Pretty Much Dead Already, page 26
I stand in the middle, not sure whether to laugh or scream. This was supposed to be my space, a twenty-square-foot oasis of privacy in a fort that has none. But the walls are barely up, and already it feels like I’m living inside a boy’s locker room—sweaty, crowded, but… weirdly secure.
Cass clocks my expression and smirks. “Get used to it, Birdie. No sense pretending you weren’t expecting a full house.”
He’s right, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “There’s a schedule for these things, you know,” I say, fighting the heat in my face. “Even feral animals take turns.”
He laughs, and it’s pure delight. “Not in this zoo, sweetheart.”
Jace cuts in, voice gentle but unyielding. “We can rotate if you want, Lira. Say the word.”
I shoot him a look, but it bounces off. “Thanks, but I think I’ll survive.”
From outside, the sound of arguing drifts in—two Betas fighting over the right way to mount a showerhead. Rhett closes the curtain with a practiced flick and sits with his back to the wall, scanning each of us in turn. “We can’t all be here at night,” He says. “The guard rosters will notice.”
Cass shrugs. “So we switch up. No one says we can’t have poker night in Birdie’s suite.”
Michael looks up from his notebook, eyes sharp. “Or we pretend to be working shifts and rotate like normal people.”
Cass’s smile turns sly. “Don’t see you volunteering for graveyard, Doc.”
Michael’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “I’ll take whatever Lira wants.”
The room goes quiet. Not awkward, exactly, but charged—like someone’s loaded the air with static and is waiting for the lightning.
I want to say something, anything, but all I can think about is the way Grayson’s eyes burned holes through me on the walk over, the way the others bristled in response, as if their pheromones could build a force field. I don’t know what it means that I’m starting to like it, or that I kind of wish Grayson would just get it over with and challenge Rhett to a knife fight behind the shed.
Instead, I just say, “Let’s not fight about this. If it gets weird, I’ll sleep in the med bay.”
Jace’s voice is a blanket. “That won’t happen.”
Cass flops back onto the cot, hands laced behind his head, eyes closed in perfect contentment. “She says that now, but give it a week—she’ll be running this place.”
Rhett grunts, but I see the corner of his mouth lift.
I move to the window, peeling back the curtain to watch the camp. From this angle, you can see the entire quad, the rows of tents, the chicken coops and scavenged garden plots, even the distant glint of the outer wall. At the far side, Grayson is still there, talking to the fort’s leadership. He gestures at our building, voice tight, the veins in his neck raised like fresh scars.
I wonder if he’s still angry, or if anger is just the only thing he knows.
A hand lands soft on my shoulder. Michael, moving with a caution that almost reads as apology. “You okay?” He asks, voice pitched for me alone.
I nod, but my breath catches. “It’s just… a lot.”
He waits, patient.
I sigh. “I thought maybe, when I got here, things would calm down. That people would forget who I was, or at least care less.”
Michael’s eyes crinkle. “You’re impossible to forget, Lira. But that’s not a bad thing.”
I shake my head, but the words warm me, a little. “You don’t have to say that.”
He doesn’t answer, just squeezes my arm once before letting go.
Cass’s voice pipes up from the cot. “If you’re done with the Hallmark moment, there’s a bottle of good scotch in my bag. We should toast the new digs.”
Rhett raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t object.
Jace actually laughs, light and quick. “I’ll get the cups.”
They move, a jumble of limbs and elbows, passing the bottle, pouring into scavenged tin cups, making a mess of the whole operation. I watch them and feel a pang of something sharp and sweet—like belonging, maybe, or the ache of letting myself want it.
They hand me the first cup, and I raise it, not sure what to toast. For a second, the room waits, every man looking at me as if expecting a speech.
I clear my throat. “To survival,” I say, and it sounds almost brave.
Cass whoops. Michael grins. Rhett tilts his head in approval. Jace holds my gaze a second longer than is polite, then lifts his cup.
We drink, and the scotch burns a trail all the way to my bones.
Outside, Grayson is gone. I don’t see where he went, but I feel the vacuum he leaves behind. In his place is only sky, and the faint, persistent sense that something is coming.
I close the window, curl up on the blanket next to Michael, and let the world shrink to the size of this small, stolen peace.
For now, it’s enough. For now, the pack is mine, and I am theirs.
And for the first time since the world ended, I’m not sure I would trade it back—even if I could.
By lights-out, the room is a tangle of blankets, boots, and bodies. Rhett has taken the floor, Cass sprawled on the cot like a starfish, Jace and Michael forming a bookend around me on the makeshift sleeping mat. The first time Cass jokes about “Omega sandwich,” I hit him with a throw pillow, but then he starts snoring almost immediately and the only sound left is the thump of Jace’s heartbeat against my back and the gentle rasp of Michael’s breathing.
Somewhere in the night, I wake to movement—a hand sliding along my waist, careful and slow. For a second I freeze, thinking Grayson has finally made good on his threat to take me back by force, but then I smell the warm, sharp musk of Cass and the peppery undertone of Jace and I relax, letting myself sink into the middle of the heap. Michael stirs, rolling toward me, his arm draping heavy and protective across my chest.
It should feel claustrophobic. It should be a humiliation, or at least an embarrassment.
But what I feel is… safe.
For the first time in months, I sleep through the night.
I wake to the sound of voices outside, Grayson arguing with the morning watch. His tone is clipped, every syllable flayed of its usual charm. I sit up, rubbing the crust from my eyes, and see Jace already awake, propped up on his elbow and studying me.
“Rough night?” He asks, eyes soft.
I shake my head. “Actually slept.”
He smiles, then glances toward the door. “Trouble’s brewing.”
I follow his gaze, but the only thing out of place is the way the others are already up—Rhett doing push-ups by the window, Michael scribbling notes by the door, Cass scrounging breakfast rations from the battered crate.
Cass grins when he sees me. “Morning, Birdie. You hungry?”
I nod, and he tosses a granola bar at my head.
Rhett stands, rolling his neck. “Heard from the guards. Grayson’s called a meeting with the council. Wants to renegotiate his ‘terms of engagement.’”
Cass snorts. “Bet he does. Can’t stand that he’s not top dog anymore.”
Michael doesn’t look up from his notes. “Let him posture. As long as he doesn’t try anything stupid, it’s just noise.”
Rhett’s eyes flick to me, then away. “You okay with that?”
I shrug. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
It’s a lie, but a good one.
After breakfast, we gear up for work detail—hydroponics for Jace and Michael, wall reinforcement for Rhett and Cass, admin filing for me. The others don’t like to let me out of their sight, so Cass volunteers to “supervise” my paperwork. I don’t argue.
The day passes fast, full of small dramas and petty thefts and the usual struggle to keep the fort from eating itself alive. At lunch, Cass and I sit on a sun-warmed ledge, watching as Grayson paces the perimeter, his every move a calculated show of Alpha prowess. I expect him to ignore me, or at least pretend I’m beneath his notice.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he stops ten yards away, hands clasped behind his back, and fixes me with a look that could strip paint.
“May I?” He asks, voice velvet.
Cass bristles. “She’s eating.”
Grayson ignores him, eyes locked on me. “We should talk, Lira.”
I glance at Cass, who glances at me, and then I sigh. “Fine. Ten minutes.”
He nods, and gestures toward the shade of a battered poplar tree. I follow, Cass trailing two paces behind, arms crossed.
Under the tree, Grayson waits until Cass is out of earshot, then turns, smile brittle.
“Do you enjoy humiliating me?” He asks.
I blink. “Not especially.”
He leans in, lowering his voice. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself. You think people respect you for…this?” He waves at Cass, at the fort, at the whole broken world.
I match his volume. “I think they respect me more than they ever respected you.”
The words land. Grayson’s face goes white, then red. He steps closer, crowding my space, but I don’t back down.
“I could take you back,” he whispers. “There are laws, even now.”
I stare at him, dead-eyed. “Try it. See what happens.”
For a long moment, he just breathes, rage and something else—regret, maybe—warring on his face.
Then he straightens, smooths his tie, and walks away.
Cass appears at my side, tension bleeding off him in waves. “What did he want?”
I exhale, shaky. “Just to remind me he’s still here.”
Cass grins. “Not for long. I give it a week before he cracks.”
I want to believe him.
I really do.
We return to the dorm, the rest of the day a blur.
That night, as the fort settles into its usual uneasy truce, I watch the four men set up for sleep. Rhett on the floor, Cass on the cot, Jace and Michael on either side of the blanket.
There’s no question, no permission asked. They just… make room for me.
And as I drift off, pressed between Jace’s warmth and Michael’s steady heartbeat, I realize that this is not a compromise.
It’s a choice.
Mine.
The next day, Grayson’s name is posted on the wall: security rotation, east gate.
When I pass him in the corridor, he doesn’t meet my eyes.
But I can feel him watching, every step.
And somehow, I don’t mind.
Let him watch.
The show is just getting started.
The half-finished dorm is empty, the hum of the work crews replaced by the rhythmic drip of a busted HVAC pipe in the hall. I’m supposed to be sorting through inventory—bedsheets, towels, anything salvageable—but I spend most of my time just breathing in the newness of the place, letting the dust settle in my lungs. The insulation in the walls is pink and angry, only half-stapled, and the morning sunlight knifes in at odd angles, slicing the room into bands of warmth and shadow. It feels like a holding cell for ghosts, all the almost-was and never-will-bes stacked behind the drywall.
I’m alone, or so I think. The others are scattered: Rhett running a perimeter check, Jace fixing the wiring in the common room, Cass “patrolling” the snack supplies, Michael on call in the med wing. It’s the first time in days I haven’t been within arm’s reach of the pack, and the absence is a weird relief and a low-grade panic, depending on how long I let myself think about it.
I’m folding a pile of threadbare towels when the silence fractures. A soft tread, the click of real shoes—old-world leather, soles not yet worn to ruin. Grayson steps in, wearing a shirt so crisp it looks like he ironed it with rage. His tie is perfect, an arcane knot designed to make even his throat seem superior. He surveys the unfinished space, eyes stopping on me, and for a second I wonder if he’s going to ask about the towels.
He doesn’t.
“Lira,” he says, and the sound of my name is a violation all on its own. “You’ve made yourself at home.”
I nod, cool as I can manage. “Towels are a luxury, these days. Thought I’d savor it.”
He smiles, but the humor is a dagger. “You always did appreciate the finer things.” He walks in, slow and careful, hands clasped behind his back like he’s strolling through a museum. “The others are out? I hoped we might have a moment.”
I keep folding, not trusting myself to stop. “Is this about the council meeting?”
“No.” He stops close, so close I can see the edge of a blood blister on his thumb, a relic from when manual labor was still a novelty for him. “This is about you. Us. The way things are going.”
I try to keep my voice even. “Things are fine.”
He leans in, lowering his voice. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend.” He lets the word linger, testing it. “You always hated pretending, remember? Even as a child, you were blunt to a fault. It’s what I liked about you, before you decided to become a cliché.”
I twist a towel so hard the threads squeal. “Did you just come to insult me?”
He circles, the Alpha in him drawn to motion, to the fact that I refuse to meet his gaze. “I came because you’re making choices that are beneath you. You know that, right?” He gestures around, at the shoddy walls and sunken floors. “This isn’t you. It’s not what you were born for.”
I want to laugh. “You always think you know best.”
“I do,” He says, absolute. “You’re better than this. You’re better than them.” The last word is loaded—meant to sting.
But I’m ready for it. “You mean Rhett? Jace? Cass? Michael? Say their names, Grayson. It’s not like they’re ghosts.”
He doesn’t blink. “You think any of them could protect you the way I can? I let you play this game, but we both know how it ends. You come back, and I forgive you, and we rebuild. There are still cities, Lira. Real cities, with courts and ceremony and all the things you said you wanted as a girl.”
I shake my head, clutching the towel. “You left me to die.”
He brushes the accusation away with a flick of his hand. “Don’t be dramatic. I was securing the perimeter. Making sure the family line could continue, in case you didn’t—” He catches himself, recalibrates. “In case you didn’t survive. But you did. That’s what matters.”
I take a step back, keeping the table between us. “That’s not how I remember it.”
His face hardens. “You’re choosing to remember it that way. I’ve read the reports, Lira. I know what’s being said about me—about us. But all I’ve ever wanted is to see you safe.” He gestures at the walls, the half-buried window. “Is this what you call safe? Surrounded by—” He laughs, sharp and bright. “By thieves, and mercenaries, and rejects?”
I feel my pulse in my neck, a hot flare of animal warning. I focus on my breathing, on the way the air smells—mineral, wet, with a faint trace of something chemical. Underneath it all, I can just catch the scent of Cass on my jacket, Rhett’s sweat from this morning, the lingering echo of Jace’s shampoo, Michael’s disinfectant. I inhale, letting the cocktail ground me.
He sees it. “You’re letting them infect you,” he says, voice low. “You know that’s not how you were raised. Your mother—”
“Don’t,” I snap. The word is louder than I intend, sharp as the crack of a rifle in the small space.
Grayson’s mouth flattens. “You forget your place too easily.”
“My place is wherever I say it is.” My voice holds no doubt, my head is held high and my eyes are cold fury.
He walks to the unfinished window, looks out at the quad. The sunlight halos him, making the shadows cut even deeper across his jaw. For a moment he’s the boy I remember from school dances, the one who knew how to make any teacher cry just by smiling. Then he turns, and it’s all cold calculation again.
“Lira,” he says, almost gentle. “You’re embarrassing yourself. I’m willing to overlook it, for old time’s sake, but you’re making it very difficult.”
I lean against the table, arms folded. “You don’t get to overlook anything. Not anymore.”
His eyes narrow. “And if I insist?”
I force myself to smile, though my mouth feels full of glass. “Then I’ll say no again. And again. Until you hear me.”
He moves then, fast—the way only Alphas do when they’re done pretending to be civil. He grabs my arm, the grip hard and sudden, squeezing the muscle above the elbow until I feel the nerves spark down my hand.
“You always needed someone to make the hard decisions for you,” he hisses. “I’m giving you that chance.”
I yank back, but his grip is iron. “Let go.”
He steps closer, crowding me against the table. “Come back to your place, Lira. Be what you’re meant to be. I’m offering you everything.”
The world narrows to a tunnel, his breath hot against my face, the smell of cologne and old money clashing with the new stink of survival.
I twist the bracelet on my wrist, the leather bite of Rhett’s old cord digging into my skin. I imagine Cass’s laugh, Jace’s gentle hands, Michael’s quiet certainty.
I look him dead in the eye.
“I am in my place,” I say, and my voice is flat, unyielding. “And I choose them. Rhett for protection, Cass for passion, Michael for understanding, Jace for comfort. I choose them, Grayson. Over you. Over everything.”
He recoils, shock and fury wrestling for supremacy on his face. For a second, I think he might hit me. Maybe he wants to.
But he doesn’t.
He drops my arm, wiping his hand on his pants like I’m something that needs cleaning off.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says, but the words sound hollow, rehearsed.
I straighten, rolling my shoulder. “I’ll take my chances. I'd rather be their whore then your wife.”
He’s on me in two strides. This time, he doesn’t bother with words.
His palm finds the side of my face, fingers splaying from temple to chin, and he shoves—hard, all his weight behind it. My spine hits the unfinished drywall and I hear the studs groan, the insulation crumpling under the sudden pressure. It hurts—more than I want to admit—but the pain is clean, a pure white spike that wakes up every inch of me. He crowds in, body pinning mine, and I can taste the chemical bitterness of his aftershave even through the dust.
