, her voice is steady but carrying an undercurrent of something that makes my alpha instincts prick with attention.

"Tomorrow is going to be different," she says simply.

"Different how?" Felix asks, leaning forward slightly.

"It's my heat cycle," Belle says, and the words hang in the air for a moment before their full meaning hits. "My first natural heat since we bonded. And I want to share it with you. All of you."

The silence that follows is deafening. I can hear my own heartbeat, can smell the way our combined scents shift toward something more intense and focused.

"Belle," Theo says carefully, "are you sure? Heat cycles are intense, especially the first one after bonding. If you're not ready..."

"I'm sure," Belle interrupts, her voice gaining confidence. "I've been thinking about it for days, even while we've been focused on the campaign. I want to experience this properly, with my pack. I want to understand what it's like to go through heat when I'm not afraid, when I'm not alone."

"When does it start?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.

"Tomorrow evening, probably around dinner time," Belle says. "I can already feel the early signs building."

Felix runs a hand through his hair, and I can see him processing the implications. "Do you want to stay here, or would you be more comfortable in your apartment?"

"Here," Belle says immediately. "In our home. I want to nest here, be claimed here, bond with you here where we're all most comfortable. Where we've been building something together."

The casual mention of being claimed makes something primitive and possessive unfurl in my chest. "Belle, you know what that means, right? What you're asking for?"

"I know exactly what I'm asking for," she says firmly. "I want to be claimed by my pack. I want to form permanent bonds with all three of you. I want to make this official in every way that matters."

"Holy shit," Felix breathes, and for once, his usual eloquence has completely abandoned him.

"Eloquent as always," Theo says dryly, but I can see the satisfaction and anticipation in his expression.

"Sorry," Felix says, shaking his head. "It's just... Belle, are you sure you're ready for that? Permanent pack bonds aren't something you can undo."

"Why would I want to undo them?" Belle asks, genuine confusion in her voice. "You three are the best thing that's ever happened to me. I love you, I trust you completely, and I want to spend the rest of my life proving that every single day. Win or lose with the courthouse campaign, this is where I belong."

The simple honesty of it hits me harder than any business deal I've ever closed. "Belle..."

"Besides," she continues with a grin that's pure mischief, "someone needs to keep you three in line. Might as well make it official."

"Keep us in line?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Marcus, you've reorganized the campaign filing system three times this week," Belle points out. "Felix has color-coded all the historical documents by architectural periods, which isn't even necessary for our purposes. And Theo installed a security system on the campaign laptop that requires three different passwords just to check email."

"Those are all helpful improvements," Theo protests.

"They're all classic alpha behavior," Belle corrects with amusement. "You're all trying to take care of me and the campaign in increasingly elaborate ways. Imagine what you'll be like when you can actually claim me properly."

"Insufferable," Felix admits with a grin. "We'll be absolutely insufferable."

"Good thing I like insufferable alphas," Belle says, reaching for more popcorn.

"Speaking of taking care of you," I say, an idea forming, "how are you handling the transition? From having Adam as your constant companion to living here with us while running this campaign?"

Belle's expression grows more thoughtful. "It's been an adjustment," she admits. "Adam and I had routines, you know? Little traditions that made the day feel structured."

"Like what?" Theo asks gently.

"Well, we always had chocolate together at two in the afternoon," Belle says, a note of wistfulness creeping into her voice. "It sounds silly, but it was this five-minute break where we'd sit in the staff room and share whatever chocolate one of us had brought, and just talk about everything except work."

"That doesn't sound silly," Felix says immediately. "That sounds like exactly the kind of ritual that makes a long day manageable."

"I miss it," Belle confesses. "I mean, I don't miss the drama and uncertainty of whether Adam was going to disappear on me again. But I miss having that little moment of sweetness in the middle of the day. Especially during intense campaign days when we're dealing with city council politics and media interviews."

I exchange glances with Felix and Theo, and I can see the same thought occurring to all of us.

"What if," I say slowly, "you didn't have to miss it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what if you still had your two o'clock chocolate break?" I continue, the plan taking shape as I speak. "Just with different people."

Belle tilts her head. "You want to have chocolate breaks with me?"

"Hell yes, I want to have chocolate breaks with you," I say immediately. "Belle, do you know how many terrible budget meetings I sit through where I'm thinking about whether you remembered to eat lunch between campaign calls? Having an excuse to check in with you every day sounds perfect."

"I could do Thursdays," Theo offers. "My schedule's always lighter on Thursdays, and the construction sites are usually running smoothly by then."

"I could do Mondays and Wednesdays," I add. "Give me something to look forward to in the middle of those city council prep meetings that never seem to end."

"And I'll take Tuesdays and Fridays," Felix says with obvious enthusiasm. "Plus any day when these two are stuck in meetings or dealing with campaign crises."

"You want to reorganize my entire work week around chocolate?" Belle asks, and there's something wondering in her voice.

"We want to make sure you have something sweet to look forward to every day," I correct. "Whether that's chocolate or just time with people who think you're incredible and want to make sure you're eating properly during campaign season."

"Besides," Theo adds with a grin, "we've all seen your chocolate philosophy in action during these strategy sessions. This is basically educational for us."

Belle stares at us for a long moment, and I can smell the way her scent shifts toward something warm and emotional. "You would really do that? Just show up wherever I am every day at two o'clock with chocolate?"

"Belle," Felix says gently, "we'd show up wherever you are every day at two o'clock with a full chocolate fountain if it would make you smile."

"That might be excessive," Belle says, but she's laughing now. "The library has very strict policies about food and beverage in the reading areas."

"Then we'll eat chocolate in the parking lot," I say firmly. "Or in the campaign office we set up in the conference room. Or wherever you want to have your two o'clock ritual."

"You're serious," Belle says, and it's not quite a question.

"Dead serious," Theo confirms. "Belle, you've spent the past two weeks taking care of everyone else's needs, organizing this entire campaign, making sure we all stay focused and fed and sane. Let us take care of yours for a change."

"Starting with chocolate breaks and ending with whatever you need during your heat tomorrow," I add, because I need her to understand that this isn't just about small gestures. "We're not going anywhere, Belle. Not for chocolate breaks, not for heat cycles, not for anything. Campaign or no campaign, win or lose, this is permanent."

Belle is quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is thick with emotion. "I love you," she says simply. "All of you. More than I ever thought possible."

"We love you too," Felix says immediately. "More than we ever thought we were capable of loving anyone."

"Good," Belle says, settling back into the couch with obvious satisfaction. "Because you're stuck with me now. Permanently."

"Best news I've heard all week," I tell her honestly.

"Even better than getting that Channel 7 interview for Monday?" she asks with a grin.

"Belle, claiming you is better than winning every media interview and city council vote combined," I say, and the simple truth of it surprises me with its intensity.

"Smooth talker," she says, but I can smell her pleased satisfaction.

"Just honest," I correct. "Though speaking of the campaign, how do you feel about being the town's most talked-about omega?"

Belle groans dramatically. "Lady Inkwell's latest column made it sound like I single-handedly saved the entire historical district while simultaneously seducing three alphas with my organizational prowess."

"Did you not?" Theo asks with mock seriousness. "Because that's definitely what it felt like from our perspective."

"I organized a petition drive and made some phone calls," Belle protests. "And I definitely didn't seduce anyone. You three did all the seducing."

"We prefer 'persistent courting through campaign collaboration,'" Felix corrects with a grin.

"You prefer 'showing up everywhere I went until I agreed to move in and run your save-the-courthouse campaign,'" Belle counters.

"That too," I admit. "Though in our defense, you're incredibly easy to want to follow around. Especially when you're in full campaign mode, systematically dismantling opposition arguments."

"Stalker tendencies aside," Belle says, reaching for more popcorn, "I'm glad everything worked out the way it did."

"Even the part where you're about to spend your heat cycle with three alphas who are definitely going to be ridiculously overprotective?" Theo asks.

"Especially that part," Belle says with obvious anticipation. "Though I reserve the right to complain if you get too ridiculous about things like room temperature and snack distribution."

"We'll try to keep the ridiculousness to a minimum," I promise, though we all know that's probably a lie.

"What should we expect?" Felix asks. "For tomorrow, I mean. What do you need from us?"

Belle considers the question seriously. "Patience, mostly. And maybe some of those organizational skills you're always showing off, Marcus. I've never had a heat where I didn't have to manage everything myself."

"You won't have to manage anything," I tell her firmly. "That's what we're for."

"Food, water, temperature control, comfort items," Theo lists off. "We've got it covered."

"Don't forget the nest-building supplies," Felix adds. "I've been researching optimal materials for omega comfort."

"Of course you have," Belle says with fond exasperation. "Did you make blueprints?"

"I may have sketched some preliminary designs," Felix admits.

"He made blueprints," Theo translates. "Color-coded blueprints with material specifications and structural engineering notes."

"It's going to be the most architecturally sound nest in the history of omega heat cycles," I add with amusement.

"As long as it's comfortable and smells like all of you, I don't care if it defies the laws of physics," Belle says. "Though knowing Felix, it probably will."

"I prefer to think of it as creatively interpreting spatial limitations," Felix says with dignity.

"You prefer to think of everything as a design challenge," Belle corrects. "Last week you reorganized the campaign files according to 'optimal workflow patterns.'"

"And now we can find any document in under thirty seconds," Felix points out.

"I can't argue with results," Belle concedes. "Even if your methods are occasionally excessive."

"Speaking of excessive," I say, "should we talk about logistics for tomorrow? Do you want us all here, or would you prefer to start with one of us?"

Belle is quiet for a moment, and I can see her thinking through the options. "All of you," she says finally. "I know that's probably more complicated, but I want to experience this as a pack. I want to understand what it feels like to be surrounded by alphas who love me."

"Then that's what you'll have," Theo says simply. "All of us, for as long as you need us."

"Which will be forever," I add, because I need her to understand that this isn't just about her heat cycle. "Belle, after tomorrow, after we bond properly, you're stuck with us permanently."

"Promise?" she asks, and there's something vulnerable in her voice.

"Promise," all three of us say simultaneously, which makes her laugh.

"Good," she says, settling back into the couch with obvious contentment. "Because I can't imagine wanting to be anywhere else."

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I find myself studying Belle's face, cataloguing every detail I can see in the dim lighting from the television.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks softly, catching me watching her.

"How much everything's changed," I tell her honestly. "Three weeks ago, our biggest concern was whether we'd lost the most important contract of my career. Now we're running a campaign that might actually save the courthouse, and we're planning your first heat cycle, and you're talking about permanent pack bonds."

"Is that good change or overwhelming change?" Belle asks.

"Best change," I say immediately. "Belle, you've turned our house into campaign headquarters and our pack into a family. There's nothing overwhelming about that."

"Even when I reorganize your filing systems according to library science principles?" she asks with a grin.

"Especially then," I confirm. "Do you know how much more efficient our campaign operations became after you got your hands on our organizational chaos?"

"Chaos has its own system," Theo says philosophically. "It's just not always obvious to outside observers."

"That's not organization, that's anarchy," Belle corrects. "Real organization means being able to find what you need when you need it, not just knowing that it's somewhere in the general vicinity of where you last saw it."

"She's got a point," Felix says. "I actually found those original courthouse blueprints after Belle reorganized my project files."

"Because you had them filed under 'miscellaneous historical stuff' instead of by building name or date," Belle points out. "That's not a filing system, that's just a pile with creative labels."

"It worked for me," Felix protests weakly.

"It worked until we needed to find something specific for the campaign," Belle corrects. "Then it became an archaeological expedition."

"She's not wrong," I admit. "Belle, your organizational skills have basically saved this entire campaign."

"Librarian training," she says with obvious pride. "If you can't find information quickly and efficiently, you're not doing your job right."

"Speaking of your job," Theo says, "are you planning to take time off for your heat, or do we need to coordinate with the library schedule?"

"I put in for vacation days," Belle says. "Told them I had a family commitment that might run longer than expected."

"Family commitment," Felix repeats with obvious satisfaction. "I like that."

"We are family," Belle says simply. "Not conventional family, maybe, but family nonetheless."

"The best kind of family," I agree. "The kind you choose."

"Exactly," Belle says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "The kind that shows up when you need them and helps you fight for things that matter."

"And the kind that spends Friday night making fun of terrible boxing matches while planning heat cycle logistics and campaign strategy," Theo adds with amusement.

"Romance is weird," Belle observes.

"Good weird or bad weird?" Felix asks.

"The very best weird," Belle confirms. "The kind that makes everything else make sense."

I squeeze her hand back, marveling at how perfectly she fits into our pack, our home, our lives. Tomorrow is going to change everything in the best possible way, but tonight, this moment, sitting here with the woman we love while she makes jokes about our organizational obsessions and plans to save our most important project—this is already perfect.

"So," Belle says suddenly, "since we've established that tomorrow is going to be intense and life-changing, what do you want to do with tonight?"

"What do you want to do?" I ask, because ultimately, everything we do revolves around making her happy.

"Something normal," Belle says immediately. "Something completely ordinary and domestic and wonderful."

"Movie?" Felix suggests.

"Board game?" Theo offers.

"More terrible boxing?" I add, which makes Belle laugh.

"Actually," Belle says, "I want to show you something."

She gets up from the couch and disappears down the hallway toward her room, returning a few minutes later with a thick folder in her hands.

"What's that?" Felix asks as she settles back into her spot.

"My writing," Belle says, and there's nervous anticipation in her voice. "The essays I told you about. Including the one about community preservation that gave me the idea for our campaign strategy. I thought maybe... if you're interested... you might want to read some of them."

The fact that she's willing to share something so personal, so important to her, makes my chest tight with emotion. "Belle, we'd love to read your writing."

"Really?"

"Really," all three of us say simultaneously.

"Okay then," Belle says, opening the folder and pulling out several typed pages. "Fair warning—they're probably not as interesting as you think they'll be."

"Belle," Theo says gently, "everything about you is interesting to us."

"Even my terrible jokes about library science?"

"Especially your terrible jokes about library science," Felix confirms.

"Alright then," Belle says, settling back with the papers in her lap. "But don't say I didn't warn you when you fall asleep halfway through my analysis of community literacy programs and their impact on historic preservation efforts."

"We're not going to fall asleep," I tell her firmly.

"We might ask a million questions though," Felix warns. "Fair warning."

"I like questions," Belle says with obvious pleasure. "Questions mean you're paying attention."

"Belle," I say seriously, "we're always paying attention when it comes to you."

The smile she gives me could power the entire city. "Good," she says. "Because tomorrow is just the beginning."

And as she starts reading her essay about the intersection of literacy and community development, her voice warm and passionate and completely captivating, I know she's absolutely right.

Tomorrow is just the beginning of forever.

32

BELLE

I've been staring at the small white pill in my palm for fifteen minutes, and it feels like the most important decision I've ever made. Such a tiny thing to have controlled so much of my life for a year: my scent, my cycles, my entire relationship with my own biology.

The suppressants have been my security blanket since I presented as an omega last year. Back then, the idea of being completely vulnerable to alpha influence, of having my body betray me with heats and pheromones and all the messy biological realities of omega life, had terrified me. The pills promised control, normalcy, the ability to navigate the world without constantly advertising my secondary gender to every alpha within scenting distance.

But sitting here in their guest room, thinking about Marcus's protective intensity, Felix's gentle creativity, and Theo's quiet strength, I'm wondering what I might have been hiding from myself all these years. What would it feel like to experience my own nature fully? To understand what my body actually wants instead of constantly suppressing it?

The decision to temporarily stop taking the suppressants isn't one I've made lightly. It started three days ago, after Theo's opera date, after that kiss that made my entire world shift on its axis. I'd come back to their house still tasting champagne and possibility on my lips, still feeling the echoes of his hands framing my face, and for the first time in years, I'd wondered what it would be like to let myself want someone without fear.

The courthouse crisis had sealed it. Watching Marcus pace their living room like a caged animal, seeing the pain and frustration radiating from him, feeling my own fierce desire to fix things for him: that's when I realized I was already thinking like part of their pack. The suppressants weren't protecting me from anything anymore; they were just keeping me from fully understanding what I was feeling.

So I'd made the decision. One week off the pills, just to see what happens. To understand what Belle Hartwell is like when she's not constantly fighting her own biology.

I set the pill back in its bottle and close the lid with a decisive snap.

Holy shit! Was this really a good idea? I'm thinking of backing out now.

The first day without suppressants passes quietly. I work with Felix on the courthouse campaign strategy, helping him design presentation boards and arguing about whether we need that many comparison photos. We spend the afternoon going over media schedules while I organize the campaign materials and coordinate with the volunteer canvassers coming next week. Everything feels normal, controlled, exactly like it always has.

By the second day, I start to notice weird changes. My skin feels super sensitive, like every nerve ending is buzzing more than usual. Scents seem way stronger and more intense. The coffee brewing in their kitchen suddenly has all these deeper notes I never noticed before, and the smell of printer ink and fresh paper from all our campaign work is so much richer and more comforting. When I shower in their guest bathroom, even my own shampoo smells different, sweeter somehow. It's kind of freaking me out, but also kind of amazing at the same time.

But it's the third day when everything goes totally fucking insane.

I wake up with this crazy overwhelming urge to clean their entire house. Not just the usual tidying up after campaign work, but like deep clean every goddamn thing. I spend four hours scrubbing baseboards that don't even need it, washing windows that were perfectly fine before, and reorganizing the campaign office according to some system that makes perfect sense right now but will probably confuse Felix next week.

By the time I collapse on their couch, completely wiped out but weirdly satisfied, I realize what's happening. The nesting thing. I've read about it before, studied it in those boring omega biology classes, but actually going through it is so different.

I don't even remember how many fucking days have passed. Why did I come up with this harebrained scheme? I inhale deeply, trying to think about the end game and not wanting to give up, but Jesus Christ, this is harder than I thought it would be.

The thought should probably alarm me more than it does.

"Belle?" Marcus's voice carries down the hallway, warm and concerned. "I brought lunch. Thought you might be hungry."

I look up from where I've been organizing the campaign file collection to find him standing in the living room doorway holding takeout bags from the little Italian place downtown, and the smell of garlic and herbs makes my mouth water immediately. But it's his scent that really gets to me, warm amber and something essentially masculine that makes my senses practically purr with appreciation.

"You didn't have to do that," I say, setting down the rolled up petition sheets I'd been sorting, and I can see him pause, his nostrils flaring slightly.

"Belle," he says slowly, "you smell different."

Heat floods my cheeks. Of course he'd notice. These are the alphas who managed to scent me even through heavy suppressants. Without them, I probably smell like a neon sign announcing my secondary gender.

"I stopped taking my suppressants," I tell him honestly, because I promised myself no more secrets. "Temporarily. I wanted to understand what I was feeling without chemical interference."

Marcus sets the food down on their kitchen counter but doesn't move away from me. Instead, he steps closer, his eyes dark with something that might be hunger or concern or both.

"How do you feel?" he asks, his voice rougher than usual.

"Different," I admit. "More... aware of everything. More aware of you."

The truth is that having Marcus in their space without suppressants is overwhelming in the best possible way. He smells like home and safety and something wild that makes my pulse race. I want to step closer, want to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in until his scent becomes part of me.

"Belle," Marcus says softly, reaching up to cup my cheek, "you're incredible. Do you know that?"

I lean into his touch without thinking, and the simple contact sends warmth shooting through my entire nervous system. "Marcus..."

"I know we're taking things slowly," he murmurs, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone. "I know you need time to adjust to all of this. But Belle, the way you smell right now, the way you're looking at me..."

"How am I looking at you?" I whisper.

"Like you want me to kiss you until you forget your own name."

He's not wrong. The urge to rise up on my toes and press my lips to his is so strong it's making me dizzy. But some rational part of my brain, the part that's still functioning despite the pheromone induced haze, reminds me that this is exactly the kind of decision I shouldn't make while my body is adjusting to life without suppressants.

"We should eat lunch," I say reluctantly, though I don't step away from his touch.

Marcus studies my face for a long moment, and I can see him weighing desire against respect for the boundaries we've established. Finally, he nods and drops his hand, though the loss of contact makes me want to whimper.

"Lunch," he agrees. "But Belle? When you're sure this is what you want without any chemical confusion, I'm going to kiss you until you forget your own name."

The promise in his voice makes my knees weak.

We eat lunch sitting at their kitchen table, talking about the courthouse campaign and library funding and everything except the sexual tension crackling between us. But I can't stop stealing glances at Marcus, can't stop noticing the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders when he reaches for his water glass, can't stop thinking about what it would feel like to have those strong hands on my skin instead of carefully maintaining respectful distance.

By the time he leaves for work, I'm wound so tight I spend the rest of the afternoon compulsively organizing their campaign supply collection and folding printed flyers that were already perfectly organized.

On the fifth day, I can feel the change happening in my body, and I want to fucking tear my hair out. I'm in the middle of rearranging their living room furniture, moving the coffee table for the third time because something about the current setup just feels wrong, when Felix gets home from work. The nesting urge has gotten so much worse overnight, and I've spent the entire morning building what basically amounts to a fort made of throw pillows and soft blankets in the corner near their big window. I can't even explain why I need to do this, but I can't stop myself either, and it's making me want to scream.

"Belle?" Felix's voice carries from the front door, tinged with amusement. "Are you redecorating in there?"

I look up from where I'm arranging cushions to find him in the doorway holding a bag from the art supply store and wearing an expression of fond exasperation that makes my heart skip.

"How did you know?" I ask.

"Lucky guess," he says, stepping into their living room and taking in the chaos of cushions and rearranged furniture. "Also, Marcus mentioned you've been... energetic lately."

"I'm nesting," I admit, because there's no point in pretending otherwise. "Apparently, when I'm not suppressing my omega instincts, I turn into someone who needs to build soft spaces and arrange things until they feel perfect."

Felix sets down his bag and surveys my handiwork with the same attention he'd give an architectural blueprint. "Can I help?"

The offer surprises me. "You want to help me nest?"

"Belle, I'm an architect. Creating spaces that feel perfect is literally what I do for a living. And if this is what your instincts are telling you to do, then it's important."

The casual acceptance in his voice, the way he treats my biological needs as something natural rather than embarrassing, makes my chest tight with emotion.

"What's in the bag?" I ask.

"Art supplies," Felix says with a grin. "I thought we could paint together. Nothing fancy, just watercolors and whatever comes to mind. Sometimes creativity helps when you're processing big changes."

So we spend the afternoon painting at their kitchen table while I direct him in adjusting furniture and adding cushions to my increasingly elaborate nest. Felix has an intuitive understanding of space and comfort that makes him the perfect partner for this project. He suggests moving the reading chair closer to the window, adds a floor lamp for better lighting, and somehow makes everything flow together in a way that feels both cozy and elegant.

"This is perfect," I say as we step back to survey the finished nest in their living room. It's a cocoon of soft textures and warm lighting, positioned to catch the afternoon sun and provide a clear view of both the front door and the windows. My omega instincts are practically singing with satisfaction.

"It suits you," Felix says softly. "Comfortable but sophisticated, beautiful but practical."

When I turn to thank him, I find him standing much closer than I expected, paint smudged on his cheek and something warm and wondering in his expression.

"Felix," I breathe, and I can see the exact moment when his eyes drop to my lips.

"Belle," he murmurs, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, "you are so beautiful. Especially like this, when you're letting yourself be exactly who you're meant to be."

The desire to kiss him again is overwhelming, made stronger by the omega hormones flooding my system and the domestic intimacy of spending the afternoon creating a nest together in their home. I remember how perfect his lips felt against mine before, and I want that again, want more. But before either of us can close the distance between us, my phone buzzes loudly on their counter, breaking the spell.

Felix steps back with visible effort, and I grab my phone to find a text from the library about an emergency with the heating system. Duty calls, even when every instinct I have is screaming at me to ignore the outside world and focus on the beautiful alpha who just helped me build the perfect nest in his living room.

"I have to go," I say reluctantly.

"I know," Felix says, though his eyes are still dark with want. "But Belle? When you're ready to explore this properly, I'll be here."

After I leave to deal with the library crisis, I can't stop thinking about what it means that I built my nest in their house. Not in some neutral space, not in my own apartment, but in the heart of their home. My omega instincts knew exactly what they were doing.

I've been staying at their house for two weeks now, helping with the courthouse campaign during the day and working on my nest in the evenings. I'm in the middle of making dinner in their kitchen when they all arrive home from work, and the sound of multiple voices in their entryway makes my newly sensitive omega instincts flutter with anticipation.

"We brought dessert," Marcus announces as they file into the kitchen, holding up a box from the bakery. "And wine. And possibly too much enthusiasm for your tolerance level right now."

"Also flowers," Felix adds, producing a bouquet of sunflowers that immediately makes me smile.

"And backup," Theo finishes quietly. "In case the other two get too overwhelming."

The thoughtfulness of it, the way they're trying to balance their desire to be close to me with respect for my current emotional state, makes my chest tight with affection.

"Perfect timing," I say, stirring the pasta sauce. "I made enough for an army anyway."

They settle around their kitchen island, and I watch their reactions as they take in the changes I've made to their living space. The nest is the most obvious addition, but I've also rearranged some furniture to create better conversation areas and added soft lighting throughout the room.

"Belle," Felix breathes, looking around with obvious appreciation, "this is incredible. When did you do all this?"

"Today. Yesterday. This week," I say with a shrug. "I've been... productive."

"You've been nesting," Theo observes, and there's something almost reverent in his voice. "This is what omega nesting looks like."

"Does it bother you?" I ask, suddenly uncertain. "I know it's not exactly normal to completely rearrange your living space in the middle of dating and campaign work..."

"Bother us?" Marcus steps closer, his eyes warm with something that might be awe. "Belle, this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You're creating a home, a safe space. It's exactly what you should be doing."

"Besides," Felix adds with a grin, "I helped with some of it. I'm emotionally invested in this nest now."

We eat dinner sitting on cushions around their coffee table, the formal dining chairs abandoned in favor of the more intimate setup my omega instincts insisted on creating. The conversation flows easily, covering everything from the courthouse campaign to library politics to Felix's latest architectural project and the progress on the campaign strategy.

But underneath the casual chatter, there's an undercurrent of tension that has everything to do with the way I'm responding to having all three alphas in their space with me. Without suppressants, their combined scents are intoxicating from Marcus's warm amber, Felix's clean cedar, Theo's dark coffee notes creating a blend that makes my body hum with contentment and desire.

"Belle," Theo says during a lull in conversation, "how are you feeling? With the suppressants change, I mean."

"Different," I say honestly. "More myself, maybe? Like I've been living at half volume for years and suddenly everything is turned up."

"Good different or overwhelming different?" Marcus asks.

"Both," I admit. "It's like discovering I have senses I never knew I had. Everything smells stronger, feels more intense. And the nesting thing..." I gesture around at their transformed living room. "I had no idea that was something I needed until I was already doing it."

"What else are you noticing?" Felix asks gently.

Heat floods my cheeks. "You mean besides the fact that all three of you smell like the most amazing thing I've ever experienced?"

The question hangs in the air for a moment, and I can see the way their eyes darken with something that might be hunger or satisfaction or both.

"Is that a problem?" Theo asks quietly.

"No," I say immediately. "It's just... intense. Being this aware of how much I want to be close to you. All of you."

"Belle," Marcus says carefully, "are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with another work emergency, because there’s a burst pipe in the children's section that requires immediate attention. The interruption is jarring, pulling me back to practical reality when all I want is to stay in this perfect bubble with the three men who've become the center of my universe.

"I'm sorry," I say, already reaching for my coat. "I have to go deal with this."

"We understand," Felix says, though I can see the disappointment in all their faces.

"But Belle?" Theo adds as I head for their front door. "When you're sure about what you want, we'll be here."

The promise in his voice follows me all the way to the library.

Day seven, and holy shit, everything just clicked.

I wake up in my nest in their living room where I crashed last night after all that library drama, surrounded by soft blankets and sheets that smell like Marcus, Felix, and Theo. And for the first time in forever, I actually feel... right. Like, completely okay with who I am and what I want.

The week without suppressants has shown me what I've been hiding from myself. This isn't just attraction or compatibility or even the powerful pull of potential pack bonds. This is love. Real, transformative, forever kind of love with three extraordinary men who see me as I really am and want me anyway.

I'm still processing this realization when my phone rings. Marcus's name on the screen makes my pulse jump with anticipation.

"Good morning, beautiful," his voice comes through the phone, warm and affectionate. "How are you feeling today?"

"Like I've made a decision," I tell him honestly.

"What kind of decision?"

"The kind that involves three alphas and one omega and a future that's bigger than anything I ever let myself imagine."

The silence on the other end stretches long enough to make me nervous. "Marcus? Are you still there?"

"I'm here," he says, and his voice is rough with emotion. "Belle, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I'm saying I'm ready to stop taking suppressants permanently. I'm saying I want to explore this pack bond properly, without holding back. I'm saying I love you. All of you."

"Belle..." Marcus's voice breaks slightly. "Are you sure? This is a big decision, and I need to know you're choosing this because it's what you really want, not because you're caught up in omega hormones."

"Marcus," I say firmly, "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. This week has shown me who I really am when I'm not fighting my own nature. And who I am is someone who wants to build a life with three incredible alphas who make me feel like I can be anything."

"In that case," Marcus says, and I can hear the smile in his voice, "we need to talk. All of us. We'll be home in an hour."

"I'll be here," I tell him. "In our nest, waiting."

As I hang up the phone and look around at the nest I've created in their living room, at the space that's become a symbol of my readiness to embrace my omega nature fully, I know that this is the last morning I'll wake up uncertain about my future.

Tonight, I'll be going to sleep as their omega. Their pack member. Their home.

The thought should probably terrify me, but instead, it fills me with a sense of rightness that goes deeper than conscious thought. This is what I've been moving toward since that first night Theo found me in heat at the library. Every conversation, every date, every moment of growing trust has been leading to this decision.

I'm ready to be their omega. More than ready, I'm eager for it.

And judging by the way Marcus sounded on the phone, they're just as eager to claim me as I am to be claimed.

The future starts today, and I can't wait to see what we'll build together.

33

THEO

I'm awake before anyone else, lying in my own bed for the first time in two weeks. Belle's been staying in the guest room since she moved in, maintaining some independence even as she's integrated into our pack life. But tomorrow changes everything.

Tomorrow, her heat start, and we finally bond properly.

The thought should probably make me nervous, but it doesn't. Eight years in the military taught me to prepare thoroughly for important missions. This is the most important mission of my life.

I can hear movement downstairs. Marcus, probably. He always gets up early when he's processing something, and we're all processing the magnitude of what's about to happen.

I pull on clothes and head downstairs, finding Marcus exactly where I expected him to be, in the kitchen, making coffee with the kind of precision he usually reserves for construction blueprints.

"Couldn't sleep either?" I ask, settling onto one of the bar stools.

"Too much to think about." Marcus pours two cups, slides one across to me. "Tomorrow changes everything."

"In the best possible way."

"I know. It's just..." Marcus runs a hand through his hair. "We've been waiting for this for so long. Now that it's actually happening, I want to make sure we do it right."

"Define right."

"I want Belle to feel safe. Cherished. I want her first bonding experience with us to be everything she deserves,” he says.

The concern in his voice makes sense. Belle's only experience with heat has been managing it alone, terrified and isolated. We need to show her what it's like to be cared for properly.

"She trusts us," I point out. "Yesterday, when she told us about her heat starting tomorrow, there was no fear in her scent. Just anticipation."

"Good anticipation or nervous anticipation?"

"Both. Which is normal."

Felix appears in the kitchen doorway, hair sticking up in several directions. "Are we having an emergency pack meeting? Because if so, I need more coffee than exists in this house."

"Not emergency," Marcus corrects, pouring a third cup. "Planning session."

"For tomorrow." Felix settles onto another stool, instantly more alert. "Our omega's first heat with us."

"Exactly. I want to make sure we're prepared for everything."

"What kind of everything?" I ask, though I can guess where Marcus's mind is going.

"Logistics. Nest-building supplies. Food preparation. Temperature control. Making sure Belle has everything she needs to feel comfortable."

"You made a list, didn't you?" Felix observes with amusement.

Marcus pulls out his phone, scrolls to what is clearly a very detailed list. "Seventeen items. Cross-referenced by priority and timeline."

"Of course you did." I shake my head, but I'm not surprised. "Read it."

"Nest-building materials. We need more blankets, pillows. Soft textures that will hold our scents properly."

"Already handled," Felix says. "I ordered everything yesterday. Premium materials, optimal comfort specifications."

"Food preparation. High-protein snacks, hydration options, easy-to-digest meals for when she's too distracted to focus on eating."

"I can handle that," I offer. "Military rations taught me to think about nutrition under stress."

"Temperature control. Her room needs to be exactly the right temperature. Too hot and she'll be uncomfortable. Too cold and she won't want to leave the nest."

"HVAC system is already optimized," Felix says. "Individual room controls, backup heating if needed."

Marcus continues down his list. Security measures. Privacy considerations. Communication protocols if she needs anything. Backup plans for potential complications.

"Marcus," I interrupt gently. "You're overthinking this."

"Am I? Because this is important, Theo. This is the moment that determines whether Belle feels safe and loved during her most vulnerable time, or whether we fuck it up and damage her trust in us forever."

The intensity in his voice reveals the real concern. Marcus isn't worried about logistics. He's worried about being worthy of Belle's trust.

"She already trusts us," Felix points out. "Belle chose to share her heat with us. She could have managed it alone like she has for years, but she chose us."

"Because she loves us," I add. "And we love her. Everything else is just details."

Marcus is quiet for a moment, processing this. "I just want to be perfect for her."

"Marcus," Felix says gently, "you don't have to be perfect. You just have to be you. The alpha who showed her what passionate commitment looks like. Who made her feel safe enough to consider sharing her life with us."

"Besides," I add, "Belle doesn't want perfect. She wants real. Authentic. The same qualities that made her fall in love with us in the first place."

"You're right." Marcus sets down his coffee cup with obvious decision. "I'm overthinking this."

"Little bit," Felix agrees with a grin.

"So what do we actually need to focus on?" Marcus asks.

"Being present," I say immediately. "Available for whatever she needs, when she needs it."

"Following her lead," Felix adds. "Let Belle tell us what she wants, how she wants the bonding to happen."

"And making sure she knows she's completely safe with us," Marcus finishes.

"Exactly."

We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, drinking coffee and processing the reality of what's coming. Tomorrow, Belle will go into heat. We'll help her through it. We'll bond with her properly, permanently. She'll become our omega in every way that matters.

"Are you nervous?" Felix asks suddenly.

"About the bonding? No," I answer honestly. "About being worthy of her? Absolutely."

"Same," Marcus agrees. "I've closed million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, but the thought of Belle trusting me with her heat makes my hands shake."

"Because it matters more than any business deal ever could," Felix observes.

"Because she matters more than anything ever has," I correct.

"Think she's nervous?" Marcus asks.

"Probably. But not about us. About the intensity of it. About letting herself be that vulnerable."

"Can't blame her for that," Felix says. "Heat cycles are intense under the best circumstances. Her first one with a pack..."

"Will be incredible," Marcus finishes firmly. "Because we're going to make sure of it."

"Speaking of which," I say, "we should probably discuss coordination. Who takes the lead when?"

"I was thinking we let Belle decide that," Marcus suggests. "See who she gravitates toward first, who she needs most in the moment."

"That works. As long as we're all available and ready."

"What about after?" Felix asks. "After the bonding is complete, after the heat ends. How do we handle the adjustment period?"

"Carefully," I say immediately. "Belle's going to need time to process what happened, what it means for her life going forward."

"We all will," Marcus adds. "This changes everything for all of us."

"Good changes," Felix says firmly.

"The best changes," I agree.

We spend another hour discussing details. Practical considerations for heat management. Emotional support strategies. How to make sure Belle feels loved and cherished throughout the entire process.

By the time we're finished, the sun is fully up and I can hear movement upstairs. Belle, probably getting ready for what might be her last normal day before everything changes.

"Are we ready for this?" Marcus asks as we clean up the coffee cups.

"We've been ready for this for three years," Felix points out.

"We've been ready for this our entire lives," I correct. "We just didn't know it until we met Belle."

"Tomorrow," Marcus says with obvious anticipation.

"Tomorrow," Felix agrees.

"Tomorrow," I confirm.

Tomorrow, our pack becomes complete. Tomorrow, Belle becomes ours in every way that matters. Tomorrow, we prove that we're worthy of the trust she's placing in us.

I've never been more ready for anything in my life.

Mission status: Prepared and ready to execute.

Objective: Claim our omega and make her permanently ours.

Expected outcome: Complete success.

Everything else is just details.

And we've always been good with details.

"You know what?" Marcus says suddenly, setting down his empty coffee cup. "We should go out tonight. Have a drink, celebrate the end of our search."

"The end of waiting," Felix agrees with a grin. "Tomorrow changes everything, but tonight... tonight we're still three alphas who found their perfect omega."

"One last night before we become a complete pack," I add, and the idea feels right. "Belle's spending the day at the library, tying up loose ends before her time off. We should mark this moment."

"To the end of searching," Marcus says, already reaching for his keys.

"And the beginning of forever," Felix finishes.

34

BELLE

Iwake up knowing everything is about to change. I've grown accustomed to over the past week since stopping my suppressants. My body is singing with a heat that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room and everything to do with the biological imperative that's been building in my system for days.

My first natural heat in a year.

The realization sends a mixture of anticipation and terror shooting through my nervous system. I've been preparing for this moment since I made the decision to go off suppressants permanently, but knowing something intellectually and experiencing it physically are two entirely different things.

I'm in my nest, surrounded by the soft pillows and blankets I've been compulsively arranging for the past week, and even through the haze of emerging heat, I can smell them. Marcus, Felix, and Theo. Their scents linger on the throw pillows where they sat during our dinner three nights ago, faint but unmistakable. Cedar, amber, and dark coffee mixing together in a combination that makes my newly awakened omega instincts purr with satisfaction.

My phone shows it's barely six in the morning, but I know I need to call them. Soon. The heat is still in its early stages, and it is manageable but I can feel it building like a storm on the horizon. And unlike that night in the library when Theo found me unprepared and terrified, this time I have a choice. This time, I want them here.

I want to experience this properly, with the alphas who've claimed my heart and who I'm finally ready to claim in return.

The thought sends another wave of heat through my body, stronger this time, and I know I can't wait much longer. My skin feels too sensitive, every nerve ending alive with need, and the ache between my legs is becoming impossible to ignore.

I reach for my phone with hands that shake slightly and dial the number I've memorized by heart.

"Belle?" Marcus's voice comes through the phone immediately, alert and concerned despite the early hour. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I tell him, my voice already breathier than usual. "But Marcus, I need you. All of you. It's starting."

The silence on the other end stretches for exactly three heartbeats before Marcus's voice returns, rougher and more urgent. "Your heat?"

"Yes."

"Where are you?"

"At home, in my nest." The words feel strange on my tongue, claiming ownership of this space I've created, this sanctuary where I want to let myself be completely vulnerable. "Marcus, I'm scared, but I'm ready. I want this. I want you."

"We're coming," he says immediately. "Belle, listen to me. Don't try to manage this alone, don't push through it. We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"All of you?"

"All of us," he confirms. "Belle, we've been waiting for this moment since the night we met you. We're not missing it."

After he hangs up, I lie back in my nest and try to process what's about to happen. This isn't just about physical relief or biological necessity. This is about choosing my pack, accepting the bond that's been building between us for weeks, allowing myself to be claimed and to claim them in return.

The heat is intensifying, making me restless and needy in ways that go beyond anything I've ever experienced. The suppressants had muted everything for so long that feeling the full force of omega biology is overwhelming. My skin feels like it's burning from the inside out, and every breath brings waves of arousal that make it difficult to think clearly.

But underneath the physical need is something deeper, more complex. A sense of rightness, of finally moving toward something I've been unconsciously seeking my entire adult life. The pack bond isn't just about heat and biology, but it's about trust and partnership and building something together that's stronger than any of us could create alone.

I'm still processing these thoughts when I hear the sound of multiple cars in the parking lot outside my building. They're here. My alphas are here, and in a few minutes, everything will change forever.

The knowledge sends another surge of heat through my body, stronger this time, making me whimper softly with need. I can smell them now, even through the closed windows and the distance of two floors. Their scents are sharp with anxiety and protective urgency, and underneath it all, the unmistakable musk of alphas responding to their omega's call.

When they knock on my door, I’m already on my feet, padding barefoot across the apartment in the oversized t-shirt and shorts I'd slept in. The simple movement sends waves of sensation through my oversensitive body, and I have to pause with my hand on the doorknob to catch my breath.

"Belle?" Theo's voice comes through the door, quiet and controlled but edged with concern. "We're here. Can you let us in?"

I open the door to find all three of them standing in my hallway, still wearing yesterday's clothes like they'd thrown them on without thought and rushed over immediately. The sight of them makes my heart clench with affection even as my body responds to their presence with another surge of heat.

"How are you feeling?" Felix asks immediately, his eyes scanning my face with the attention to detail I've come to associate with his architectural mind.

"Hot," I tell them honestly. "Needy. Scared. Ready."

Marcus steps closer, and I can see him scenting the air around me, his pupils dilating as he processes the pheromones I'm apparently broadcasting. "Belle, your heat is stronger than last time."

"Because I'm not fighting it," I say simply. "Because I want this. Because I want you."

The admission hangs in the air between us, more honest than I've ever been about my desires, and I can see the effect it has on all three of them. Their scents spike with want and possession and something deeper that might be love.

"Are you sure?" Theo asks quietly. "Belle, once we do this, once we bond properly, there's no going back. You'll be ours, and we'll be yours, in every way that matters."

"I know," I tell him. "I've known since that night you found me in the library. Maybe I wasn't ready to admit it then, but some part of me recognized you. All of you. You're my pack, and I want to make it official."

Felix reaches out to cup my cheek, his touch gentle despite the tension radiating from his body. "What do you need from us?"

"Everything," I whisper. "I need you to take care of me, to claim me, to make me yours. I need you to help me through this heat and then never let me go."

The words are barely out of my mouth before Marcus is moving, sweeping me up in his arms and carrying me toward the nest I've created in the corner of my living room. The sudden contact with his body, warm and solid and smelling like home, makes me moan softly with relief.

"Easy, sweetheart," he murmurs against my hair. "We've got you. We're going to take such good care of you."

He settles me carefully in the center of my nest, and immediately I'm surrounded by their scents, stronger now that they're close. Felix and Theo arrange themselves on either side of the nest, close enough to touch but giving Marcus space to take the lead.

"Marcus first?" I ask, looking between them. Some instinct I can't name is telling me that this is how it should be when Theo found me at the library, and showed me his passionate commitment to building something meaningful.

"Unless you want it differently," Marcus says, his voice rough with carefully controlled want. "Belle, this is your choice. Everything that happens here is your choice."

"You first," I confirm, reaching for him. "Then Felix, then Theo. I want all of you, but I want to bond with each of you individually too. I want to understand what each connection feels like."

Marcus's eyes darken at my words, and he moves closer, settling beside me in the nest.

Marcus hand is against my cheek, and it sends electricity shooting through my entire nervous system. Marcus's touch is warm and sure, his palm rough with calluses from construction work, and the contrast against my fevered skin makes me shiver.

"God, Belle," he breathes, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone. "You're burning up. Your skin is so hot."

"Then help me," I whisper, leaning into his touch. "Please, Marcus. I need you to touch me."

His other hand finds my waist, fingers splaying across my ribs through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. Even that simple contact makes me gasp, my body so sensitive that every touch feels magnified.

"Tell me what you want," he says, his voice rough with restraint. "Belle, I need to hear you say it."

"I want you to touch me everywhere," I breathe, my hands fisting in his shirt. "I want to feel your hands on my skin. I want you to make me yours."

That's all the permission he needs. Marcus's mouth finds mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly becomes desperate. His lips are firm and demanding, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes heat pool low in my belly. I can taste coffee and determination on his lips, can smell the way his scent is shifting toward something darker and more possessive.

When we break apart, both breathing hard, his eyes are almost black with desire.

"I've wanted this for so long," he confesses, his hands beginning to roam over my body with increasing urgency. "Every night since I met you, I've imagined what it would be like to touch you, to claim you, to make you mine."

His hands slide under my t-shirt, warm palms against my fevered skin, and the sensation makes me arch against him with a soft cry. Every touch sends waves of pleasure through my hypersensitive body, and I can feel the heat building toward something urgent and demanding.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmurs, his mouth trailing hot kisses down my throat. "So perfect. I can't believe you're really here, really mine."

"I'm yours," I gasp, my hands tugging at his clothes. "But I need to feel you too. I need your skin against mine."

We help each other out of our clothes with fumbling, desperate hands. When Marcus pulls my t-shirt over my head, when I push his shirt off his shoulders, the feeling of skin meeting skin is overwhelming. He's all hard muscle and warm flesh, his chest broad and strong, scattered with dark hair that I run my fingers through with wonder.

"Beautiful," I whisper, pressing my lips to his collarbone, tasting salt and heat and something essentially Marcus.

His response is a low growl that vibrates through his chest as he captures my mouth again. This kiss is hungrier, more demanding, his hands roaming over my newly bared skin with reverent touches.

When he cups my breast, when his thumb brushes over my nipple, I cry out with the intensity of sensation. "Marcus!"

"So responsive," he murmurs against my throat, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. "Every sound you make drives me crazy, Belle."

He lavishes attention on my breasts, using his hands and mouth to drive me to the edge of madness. When he takes my nipple into his mouth, when he uses his tongue and teeth to pleasure me, I think I might spontaneously combust from the intensity of it.

"Please," I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair. "Marcus, I need more. I need you."

"I know, sweetheart," he soothes, his hands skimming down my body to remove the last barriers between us. "I'm going to give you everything you need."

When we're finally completely naked, when the full length of his body is pressed against mine, the sensation is overwhelming. Marcus is bigger than I expected, all muscle and heat and barely controlled power. I can feel his arousal pressing against my thigh, hard and insistent, and the knowledge that he wants me this desperately makes my own need spike higher.

"Are you ready for me?" he asks, settling between my thighs, his voice tight with the effort of holding himself back. "Belle, I need you to be sure. Once I'm inside you, once we start the bonding process, there's no going back."

"I'm sure," I tell him, reaching up to cup his face. "Marcus, I've never been more sure of anything in my life. I want you. I want this. I want us."

He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of him pressing against me, hot and demanding. The anticipation is almost unbearable, my body crying out for completion, for connection, for him.

"Look at me," he requests softly. "I want to see your face when I claim you."

I meet his eyes, seeing the love and desire and fierce protectiveness there, and then he's pushing inside me slowly, carefully, giving my body time to adjust to the invasion. The stretch is intense, overwhelming, perfect in ways that make me cry out with relief and pleasure.

"God," Marcus groans, his control hanging by a thread as he works himself deeper. "Belle, you feel incredible. So tight, so perfect, so mine."

"Yours," I agree breathlessly, my body adjusting to accommodate him. "Always yours, Marcus."

When he's finally seated fully inside me, when we're joined as completely as two people can be, we both go still, overwhelmed by the intensity of the connection. I can feel him pulsing inside me, can sense his desperate need to move, to claim, to bond.

"How do you feel?" he asks, his forehead pressed against mine.

"Full," I breathe. "Complete. Like this is exactly where I'm supposed to be."

He begins to move then, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity as my body responds to his. Each thrust sends waves of sensation through my heat-sensitized system, but it's more than just physical pleasure. Something is happening in my mind, a warmth spreading through my consciousness that has nothing to do with my body and everything to do with Marcus.

"I can feel something," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders as he sets a rhythm that drives me steadily toward madness. "In my mind. It's like... like you're becoming part of me."

"That's the bond," Marcus explains, his voice rough with exertion and emotion. "We're connecting, Belle. Really connecting. Can you feel what I'm feeling?"

I reach out with my consciousness, and suddenly I'm flooded with his love, his fierce protectiveness, his overwhelming satisfaction at finally being able to claim me. The sensation is so intense that tears spring to my eyes.

"I can feel how much you love me," I whisper, wonder in my voice. "It's like... like having another heart beating in my chest."

"That's exactly what it is," he says, angling his hips to hit that spot inside me that makes me see stars. "You're part of me now, Belle. Forever."

The bond strengthens with every thrust, every kiss, every whispered endearment. I can feel Marcus's thoughts and emotions flowing through the connection, and I know he can feel mine too. The intimacy is overwhelming, not just physical, but emotional and spiritual.

"Marcus," I gasp, feeling the tension building toward something urgent and demanding. "I'm close. I can feel... something building."

"Let go," he encourages, one hand sliding between us to touch me where we're joined. "Come for me, Belle. Let me feel you fall apart around me."

The combination of his touch and his words and the overwhelming sensation of our bond forming sends me over the edge with a cry that echoes through the apartment. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, so intense that for a moment I lose all sense of time and space. But through it all, I can feel Marcus in my mind, sharing my pleasure, amplifying it until I think I might die from the intensity.

As my body clenches around him, as my orgasm triggers his own, something changes. Marcus begins to swell inside me, his knot forming and locking us together in the most intimate way possible. The sensation is foreign and overwhelming and perfect, his body claiming mine in the most primal way an alpha can claim an omega.

But it's when his teeth find the sensitive junction between my neck and shoulder that everything truly changes. The bite is sharp and claiming, his canines piercing my skin deep enough to leave a permanent mark. The pain-pleasure of it sends another wave of sensation through my already overwhelmed system, but more than that, it completes our bond in a way that's permanent and undeniable.

"Mine," Marcus growls against my throat, his voice rough with possession and satisfaction as he licks the fresh wound. "My omega. My mate."

"Yours," I agree breathlessly, tears streaming down my face from the overwhelming intensity of everything we've shared. "Always yours, Marcus."

We stay locked together for what feels like hours, his knot keeping us joined while our bodies recover from the intensity of bonding. Marcus holds me carefully, stroking my hair and whispering soft words of love and possession while I process what just happened.

The bond is real, tangible in ways I never understood from reading about it. I can feel Marcus in my mind now, a warm presence that speaks of safety and protection and unwavering devotion. His emotions flow through our connection, and there’s a contentment so deep it makes me want to cry.

"How do you feel?" he asks softly, his fingers tracing the fresh mark on my throat.

"Different," I tell him honestly, my voice hoarse from crying out. "Complete. Like a part of me I didn't know was missing has finally been filled."

"And the bond? Can you feel it clearly now?"

I close my eyes and reach out with my consciousness, marveling at what I find. "Yes," I whisper. "I can feel you in my mind. Your love, your protectiveness, your satisfaction that I'm finally yours. It's incredible, Marcus."

"Good," he says, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. "That's how it should be. Belle, you have no idea how complete you make me feel."

I can feel the truth of his words through our bond, can sense his deep satisfaction and contentment. "The heat?" I ask, taking mental inventory of my body.

The desperate urgency that had been driving me is significantly diminished now. The aching need is still there, but it's manageable, focused on my other two mates rather than the overwhelming desperation it had been before.

"Better," I say. "Still there, but not overwhelming. Not frightening."

"Good," Marcus says, settling more comfortably beside me as his knot finally begins to recede. "That's how it should be after the first bonding. The heat will continue for a couple more days, but it shouldn't be unmanageable now that we've started the claiming process."

"Started?" I ask, though I think I know the answer.

"Belle," Marcus says gently, "you still need to bond with Felix and Theo. The pack bond isn't complete until all four of us are connected."

The thought of being claimed by Felix and Theo the way Marcus just claimed me sends another wave of heat through my body, though it's different now, and less desperate, more anticipatory.

"I want that," I tell him. "I want all of you."

"And we want you," Marcus assures me, his arms tightening around me possessively. "But first, you need to rest. Let your body recover from this bonding before we continue."

As if summoned by our conversation, Felix appears beside the nest, his eyes dark with want and barely controlled need. "How is she?" he asks Marcus, though his gaze never leaves my face.

"Perfect," Marcus says with obvious pride. "Absolutely perfect."

"Can I touch her?" Felix asks, and the careful politeness in his voice makes my heart clench with affection. Even now, even when I can smell how badly he wants me, he's asking permission.

"Please," I say, reaching for him. "Felix, I need you close."

He settles beside me in the nest, his hands immediately finding my skin, soothing and reassuring. The moment our skin connects, I can feel the beginnings of what will become our bond—different from what I have with Marcus, but equally strong. Where Marcus's connection feels like bedrock, solid and unshakeable, Felix's potential bond feels like sunrise, bright and warming and full of creative possibility.

"Soon," I promise him, seeing the want and patience warring in his expression. "As soon as I'm ready, I want you to claim me too."

"I'll wait as long as you need," Felix says, pressing a soft kiss to my shoulder. "But Belle, seeing you like this, knowing that you're finally ours... it's the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed."

"Where's Theo?" I ask, suddenly needing all three of them close.

"Here," Theo's quiet voice comes from the other side of the nest. "I'm here, Belle. Not going anywhere."

I turn my head to find him sitting at the edge of the nest, his dark eyes intense with emotion and carefully controlled desire. Of all three alphas, Theo is the one who's best at hiding what he's feeling, but I can smell his want, his need, his love as clearly as if he'd spoken them aloud.

"Come closer," I request, and he immediately moves to settle on my other side.

Now I'm surrounded by all three of them, Marcus's mark fresh on my throat, Felix's hands stroking soothing patterns on my skin, and Theo's solid presence grounding me. This is what safety feels like. This is what home feels like.

"I love you," I tell them, the words easier to say now that the bond with Marcus has opened up pathways in my heart I didn't know existed. "All of you. I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

"We love you too," Felix says immediately. "More than we ever thought possible."

"You're our everything," Theo adds quietly. "Our omega, our mate, our future."

"Our heart," Marcus finishes, his arms tightening around me possessively. "You're the heart of our pack, Belle."

The words wrap around me like the softest blanket, settling into my soul and making me feel cherished in ways I never imagined possible. This is what I've been searching for without knowing it—not just love, but belonging. Not just acceptance, but celebration of who I am.

"Rest now," Marcus says, pulling a soft blanket over all of us. "Sleep if you can. When you wake up, we'll continue."

"Will you stay?" I ask, though I think I know the answer.

"We're not going anywhere," Theo assures me. "Belle, you're stuck with us now. Permanently."

"Good," I murmur, letting my eyes drift closed as exhaustion from the intensity of the bonding catches up with me. "That's exactly what I want."

I fall asleep surrounded by the scents and warmth of my pack, Marcus's mark fresh on my throat and the knowledge that when I wake up, Felix will be next. Then Theo. Then all four of us will be bound together in ways that nothing and no one can break.

Through our new bond, I can feel Marcus's contentment and love flowing through our connection, a constant warm presence in my mind that makes me feel safer and more cherished than I ever have in my life.

The beginning of forever starts with rest, with trust, with the absolute certainty that when I'm ready to continue this journey, my pack will be right there with me every step of the way.

And I can't wait to take the next step.

35

BELLE

Ifeel gentle fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder, and for a moment, then memory floods back when Marcus was claiming me and the mark on my throat that still throbs with a pleasant ache, the knowledge that I'm now officially part of the pack I've been unconsciously seeking my entire adult life.

The heat is still there, simmering under my skin like embers waiting to be fanned into flame, but it's different now. More focused, less desperate. The edge of panic that characterized my previous heats has been replaced by something warmer, more anticipatory. I know what's coming next, and instead of fearing it, I'm looking forward to it.

"Good morning, beautiful," Felix's voice comes from beside me, soft and warm with affection. "How are you feeling?"

I turn my head to find him propped up on one elbow, watching me with those expressive eyes that always seem to see more than they should. His hair is mussed from sleep, and there's something incredibly intimate about seeing him like this, yet he's completely focused on my wellbeing.

"Different," I tell him honestly, my voice still rough with sleep. "Better. Complete in a way I didn't know I was incomplete."

"The bond with Marcus?"

I reach up to touch the mark on my throat, Marcus's claiming bite that still sends little shivers of pleasure through me when I press against it. "I can feel him," I say wonderingly. "Even when he's not touching me, I can feel his presence in my mind. His love, his protectiveness, his satisfaction that I'm finally his."

"Where is he?" I ask, suddenly realizing that Marcus isn't in the nest with us.

"Kitchen," Felix says with a smile. "Making breakfast and probably reorganizing your entire pantry because that's what Marcus does when he's nervous."

"He's nervous?"

"We all are," Felix admits, his fingers still tracing gentle patterns on my skin. "This is new for us too, Belle. We've dreamed about having an omega, about forming a complete pack bond, but the reality is more intense than we imagined."

The honesty in his voice makes my chest tight with emotion. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"God, no," Felix says immediately, his hand cupping my cheek. "Belle, this is the most incredible thing that's ever happened to me. To all of us. It's just... overwhelming. In the best possible way."

I can smell the truth of his words in his scent, the way cedar and contentment mix with something deeper that might be awe. "Then why nervous?"

"Because I want this to be perfect for you," Felix says simply. "Because Marcus is a hard act to follow, and I want my claiming of you to be everything you need it to be."

The vulnerability in his admission makes me want to wrap him in my arms and never let go. This is Felix at his core—the artist who sees beauty in everything, who wants to create perfect moments and meaningful experiences.

"Felix," I say gently, sitting up so I can look at him properly, "it will be perfect because it's you. Because you're the alpha who planned a chocolate-making date just to see me smile, who helped me build this nest because you understood that I needed to create something beautiful. You don't have to compete with Marcus. You just have to be yourself."

His eyes brighten at my words, and I can smell the way his scent shifts toward something warmer and more confident. "You really mean that?"

"I really mean that," I confirm, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. "Besides, the bond with Marcus showed me something important."

"What's that?"

"Each connection is different. Unique. What I have with Marcus is profound and powerful and exactly what I needed from him. But what I'm going to have with you will be different, equally important but in its own way."

"And what do you need from me?" Felix asks, his voice dropping to something more intimate.

The question sends another wave of heat through my body, stronger this time, reminding me that while the desperate urgency has passed, the need is still very much there. "I need you to show me what it feels like to be cherished by someone who sees art in everything. I need you to claim me with the same creativity and attention to detail you bring to your designs."

Felix's pupils dilate at my words, and I can smell the spike of arousal in his scent. "Belle..."

"I'm ready," I tell him, reaching for the hem of the t-shirt he's wearing. "I need you, Felix. I need to feel what our bond will be like."

He helps me pull his shirt over his head, revealing the lean, strong torso I've been fantasizing about since that first dance at the ball. His skin is warm and smooth under my hands, and when I trace the line of his collarbone with my fingertips, he shudders with want.

"You're sure?" he asks, even as his hands find my waist, pull me closer. "The heat isn't too overwhelming?"

"It's perfect," I assure him. "Manageable but present. I can think clearly, I can choose what I want. And what I want is you."

That's all the encouragement he needs. Felix's mouth finds mine in a kiss that's different from Marcus's claiming, because it’s soft at first, more exploratory, like he's learning the shape of my lips and the taste of my desire. His hands frame my face with the same care he'd use handling precious artwork, and the tenderness in his touch makes my heart clench with love.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my lips. "So perfect. I still can't believe you're ours."

"Believe it," I whisper back, my hands exploring the planes of his chest, the way his breath catches when I find sensitive spots. "I'm yours, Felix. Completely and permanently yours."

His response is to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes heat pool low in my belly. I can taste coffee and something sweet on his lips, probably the pastries I know he keeps stashed in his kitchen for moments when inspiration strikes at odd hours.

When we break apart, both breathing harder, his eyes are dark with want and something deeper. "Belle, I need you to know something before we do this."

"What?"

"I love you," he says simply. "Not just as part of the pack, not just because you're our omega. I love you, Belle Hartwell, the woman who gets excited about library science and makes terrible jokes about the Dewey Decimal System. I love your mind and your heart and the way you make everything around you more beautiful just by existing."

The words hit me harder than any physical touch could. This is what I've been craving without knowing it, to be loved for exactly who I am.

"I love you too," I tell him, my voice thick with emotion. "I love the way you see beauty in everyday things, the way you made chocolate-making feel like the most romantic thing in the world, the way you helped me create this nest because you understood what I needed."

"Then let me love you properly," Felix says, his hands beginning to roam over my body with increasing urgency. "Let me show you what it means to be cherished by someone who thinks you're a masterpiece."

The word choice is so perfectly Felix, because he’s artistic, romantic, and completely sincere. It makes me laugh even as another wave of heat crashes through me. "Show me," I agree, pulling him down for another kiss.

Felix takes his time with me in a way that's completely different from Marcus's passionate claiming. Where Marcus was urgent and possessive, Felix is deliberate and worshipful. He begins by kissing me thoroughly, deeply, until I'm breathless and aching for more. His hands roam over my body with reverent touches, tracing patterns on my skin like he's memorizing every curve.

"So beautiful," he whispers against my lips, his hands skimming over my ribs, my waist, the curve of my hips. "I want to touch every inch of you, Belle. I want to learn what makes you tremble."

His mouth starts a slow journey down my throat, pausing to press soft, open-mouthed kisses to my pulse point. When he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below my ear, he lingers there, using his tongue and teeth in ways that make me gasp and arch beneath him.

"Your heart is racing," he murmurs against my skin, his breath warm and intimate. "I can feel how much you want this."

"I can feel how much you want it too," I reply breathlessly, my hands tangling in his hair as he continues his exploration.

He takes his time mapping my throat and shoulders, finding sensitive spots I didn't know existed. When his hands cup my breasts, when his thumbs brush over my nipples with feather-light touches, I moan with the intensity of sensation.

"So responsive," he breathes, watching my face as he continues his gentle torture. "Every touch makes you more beautiful."

His mouth finds my collarbone, and he spends long minutes lavishing attention on the sensitive skin there, alternating between soft kisses and gentle scrapes of his teeth. Every touch is deliberate, purposeful, like he's painting pleasure across my skin.

"You taste like sunshine," he whispers against my throat, and the romantic absurdity of it makes me smile even as my body responds with increasing urgency. "Sweet and warm and absolutely perfect."

His hands continue their exploration, skimming down my sides, tracing the curve of my waist, the flare of my hips. When he reaches my thighs, he pauses, his fingers drawing intricate patterns on my skin that make me shiver with anticipation.

"Tell me what you want," he says, his voice rough with desire as he looks up at me. "Tell me how to worship you properly."

"Touch me," I breathe, my hands fisting in his hair. "Everywhere, Felix. I need to feel your hands on me."

He complies eagerly, his palms warm and sure as they map every inch of available skin. When he reaches my breast again, he cups it gently, his thumb circling my nipple until I'm arching into his touch with desperate need.

"Like this?" he asks, his voice husky with want.

"Yes," I gasp, my body trembling under his skilled touch. "Just like that."

When he finally takes my nipple into his mouth, when he uses his tongue and teeth to drive me to the edge of madness, I cry out with the intensity of sensation. But it's more than just physical—I can feel something stirring in my mind, the beginning threads of our bond starting to form.

"I can feel you," I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair. "Starting to connect to you."

"Good," he murmurs against my skin, switching his attention to my other breast. "I want you to feel everything I'm feeling. How much I love touching you, how much pleasure it gives me to watch you respond."

He lavishes the same careful attention on my other breast, using his mouth and hands to build my arousal to fever pitch. When I'm writhing beneath him, when my breath is coming in short gasps, he begins his journey lower.

His mouth trails hot, open kisses down my ribs, pausing to explore the sensitive skin just beneath my breasts. His hands continue their gentle exploration, stroking my sides, my hips, the soft skin of my inner thighs.

"So soft," he murmurs against my stomach, his breath warm against my heated skin. "So perfect. I could touch you forever and never get enough."

When he reaches my hipbones, he spends long minutes pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there, occasionally using his teeth to scrape gently across my flesh. The sensation sends sparks of electricity straight to my core, and I can feel moisture gathering between my thighs.

His hands stroke up and down my thighs, never quite touching where I need him most, building my anticipation to unbearable levels. "Please," I whisper, my hands tangling in his hair. "Felix, please."

"Please what?" he asks, his voice teasing but gentle. "Tell me what you need, Belle."

"You," I breathe. "I need you to touch me. Taste me. I need more."

"Anything you want," he promises, his hands finally moving to part my thighs. "Everything you need."

Every touch sends sparks of sensation through my already heightened senses, and I can feel our forming bond carrying his emotions—his reverence, his desire, his deep satisfaction at being able to pleasure me this way.

"Felix, please," I gasp when he settles between my thighs, his breath warm against my most sensitive places. "I need..."

"I know what you need," he says, his voice rough with want. "Let me worship you properly, Belle. Let me show you how beautiful you are."

When his mouth finds me, when he begins to pleasure me with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue, I think I might die from the intensity of it. This isn't just physical pleasure. It's emotional connection, spiritual bonding, the feeling of being completely cherished and adored.

"You're so responsive," he murmurs against my heated skin, his hands holding my hips steady as I arch beneath him. "Every sound you make, every movement... it's like music.”

He varies his technique, sometimes gentle and teasing, sometimes more insistent, always attentive to my responses. When he finds the rhythm that makes me cry out, he maintains it with the same focused attention he brings to his architectural work.

"Don't stop," I plead, my hands tangled in his hair, my body trembling on the edge of something overwhelming. "Please, Felix, don't stop."

"Never," he promises against my skin. "I could do this forever, watching you fall apart for me."

When he adds his fingers to the mix, when he finds that spot inside me that makes me see stars, I shatter completely. The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, so intense that for a moment I lose all sense of time and space. But through it all, I can feel Felix's presence in my mind growing stronger, his love and satisfaction flowing through our strengthening bond.

As I come down from the high, he kisses his way back up my body, pressing soft lips to my skin until he reaches my mouth again. When he kisses me, I can taste myself on his lips, and the intimate knowledge sends another shiver of arousal through my still-sensitive body.

"How do you feel?" he asks softly, his forehead pressed against mine.

"Like I'm floating," I admit breathlessly. "Like I might never come back down to earth."

"Good," Felix says with obvious satisfaction. "But we're not done yet."

"No?"

"No," he confirms, settling between my thighs and letting me feel the press of him against my most sensitive places. "Now I'm going to claim you properly. Now I'm going to make you mine."

The anticipation sends another wave of heat through my body, and I arch against him instinctively. "Please," I whisper. "Felix, I need you inside me. I need to feel our bond form completely."

He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of him pressing against me, hot and demanding. "Look at me," he requests softly. "I want to see your face when I claim you. I want to watch the moment our bond locks into place."

I meet his eyes, seeing the love and desire and artistic appreciation there, and then he's pushing inside me slowly, carefully, giving my body time to adjust to his size. The stretch is perfect, overwhelming in the best way, and I can feel our bond strengthening with every inch.

"God, Belle," he groans as he seats himself fully inside me. "You feel incredible. So perfect, so tight, so completely mine."

"Yours," I agree breathlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "Always yours, Felix."

He begins to move, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity as my body responds to his. Each thrust sends waves of sensation through my heat-sensitized system, but it's more than just physical pleasure. I can feel our bond forming more completely with every movement, Felix's love and creativity flowing through the connection like warm honey.

"I can feel you," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders as he finds a rhythm that drives me steadily toward madness. "In my mind, in my heart. I can feel how much you love me, how much this means to you."

"That's the bond," Felix explains, his voice rough with exertion and emotion. "We're connecting completely, Belle. Body, mind…and aeverything."

He angles his hips, finding that spot inside me that makes me see stars, and I cry out with the intensity of it. "There," I gasp. "Right there, Felix."

"I know," he says with satisfaction, maintaining that angle as he continues to move. "I can feel everything you feel now. Every spike of pleasure, every moment of need."

The thought that he can sense my pleasure through our bond sends me spiraling toward the edge faster than I expected. "Felix, I'm close."

"Let go," he encourages, one hand sliding between us to touch me where we're joined. "Come for me, Belle. Let me feel you fall apart around me."

The combination of his touch and his words and the overwhelming sensation of our bond completing sends me over the edge with a cry that mingles his name with pure pleasure. As my body clenches around him, as my orgasm triggers his own, I feel Felix begin to swell inside me, his knot forming and locking us together in the most intimate way possible.

But it's when his teeth find the other side of my throat, when he bites down with enough force to break skin and permanently mark me as his, that everything changes completely. The claiming bite sends a surge of sensation through my already overwhelmed system—part pain, part pleasure, part something deeper that speaks to my omega soul.

The bite itself is intense, his teeth sharp and claiming as they pierce my skin. I can feel the moment when he breaks through, when his mark joins Marcus's on my throat, and the sensation is indescribable. It's possession and protection and love all wrapped into one overwhelming feeling.

"Mine," Felix growls against my throat, his voice rough with possession and satisfaction. "My omega. My beautiful, perfect omega."

"Yours," I agree breathlessly, my body still shaking with the intensity of everything we've shared. "Always yours, Felix."

The marking sends waves of sensation through our completed bond, and I can feel Felix's deep satisfaction at finally being able to claim me completely. His emotions flow through love, possessiveness, creative joy, and a sense of rightness that matches my own.

We stay locked together, his knot keeping us joined while our bodies recover from the intensity of bonding. Felix holds me carefully, stroking my hair and whispering soft words of love and devotion while I process the magnitude of what just happened.

I can feel him in my mind now, a warm presence that speaks of creativity and beauty and the kind of love that sees perfection in imperfection. The bond is different from what I have with Marcus. Marcus's connection feels like bedrock, solid and unshakeable, Felix's feels like sunrise, bright and warming and full of possibility.

"The bond," I whisper, marveling at the sensation of having him in my mind. "I can feel your emotions, your thoughts."

"And I can feel yours," Felix says softly, his fingers tracing the fresh mark on my throat. "Your love, your contentment, your sense of belonging. Belle, you have no idea how complete you make me feel."

"I think I do," I tell him honestly, pressing closer against his chest. "Because you make me feel the same way."

"How do you feel?" Felix asks. "Really feel?"

"Complete," I tell him honestly. "Like another piece of the puzzle has clicked into place."

"The heat?"

I take mental inventory and realize that while the need is still there, it's even more manageable now. The deep, aching want has been replaced by something warmer and more sustainable. "Better. Much better. Still present, but not overwhelming."

"Good," Felix says, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. "That's how it should be after the second bonding. Your body is learning to trust that it will be cared for, that the need will be met."

"And after Theo?" I ask, though I think I know the answer.

"After Theo, the heat should settle into something completely manageable. Still present during your natural cycles, but never again the desperate, frightening thing it was before you had us."

The thought of never again experiencing the terror of an unmanaged heat makes me want to cry with relief. "I can't believe this is real," I admit. "Six months ago, I thought I'd spend my entire life managing heats alone, never trusting any alpha enough to let them help. Now..."

"Now you have three alphas who would move mountains to make sure you never suffer through another heat alone," Felix finishes. "Belle, you're stuck with us. Permanently. No matter what happens, no matter how complicated life gets, you'll always have us."

"Good," I murmur, settling more comfortably against his chest. "That's exactly what I want."

As if summoned by our conversation, I hear movement in the kitchen, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching the living room. Marcus appears at the edge of the nest, carrying a tray loaded with what looks like enough food for a small army.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, his eyes immediately going to the fresh mark on my throat. I can smell the satisfaction in his scent when he sees Felix's claiming bite next to his own.

"Perfect," I tell him honestly. "Absolutely perfect."

"Hungry?" Marcus asks, settling the tray on the coffee table where we can reach it without disturbing Felix's knot.

"Starving," I realize suddenly. The bonding process has left me depleted in ways I didn't expect, and my body is demanding fuel to recover.

"That's normal," Theo's quiet voice comes from the other side of the nest. I turn to find him sitting nearby, his dark eyes intense with carefully controlled desire. "Your body is working hard to form these bonds. It needs nutrients to sustain the process."

"Is that why you're keeping your distance?" I ask gently, noting that while Marcus and Felix are comfortable touching me, Theo is maintaining careful space.

"I'm keeping my distance because your scent is driving me insane," Theo admits with characteristic honesty. "Because watching you bond with Marcus and Felix is the most beautiful and torturous thing I've ever experienced. Because I want you so badly I can barely think straight, and I'm trying to give you time to recover before I completely lose control."

The raw need in his voice sends another wave of heat through my body, even as my heart clenches with affection for his restraint. "Theo..."

"I'm fine," he assures me quickly. "Belle, I'm not going anywhere. When you're ready for me, I'll be here."

"But you're suffering," I observe, able to smell the tension and barely controlled want radiating from him.

"It's worth it," Theo says simply. "You're worth any amount of waiting."

The simple honesty of it makes my chest tight with emotion. "Come closer," I request. "Please. I need all of you close."

Theo hesitates for a moment, then moves to settle on the other side of the nest. The moment he's within touching distance, I reach for his hand, needing the physical connection even though I'm still locked with Felix.

"Better?" Theo asks softly.

"Much better," I confirm, squeezing his fingers. "This is what I need. All of you here, all of you close."

"Speaking of which," Marcus says, offering me a plate loaded with scrambled eggs, toast, and fresh fruit, "you need to eat. Your body is working overtime right now."

I'm suddenly ravenous, and I make quick work of the breakfast while the alphas talk quietly around me. The conversation is domestic and comfortable as plans for the courthouse campaign, Felix's latest architectural project, Theo's thoughts on security improvements for the construction sites. Normal pack conversation, the kind of easy communication that speaks to years of friendship and partnership.

But underneath the casual chatter, I can sense the undercurrents of anticipation. Marcus and Felix are satisfied and content, their bonds with me fresh and strong. But Theo's carefully controlled need adds a note of tension to the atmosphere that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

"How much longer?" I ask Felix softly, referring to his knot.

"Maybe thirty more minutes," he estimates. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"No," I assure him. "Just... aware that someone else is waiting."

"I can wait as long as necessary," Theo says immediately, but I can smell the lie in his scent. He's holding on to his control by a thread, and the knowledge makes heat pool low in my belly despite the satisfaction of two recent orgasms.

"I don't want you to wait much longer," I tell him honestly. "Theo, I need you too. Just as much as I needed Marcus and Felix."

His scent spikes at my words, and I can see his hands clench into fists as he fights for control. "Belle..."

"Soon," I promise him. "As soon as Felix's knot recedes, I want you to claim me. I want to complete our pack bond."

"Are you sure you'll be ready?" Marcus asks, concern evident in his voice. "Belle, you've already been through two intense bondings. If you need more time to recover..."

"I'm sure," I tell him firmly. "Marcus, I can feel both of you in my mind now, and it's incredible. But it's not complete. I need Theo's connection too. I need all three bonds to feel whole."

"Then you'll have all three," Felix says softly, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "As soon as I can let you go, you can bond with Theo."

"And then?" I ask, though I think I know the answer.

"And then you'll be completely ours," Marcus says with obvious satisfaction. "And we'll be completely yours. The pack bond will be permanent and unbreakable."

The thought sends a shiver of anticipation through me. In less than an hour, I'll be bonded to all three alphas, claimed and marked and cherished by the most incredible men I've ever known. The woman who walked into this heat cycle will be gone forever, replaced by the omega I was always meant to be.

"I can't wait," I admit, and the truth of it surprises me with its intensity.

"Neither can we," Theo says quietly, his eyes dark with promise. "Belle, when I claim you, when our bond forms, you're going to understand what it means to be completely loved. Completely protected. Completely cherished."

"I already understand that," I tell him softly. "You've all been showing me since the night we met. The bonding is just making it official."

"Official and permanent," Felix corrects with a smile. "After today, you're stuck with us forever."

"Good," I say firmly. "That's exactly how I want it."

As Felix's knot finally begins to recede, as my body prepares for the final claiming that will complete our pack bond, I realize that I've never been more ready for anything in my life. The heat is still there, simmering under my skin and making me acutely aware of Theo's proximity and need. But it's manageable now, focused, something I can work with rather than something that controls me.

Most importantly, I know without question that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. With the alphas who love me, who see me as I really am and want me anyway, who will spend the rest of their lives making sure I never doubt my worth or my place in their hearts.

The third bonding is coming, and with it, the completion of everything I've been unconsciously seeking my entire adult life.

I can't wait to take that final step.

"Ready?" Felix asks softly as he finally slips free from my body.

"Ready," I confirm, already turning toward Theo with heat and love and desperate need in my eyes.

The final claiming awaits, and I've never been more eager for anything in my life.

36

BELLE

The moment Felix slips free from my body, the atmosphere in the nest shifts. Where there had been contentment and gentle satisfaction, now there's a crackling tension that makes my skin prickle with awareness. Theo's scent has been steadily intensifying throughout my bonding with Felix, and now it fills the space around us with dark coffee and something wilder, more primal.

He's been holding himself back for hours, watching me bond with his packmates while his own need built to what must be unbearable levels. The control he's maintained is staggering, but I can see the cracks in his composure now as his hands clench and unclench, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the barely leashed hunger in his dark eyes.

"Theo," I breathe, sitting up carefully and reaching for him. "I need you."

The simple words break whatever restraint he's been clinging to. In one fluid movement, he's beside me in the nest, his hands framing my face as he searches my expression for any sign of exhaustion or reluctance.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough with barely controlled want. "Belle, you've already been through two intense bondings. If you need time to recover..."

"I don't need time," I tell him firmly, pressing my palm against his chest where I can feel his heart hammering against his ribs. "Theo, I need you. Right now. I need to complete our pack bond."

He studies my face for a long moment, and the flush of arousal on my cheeks, the rapid pulse at my throat where Marcus and Felix's marks throb with pleasant ache, the need that's building in my scent despite the satisfaction of two recent bondings.

"You're sure you're ready for me?" he asks, his thumbs stroking across my cheekbones. "Belle, I've been holding back for hours. When I claim you, when I finally let go of this control, it's going to be intense."

"I'm counting on it," I tell him honestly. "Theo, I can feel Marcus and Felix in my mind now, and it's incredible. But it's not complete without you. I need your connection too. I need to understand what it feels like to be protected by someone who would go to war for me."

His eyes darken at my words, and I can smell the spike of possession and satisfaction in his scent. "I would," he says simply. "Go to war for you. Fight anyone who tried to hurt you. Die before I let anything happen to you."

"I know," I whisper, leaning into his touch. "I've known that since the night you found me in heat at the library. Since you sat with me for hours and proved that some alphas can be trusted completely."

"Belle..." His voice breaks slightly on my name, and I can see the emotion he's trying to hide.

"Show me," I request softly. "Show me what it means to be claimed by someone who would protect me with his life."

That's all the permission he needs. Theo's mouth crashes against mine in a kiss that's completely different from Marcus's passionate claiming or Felix's artistic worship. This is raw need mixed with desperate love, the kiss of a man who's been holding himself back for so long that he's forgotten how to be gentle.

But I don't want gentle. Not from Theo. I want his intensity, his barely controlled passion, his complete and utter devotion. I kiss him back with equal fervor, my hands fisting in his shirt as I pour all my own need and love into the connection.

His tongue slides against mine with desperate hunger, tasting and claiming, while his hands roam my body with increasing urgency. When he breaks away to trail hot kisses down my throat, carefully avoiding Marcus and Felix's fresh marks, I arch against him with a soft moan.

"Need this off," I gasp, tugging at his clothes. "Need to feel you."

He helps me strip away the barriers between us, his movements sharp and efficient, military precision meeting overwhelming need. When his shirt hits the floor, I run my hands over the expanse of his chest, marveling at the lean strength beneath my palms.

"You're perfect," I murmur, pressing my lips to the hollow of his throat, tasting salt and heat and something essentially Theo.

His response is a low growl that vibrates through his chest as he finishes removing the last of our clothes. Then we're skin to skin, the full length of his body pressed against mine, and the sensation is overwhelming. Theo is all lean muscle and controlled power, his skin warm and smooth under my exploring hands.

When I trace the line of a scar that disappears beneath his ribs, he shudders with want. "Military souvenir," he explains roughly. "Reminder of why I left that life behind."

"For this one," I observe, my fingers continuing their exploration, mapping every ridge of muscle, every sensitive spot that makes his breath catch. "For Marcus and Felix. For me."

"For you," he confirms, his hands beginning their own thorough mapping of my body. "Everything I've done for the past three years has been leading to you."

His touch is different from Marcus's possessive claiming or Felix's artistic worship. Theo touches me like he's memorizing a tactical map, learning every inch of terrain he'll need to navigate. But there's reverence in his touch too, the careful handling of something precious and irreplaceable.

When his mouth follows the path of his hands, when he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to my collarbone, the sensitive skin just above my breast, the hollow between my ribs, I think I might spontaneously combust from the intensity of it.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough with want. "So perfect. I still can't believe you're going to be mine."

"I'm already yours," I tell him breathlessly, my hands tangling in his hair as he continues his thorough exploration. "I've been yours since that night in the library. I just didn't understand it yet."

His response is to intensify his attention, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me gasp and arch against him. "I've thought about this," he admits, his breath hot against my skin. "Every night since that first heat, I've imagined what it would be like to claim you properly. To make you mine in every way that matters."

"What did you imagine?" I ask breathlessly, my body responding to his touch with increasing urgency.

"Everything," he says simply, his mouth trailing lower, across my chest, down to the sensitive skin of my stomach. "I imagined the sounds you'd make, the way you'd feel around me, the taste of your skin when I mark you."

His words send liquid heat pooling low in my belly, and when his mouth continues its downward path, when he settles between my thighs with clear intent, I think I might die from anticipation.

"I imagined this," he murmurs, his breath warm against my most sensitive places. "Imagined tasting you, making you fall apart with my mouth before I claim you properly."

When his tongue finds me, when he begins to pleasure me with the same focused intensity he brings to everything he does, I cry out with shock and overwhelming sensation. This is different from Felix's artistic worship, Theo approaches my pleasure like a mission to be completed with ruthless efficiency and devastating skill.

"Theo," I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair as he works me with single-minded determination. "I can't... it's too much..."

But he doesn't relent, doesn't give me space to think or breathe or do anything but feel. His mouth and tongue and even his teeth work together to drive me toward the edge with relentless precision. When he adds his fingers to the mix, when he finds that spot inside me that makes me see stars, I shatter completely.

The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, so intense that for a moment I lose all sense of time and space. But through it all, I can feel Theo's satisfaction, his deep pleasure at being able to give me such overwhelming sensation.

As I come down from the high, he kisses his way back up my body, his mouth hot and demanding when it finds mine again. I can taste myself on his lips, and the intimate knowledge sends another shiver of arousal through my still-sensitive body.

"How do you feel?" he asks, his forehead pressed against mine, his eyes dark with barely controlled need.

"Like I'm floating," I admit breathlessly. "Like I might never come back down to earth."

"Good," he says with fierce satisfaction. "But we're not done yet."

"No?"

"No," he confirms, settling between my thighs and letting me feel the full weight of him, the press of his arousal against my still-sensitive flesh. "Now I'm going to claim you properly. Now I'm going to make you mine."

The anticipation sends another wave of heat through my body, and I arch against him instinctively. "Please," I whisper. "Theo, I need you inside me. I need to feel our bond form."

He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of him pressing against me, hot and demanding. "Look at me," he commands softly. "I want to see your face when I claim you."

I meet his eyes, seeing the love and need and fierce protectiveness there, and then he's pushing inside me slowly, carefully, giving my body time to adjust to his size. The stretch is intense, overwhelming, perfect in ways that make me cry out with relief and pleasure.

"God, Belle," he groans as he seats himself fully inside me, his control hanging by a thread. "You feel incredible. So perfect, so tight, so mine."

"Yours," I agree breathlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "Always yours, Theo."

For a moment, we stay locked together like that, both of us breathing hard, both of us overwhelmed by the intensity of the connection. I can feel him pulsing inside me, can sense his desperate need to move, to claim, to make me completely his.

"Move," I whisper against his ear. "Please, Theo. I need you to move."

That's all the permission he needs. He begins to thrust, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity as my body responds to his. Each movement sends waves of sensation through my heat-sensitized system, but it's more than just physical pleasure. I can feel our bond beginning to form, strengthening with every thrust, every kiss, every whispered endearment.

"I can feel you," I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders as he sets a rhythm that drives me steadily toward madness. "Starting to form in my mind. The connection."

"That's right," he says, his voice rough with exertion and emotion. "We're bonding, Belle. Really bonding. You're going to be part of me forever."

He angles his hips, finding that spot inside me that makes me see stars, and I cry out with the intensity of it. "There," I gasp. "Right there, Theo."

"I know," he says with satisfaction, maintaining that angle as he continues to drive into me with increasing urgency. "I can feel everything you feel, remember? Every spike of pleasure, every moment of need."

The thought that he can sense my pleasure, that our forming bond is allowing him to feel exactly what I feel, sends me spiraling toward the edge faster than I expected. "Theo, I'm close."

"Let go," he encourages, one hand sliding between us to touch me where we're joined. "Come for me, Belle. Let me feel you fall apart around me."

The combination of his touch and his words and the overwhelming sensation of our bond forming sends me over the edge with a cry that echoes through the apartment. As my body clenches around him, as my orgasm triggers his own, I feel Theo begin to swell inside me, his knot forming and locking us together in the most intimate way possible.

But it's when his teeth find the remaining unmarked side of my throat, when he bites down with enough force to break skin and permanently mark me as his, that everything changes. The claiming bite sends a surge of sensation through my already overwhelmed system, but more than that, it completes something essential.

The pain-pleasure of the bite mingles with the aftershocks of my orgasm, creating a feedback loop of sensation that leaves me trembling and gasping beneath him. I can feel his satisfaction, his deep pleasure at finally being able to mark me, to claim me as permanently and completely his.

"Mine," he growls against my throat, his voice rough with possession and satisfaction. "My omega. My beautiful, brave omega."

"Yours," I agree breathlessly, my body still shaking with the intensity of everything we've shared. "All of yours. Always."

We stay locked together, his knot keeping us joined while our bodies recover from the intensity of bonding. But something is different this time. The heat that's been simmering under my skin for days is finally, completely satisfied. I can sense that it will return with my natural cycles, but manageable, comfortable, no longer the desperate, driving need that controlled me.

I can feel all three bonds in my mind now: Marcus's protective strength, Felix's creative love, and Theo's unwavering devotion all flowing together into something bigger and more beautiful than the sum of its parts. The sensation is overwhelming in the best possible way, like finally understanding a language I'd been hearing all my life without comprehension.

"How do you feel?" Theo asks softly, his fingers tracing the fresh mark on my throat.

"Complete," I tell him honestly. "Like every piece of the puzzle has finally clicked into place."

"The heat?"

I take mental inventory and smile at what I find. "Settled. Still there, but gentle now. Comfortable. Like my body finally trusts that it will be cared for."

"Good," Theo says, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. "That's how it should be after the final bonding. Your omega instincts are satisfied now that you have your complete pack."

As if drawn by our conversation, Marcus and Felix move closer to the nest, and suddenly I'm surrounded by all three of them. Marcus settles on my left side, Felix on my right, while Theo remains locked inside me, all of them close enough to touch.

"How do you feel?" Marcus asks, his hand stroking through my hair. "Really feel?"

"Loved," I say immediately. "Protected. Cherished. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

"You are," Felix assures me, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on my arm. "Belle, you're the heart of our pack now. The center of everything."

"Can you feel all of us?" Theo asks quietly. "All three bonds?"

I close my eyes and reach out with my newfound awareness, marveling at what I find. "Yes," I whisper. "I can feel all of you. Marcus, your strength and determination and fierce protectiveness. Felix, your creativity and the way you see beauty in everything. Theo, your devotion and the way you'd do anything to keep me safe."

"And we can feel you," Marcus says softly. "Your intelligence and compassion and the way you make everything around you better just by existing."

"Is this what pack bond feels like?" I ask wonderingly. "This sense of being connected to something bigger than yourself?"

"This is what true pack bond feels like," Felix confirms. "Not just biological compatibility, but emotional and spiritual connection. Belle, what we have is rare. Most packs never achieve this level of bonding."

"Because it requires complete trust," Theo adds, his arms tightening around me. "Complete vulnerability. The willingness to open yourself completely to another person's thoughts and feelings."

"Are you ever afraid?" I ask, sudden uncertainty making me wonder if I've asked too much of them. "Of being this connected? Of not having any secrets or private thoughts?"

"Never," Marcus says immediately. "Belle, loving you completely, being bonded to you this way—it's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"To all of us," Felix agrees. "You don't diminish us by being in our minds. You enhance us. You make us better than we were before."

"Besides," Theo says with a smile I can hear in his voice, "it's not like we don't have our own thoughts and privacy. The bond enhances connection, it doesn't erase individuality."

"But you'll always know how I'm feeling," I observe. "If I'm happy or sad or worried or scared."

"And you'll always know we love you," Marcus points out. "Belle, you'll never again have to wonder if you're wanted or valued or cherished. You'll feel it constantly, through three different bonds."

The truth of that makes my chest tight with emotion. After years of feeling like I was too much or not enough, of wondering if anyone could love me exactly as I am, I'll never again have to doubt my worth.

"What happens now?" I ask as Theo's knot finally begins to recede. "How does this work, practically speaking?"

"Whatever you want it to work like," Felix says immediately. "Belle, this is still your life. Your choices. Your decisions about what our future looks like."

"But we're hoping," Marcus adds carefully, "that you'll want to move in with us. Make our house your home too."

"Turn that guest bedroom into your office," Theo suggests. "Somewhere you can work on your library projects and writing."

"Keep your job if you want to," Felix adds. "Or change careers if that's what makes you happy. We'll support whatever you decide."

The casual acceptance, the way they're planning a future that centers my happiness and fulfillment, makes me want to cry with gratitude. "You really mean that. You want me to keep being myself, not become some domesticated omega who exists solely to serve the pack."

"Belle," Marcus says firmly, "we fell in love with you exactly as you are. Why would we want you to change?"

"Besides," Theo adds with a grin, "I've seen you when you're passionate about library science. Trust me, we don't want to do anything that might dim that light."

"And your terrible jokes about the Dewey Decimal System," Felix adds fondly. "Those are definitely staying."

I laugh, despite everything. "My jokes aren't terrible."

"They're awful," all three of them say simultaneously, which makes me laugh harder.

"Fine," I concede. "But you're stuck with them now. Forever."

"Forever," Marcus agrees, pressing a kiss to my temple. "We can live with terrible library humor if it means keeping you."

As Theo finally slips free from my body, as all three alphas settle around me in the nest I created, I take inventory of how I feel. The heat is truly settled now, a gentle warmth rather than driving need. The marks on my throat throb with pleasant ache, reminders of my claiming. Most importantly, I can feel all three bonds in my mind, steady and strong and absolutely permanent.

"I love you," I tell them, the words easier now that I can feel their love flowing back to me through the bonds. "All of you. More than I ever thought possible."

"We love you too," Theo says quietly. "More than we ever dreamed we could love anyone."

"So what do you want to do first?" Felix asks, settling more comfortably in the nest. "As our officially bonded omega?"

I consider the question, thinking about all the possibilities stretching out ahead of us. A future where I'm loved and protected and cherished, where I can pursue my passions while being supported by the most incredible men I've ever known, where I never again have to face the world alone.

"First," I say decisively, "I want to take a shower. Then I want to eat something that isn't breakfast food. Then I want to start planning how we're going to save that courthouse, because if we're going to be a pack, we might as well be a pack that fights for the things that matter."

"Practical and passionate," Marcus observes with obvious fondness. "That's our omega."

"Your omega," I agree, settling back against the pillows with a sense of contentment so profound it makes me want to purr. "Now and always."

As we make plans for the rest of the day, for the rest of our lives, I marvel at how much has changed in just a few short hours. I went to sleep as Belle Hartwell, single librarian managing her life alone. I'm going to leave this nest as Belle Hartwell, omega of the most incredible pack I could have imagined.

The heat is over, but the love is just beginning. And I can't wait to see what we'll build together.

"One more thing," I say as Marcus helps me to my feet for that promised shower.

"What's that?" he asks.

"When we save the courthouse, when we prove that preservation and community matter more than cutting costs, I want Lady Inkwell to write about it. I want the whole town to know that the omega and her pack don't just create romance—we create positive change."

"You want to be a power couple," Felix observes with amusement.

"I want to be a power pack," I correct. "Four people working together to make our community better."

"I like that," Theo says with obvious approval. "A pack with a mission beyond just loving each other."

"Though loving each other is definitely the foundation," Marcus adds, pulling me close for a kiss that tastes like forever.

"Definitely the foundation," I agree against his lips. "Everything else is just details."

As we make our way toward the bathroom, toward the shower where we'll wash away the intensity of the heat and bonding, toward the rest of our lives together, I know with absolute certainty that I've found my home.

Not just a place to live, but a family to belong to. Not just alphas to satisfy my biological needs, but partners to share my dreams and goals and terrible library humor.

The pack bond is complete, permanent, unbreakable. And I've never been happier about anything in my life.

The future starts now, and we're going to make it extraordinary.

37

EPILOGUE

BELLE

Six Months Later

I'm sitting at my laptop in the home office that used to be the guest room, putting the finishing touches on what might be Lady Inkwell's final column, when Marcus appears in the doorway with a cup of coffee and a knowing smile.

"How's the writing going?" he asks, settling the cup beside my elbow and reading over my shoulder. "Let me guess, Lady Inkwell is beside herself with romantic triumph?"

"Lady Inkwell is always beside herself with something," I say with a grin, saving the document and leaning back in my chair. "Though this time, she has good reason to be."

It's been six months since the heat that changed everything, six months since I bonded with my pack and finally understood what it meant to be exactly where I belong. Six months of learning how to balance being Belle Hartwell, head librarian and community organizer, with being Belle Hartwell, beloved omega of the most incredible pack in town.

And six months of carefully maintaining the fiction that Lady Inkwell is some mysterious society maven rather than a librarian with an addiction to gossip and a talent for creative writing.

"Are you ever going to tell them?" Marcus asks, settling on the arm of my chair and reading the column I've just finished. "Felix and Theo, I mean. That you're Lady Inkwell?"

"Eventually," I say, though I'm not sure when that will be. "It's just... complicated. Lady Inkwell has been such a useful way to stay connected to everything happening in town, to gather information for campaigns like the courthouse project. If people knew she was just the librarian, the mystique would be gone."

"Belle," Marcus says gently, "you're not 'just' anything. You're the woman who saved our courthouse, who organized the most successful preservation campaign in the county's history, who convinced an entire town to choose history over cost-cutting."

I smile, remembering how overwhelming it had seemed at first. "I still can't believe we pulled it off. When the county announced they were going to demolish the courthouse to save money on renovations, I thought it was hopeless."

"But you didn't give up," Marcus reminds me. "Even when Peterson and half the council were pushing for that ugly concrete replacement building."

"Because you three believed in me," I say, touching his hand. "Remember that first strategy meeting in our kitchen? Felix spread those architectural drawings across the entire table, showing exactly how the courthouse could be restored. Theo had researched every historic preservation grant available. And you had already started building relationships with contractors who specialized in heritage buildings."

Marcus's eyes warm with the memory. "And you had Lady Inkwell softening public opinion week by week, writing about the importance of preserving our town's character, sharing stories about couples who'd gotten married in that courthouse, families who'd celebrated adoptions there."

"The turning point was when we discovered Councilman Peterson's brother-in-law owned Ashwood Construction, the company that had submitted the suspiciously low bid for the demolition," I continue. "Though Lady Inkwell never wrote about that directly."

"No, but she did write several very pointed columns about the importance of transparency in municipal contracts," Marcus says with a grin. "And somehow, completely by coincidence, those columns always ran the week before crucial council meetings."

"Pure coincidence," I agree solemnly, then laugh. "Though I have to admit, the night of the final vote was terrifying. Even with Felix's architectural proposal, Theo's security plan for the renovations, and your financing strategy, I wasn't sure we had enough support."

"But when you gave that speech to the packed council chamber..." Marcus shakes his head with obvious pride. "Belle, you didn't just present facts and figures. You made them feel what we'd lose if that building disappeared. You talked about democracy and community and the responsibility we have to future generations."

"And somehow we won," I say, still slightly amazed by it. "Unanimous vote to preserve and renovate instead of demolish and replace."

"We won because you organized a campaign that gave everyone in town a reason to care," Marcus corrects. "The historical society, the young families who wanted their children to see where their grandparents had gotten married, the business owners who understood that historic downtown areas attract tourists and investment."

"With help from three very determined alphas," I point out.

"With help from a pack," Marcus corrects. "Belle, what we accomplished together at the courthouse, building our bond, creating a life that works for all of us, that's not because you had help. That's because you're extraordinary."

The praise makes me warm in ways that have nothing to do with the bond between us and everything to do with being seen and valued for exactly who I am.

"Speaking of extraordinary," I say, minimizing the Lady Inkwell document and opening another file, "wait until you see what I've been working on for the new bookshop café."

The bookshop café is my latest project, a dream I never thought I'd have the courage to pursue until my pack showed me that I could have both security and adventure, both stability and new challenges. The space is perfect, because it's a historic building downtown that's been empty for years, with original hardwood floors and tall windows and enough room for comfortable reading nooks and a proper café counter.

"Business plan?" Marcus asks, leaning closer to read the screen.

"Business plan, design concepts, community programming ideas…the works. Felix helped me with the spatial layout, Theo's handling the security and logistics planning, and you're going to help me navigate the financing and permits."

"A pack project," Marcus observes with obvious satisfaction.

"The best kind," I agree. "Though I have to admit, Lady Inkwell is going to have a field day reporting on the grand opening."

"Speaking of Lady Inkwell," Marcus says, and something in his tone makes me look at him more carefully, "there's something I should probably tell you."

"What kind of something?"

"The kind where Felix and Theo figured out your secret about three weeks ago."

I nearly drop my coffee cup. "What?"

"Belle, you're incredibly talented at writing Lady Inkwell's voice, but you have some very distinctive turns of phrase. When you're excited about something, you use the same superlatives whether you're talking as Belle or writing as Lady Inkwell."

Heat floods my cheeks. "How long have they known?"

"Officially? Since you wrote that column about the courthouse campaign victory and used the exact same phrase about 'municipal bureaucracy bowing to the power of organized community action' that you'd used in your victory speech the day before."

"Oh god," I groan, burying my face in my hands. "They must think I'm completely ridiculous. Secret identity, mysterious gossip columnist, because it sounds like something out of a romance novel."

"Belle," Marcus says gently, pulling my hands away from my face, "they think you're brilliant. Theo's been impressed with Lady Inkwell's investigative skills for months, and it turns out he was impressed with yours. And Felix thinks the writing is some of the best social commentary he's ever read."

"Really?"

"Really. Though they are wondering why you haven't told them yet."

I consider this, thinking about all the reasons I've kept Lady Inkwell separate from my real life. The freedom to observe and comment without being directly involved. The way people tell a gossip columnist things they'd never tell a librarian. The simple pleasure of having a creative outlet that's entirely my own.

"I guess I wasn't ready to give up being anonymous," I admit. "Lady Inkwell gets to say things Belle Hartwell might be too polite to say."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that Councilman Peterson's objections to the courthouse project had nothing to do with fiscal responsibility and everything to do with the fact that his brother-in-law owns Ashwood Construction."

Marcus raises an eyebrow. "You never wrote that in any of Lady Inkwell's columns."

"Lady Inkwell has more discretion than people give her credit for," I say with a grin. "She knows the difference between entertaining gossip and damaging accusations."

"So what's the plan? Keep Lady Inkwell going alongside the bookshop café?"

"I think so. Though maybe with a slightly different focus. Less relationship drama, more community advocacy. Lady Inkwell could be a powerful voice for positive change if she wanted to be."

"She already is," Marcus points out. "Belle, your columns have been shaping public opinion in this town for years. The courthouse campaign succeeded partly because Lady Inkwell had been building support for historic preservation for months before we officially launched."

The truth of that makes me sit up straighter. I've been thinking of Lady Inkwell as frivolous entertainment, but Marcus is right—the columns have real influence, real power to shape how people think about community issues.

"Lady Inkwell, community organizer," I muse. "I like the sound of that."

"Lady Inkwell, secret weapon," Marcus corrects. "Belle, between your official work at the library, your role in the pack, and your influence as Lady Inkwell, you might be the most powerful omega in the county."

"Powerful omega," I repeat, testing how the words feel. Six months ago, the idea would have terrified me. Now, with the security of my pack bond and the confidence that comes from successfully fighting for something I believe in, it feels like a challenge I'm ready to accept.

"So," Marcus says, "are you going to tell Felix and Theo that you know they know?"

"Eventually," I say with a smile. "But first, I want to finish this column. Lady Inkwell has some very important things to say about the power of community action and the importance of supporting local businesses."

"And about how incredibly proud she is of a certain librarian who's opening a bookshop café?"

"Lady Inkwell would never be so obvious," I say with mock seriousness. "Though she might mention that she's heard rumors about an exciting new literary venture opening downtown."

Marcus laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head before heading back downstairs. I can hear Felix and Theo in the kitchen, probably making lunch and definitely plotting how to get me to admit my secret identity.

Let them plot. Lady Inkwell has work to do, and Belle Hartwell has a bookshop café to plan. Between the two of them, I think I can handle whatever challenges come next.

After all, I have a pack to support me, a community that believes in me, and a secret identity that gives me the freedom to say exactly what needs to be said.

Life is good. Lady Inkwell is thriving, and Belle has never been happier. Besides, Willowbrook is growing and there are so many new subscribers. What kind of girl would I be if I let them all down and didn't let them know the latest gossip?

A bad one. Something I have no intention of being.

Not now.

Not ever.

38

THE WILLBROOK CHRONICLE

Dearest Secrets-Seekers,

Well, my precious gossip-hunters, Lady Inkwell is simply beside herself with the most delightful developments! If this isn't the most perfect fairy tale ending our little town has ever witnessed, then Lady Inkwell doesn't know what is!

Our darling Belle Hartwell has officially found her nest, darlings! And not just any nest - but a proper pack nest with those three devastatingly handsome alphas who've been courting her so devotedly! Lady Inkwell's sources report that our sweet omega has been spotted with a distinctly mated glow about her, and the way those alphas hover protectively around her is absolutely swoon-worthy!

Can you imagine? Who would have known that an omega could have a life and be part of a nest? Revolutionary, simply revolutionary! Gone are the days when claiming a mate meant disappearing into domestic obscurity!

Lady Inkwell is calling all omegas out there - don't be afraid to commit, my dears! Look at our Belle - she's found her perfect pack AND kept her passion for community service! She's proof that modern omegas can have it all: devoted alphas, meaningful work, AND the respect of their entire community!

Lady Inkwell is told Belle Hartwell is planning to open a charming little bookshop café right here in town! How perfectly poetic - Belle gets to keep her library kingdom! Sometimes love truly does find a way to make everyone happy!

So there you have it, my beloved scandalmongers - a town transformed by love! Romance blooming in every corner, dreams coming true, and proof that with enough determination (and the right pack), even the most impossible fairy tales can become reality!

Lady Inkwell couldn't be more thrilled with how this all turned out! Love has conquered municipal bureaucracy, professional setbacks, AND social expectations! If that's not worth celebrating, then what is?

Yours in absolute romantic triumph,

Lady Inkwell

P.S. - Lady Inkwell has heard the most delicious rumors about a certain mating ceremony being planned for the spring! But that, my dears, is a story for another day... How perfectly magical!

BONUS CHAPTER

TWO YEARS LATER

THE WILLOWBROOK CHRONICLE

My Devoted Readers,

Lady Inkwell is absolutely trembling with excitement to report on the most delightful developments in our thriving little community! Two years have passed since that legendary Masquerade Ball that changed so many lives, and my dears, what a transformational period it has been!

First, the news that has set every maternal heart in Willowbrook aflutter: Miss Belle Hartwell-Sterling-Romano-Blackwood (what a deliciously lengthy surname!) has blessed our community with not one, but two absolutely precious additions to the pack! Sources report that the twins—little Marcus Felix (clearly an alpha in the making, if his imperious wails are any indication) and sweet Theodora Belle (an omega with the most enchanting purr)—have their three devoted fathers completely wrapped around their tiny fingers.

Town observers report the most adorable scenes: Marcus Sterling conducting business calls while bouncing a baby, Felix Romano sketching architectural plans with a sleeping infant against his chest, and Theo Blackwood, our dear town's security specialist, reportedly singing lullabies that make hardened contractors weep with sentiment! Fatherhood, it seems, has made absolute romantics of them all.

The baby news isn't our only cause for celebration! Word has reached my network that our beloved former assistant librarian, Mr. Adam Chen, has returned from his European research expedition, and he's brought the most charming surprise! Miss Seraphina Beaumont (now Mrs. Chen, according to my sources) accompanied him home, along with whispers of a very private ceremony in a Parisian chapel. How wonderfully spontaneous!

The newlyweds have already settled into the charming cottage on Rosewood Lane, and reliable informants report that Mrs. Chen's expertise in rare manuscript preservation makes her an invaluable addition to our newly expanded library staff. Love AND professional advancement—how perfectly practical!

Speaking of our magnificent library expansion, darlings, the transformation is nothing short of miraculous! The new wing officially opened last year, and the cultural renaissance it has sparked is beyond even Lady Inkwell's wildest predictions. We now boast the exquisite Thornfield Literary Café (owned by that lovely couple from Burlington), Harper & Quill Independent Bookstore (featuring a positively divine selection of rare editions), and the Willowbrook Artisan Collective (where local craftspeople display their wares in the most sophisticated gallery space).

Property values have risen deliciously, new families arrive weekly, and our little town council is absolutely beside itself with budget surpluses from increased tax revenue. When romance leads to sound municipal investment, everyone wins!

Yet the most tantalizing development awaits, my dears: the annual Masquerade Ball approaches in just six weeks! Now, as you'll recall, there was no ball last year due to extensive renovations at Thornfield Palace (something about "historically accurate restoration" and "proper preservation of the ballroom's original parquet flooring"). The anticipation has been building for two full years, and Lady Inkwell can barely contain her excitement!

But wait—there's more! The most extraordinary rumors are circulating about this year's festivities! Sources within certain administrative circles whisper that this year's selection process has been... revolutionized. Gone are the mysterious lottery invitations! Instead, whispers suggest a "first come, first served" approach that has traditionalists absolutely scandalized!

"But the exclusivity!" Patricia Morrison was overheard lamenting at the post office. "The mystique! The careful curation of compatible souls!"

Harold Whitman reportedly declared it "the end of romantic civilization as we know it."

Lady Inkwell, however, finds the development absolutely fascinating. What happens when destiny meets democracy? When fate encounters free market principles? Will love triumph when left to pure chance rather than mysterious selection? And after two years of anticipation, will the results be twice as spectacular?

One can only imagine the delicious chaos that awaits when Thornfield Palace throws open its doors to whoever arrives first! Will shy souls find courage? Will bold hearts discover patience? And most importantly, will Lady Inkwell's informants manage to secure adequate positioning to document every scandalous development?

The anticipation is positively exquisite! After a two-year hiatus, this correspondent predicts that this year's ball will not only rewrite every rule we thought we understood about destiny and romance, but will make up for lost time in the most spectacular fashion imaginable.

Mark your calendars, dear readers, and prepare your finest masquerade attire. With two years of pent-up romantic energy in our little community, this promises to be the most democratically scandalous and romantically explosive ball in Thornfield history!

Yours in breathless anticipation, Lady Inkwell

P.S. - Certain sources suggest that early arrivals may discover... special advantages. But Lady Inkwell would never encourage anything as undignified as camping outside palace gates. Would she? Though after a two-year wait, who could blame the eager romantics? Tune in to next week's edition for more delicious details about what promises to be the most anticipated ball in recent memory!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jesse Pack loves writing omegaverse because she’s a plus size girl who fantasizes about finding her pack and living her happily ever after. She’s a huge Bridgerton fan, which is exactly why her brand new series is a cheeky omegaverse twist on the hit series.

When she’s not daydreaming about ballgowns, scandals, and steamy alpha drama, you’ll probably find her hiking up a mountain with a cup of cocoa waiting for her at the top.