Pretty Much Dead Already, page 29
The night outside is quiet, for once. The Fort will wake in the morning to a new world, a new pack, a new set of nightmares. But for now, we are together, alive, and that is enough.
I look around—at Rhett, at Michael, at Cass, at Jace, at the blood and the broken windows and the strange, raw peace settling over us.
This is what victory looks like: ugly, battered, but real.
And for the first time, I think maybe—just maybe—we deserve it.
Chapter Twenty Five: Omega Ascendant
Lira
The best thing about victory is you get to leave the cleanup to someone else.
We limp back across the yard, past the tangle of corpses and the last, pitiful whimpers of the dying, toward the only home we’ve built that isn’t held together by steel and barbed wire. There’s a heap of blankets on the floor—some military, some floral, one that used to be a rug—and a makeshift lamp made out of a battery, a glass bottle, and an unfiltered bulb that throws everything into a sickly, golden haze.
We collapse in sections. Rhett first, dropping his rifle and kneeling by the door like he’s still expecting a final charge. Michael slumps on the end of the mattress, gingerly cradling his arm where the bandage is already blooming red. Cass props himself against the wall, his face somewhere between amusement and agony, while Jace just stands, swaying, as if gravity isn’t quite reliable yet.
Me? I hover at the window, trying not to breathe too deeply, because every inhale tastes like the inside of a munitions factory and the sharp, sugar-smoke of my own adrenaline. There’s a moment where nobody says anything—just four men and me, a body count of five and nobody has the energy left for words.
But that doesn’t last.
“Sit,” says Michael, nodding to the stack of pillows at his feet. His voice is gentle, a threadbare kindness that somehow makes it impossible to refuse.
I fold down next to him, knees pulled up, and watch as Rhett tears open a pack of antiseptic wipes, hands shaking only slightly as he dabs at the gash above his brow. It’s ugly—a half-moon of skin held together by willpower and blood clot—but I’ve seen worse. Rhett’s seen worse. He doesn’t even wince as Michael reaches over, peels the edges apart with gloved fingers, and starts swabbing with a steady, surgeon’s touch.
Cass is in a worse mood than his injuries suggest, pressing both palms to his ribs and letting out a low, theatrical groan every time he shifts position. “Who the fuck builds a fence out of rebar and doesn’t tell you?” He mutters. “That’s a war crime.”
Jace—silent as ever—leans his back against the wall, sliding down until he’s at eye level with me. His shirt is half-torn, shoulder cut open where the machete bit into it. I reach out, instinct more than thought, and graze the skin with my fingertips. He doesn’t flinch, just watches my hand like he’s trying to remember what touch is for.
“Let me see,” I say, and he shrugs the shirt down, exposing the gash. The skin is angry, striped pink and red, but the cut itself isn’t deep, its shallow and more superficial then anything. I tear open a wipe, and he smiles, just barely, at the sting.
The room’s air is thick with all the things that got us through the last hour. Rhett’s sweat and gunpowder, Cass’s wild-spice tang, Michael’s antiseptic and the slow, metallic seep of blood, Jace’s unhurried, earthy warmth. And underneath—always, always—my own scent, that sweet-rot omega signature that I never learned to turn off. Usually I’m self-conscious about it, but tonight it just folds into the rest, a low note in the chord.
Michael finishes patching up Rhett and hands him a pill bottle from the med kit. Rhett shakes two into his palm and dry-swallows, never breaking eye contact with Michael. Cass watches the exchange, then laughs—soft, but sincere.
“Two pills? Big man’s getting soft.” He says.
“Shut up, Cass,” says Rhett, but there’s no bite to it.
For a while we all tend to ourselves, working through the familiar ritual of post-battle maintenance. The room is quiet except for the rip of bandages, the hiss of tape, the occasional hissed curse. It should be clinical, boring even, but every touch is weighted—every hand that steadies a jaw or wipes away blood is a reminder of the hundred times we’ve done this and the hundred times we might have to do it again.
My own hands are mostly clean—some scratches, a bruise on the thigh, but nothing worth the drama. The real wound is at my neck, where Viktor’s and Grayson’s grip’s left a garland of bruises. I tilt my head, trying to see it in the shine of the cracked window, but Michael’s hand is already there, gentle as a lullaby.
“Does it hurt?” He asks, voice low.
“Not enough,” I answer, and he smiles, the first real one since the fight.
He uncaps a jar of ointment, rubs it between his fingers, and smooths it over the abrasions. His touch is cool, precise, a relief and a torment at once.
Cass—ever the voyeur—leans in, watching. “How come you never fix me up that nice, Doc?”
Michael doesn’t even look at him. “Because you never sit still.”
“That’s a lie,” says Cass, but he’s grinning now, the pain in his ribs forgotten.
Rhett finishes taping his brow and turns to me, gaze sharp. “You okay?” He asks, like the question is more diagnosis than concern.
I nod, but he keeps watching, looking for some hidden fracture. After a moment he grunts, satisfied, and leans back against the door.
Jace is the last to speak. “We made it,” he says, not quite a question, but it hangs in the air anyway.
I look at them—Rhett, Michael, Cass, Jace, each in their own orbit, each battered but alive—and it hits me that I was never really worried about dying.
Not tonight.
Not with them.
I exhale, and the room finally starts to thaw.
There’s no talk of what comes next, no plans, no speeches. Instead, we drift toward each other, the five of us folding into a loose, comfortable tangle on the blankets and pillows. The lamp flickers, casting our shadows long across the far wall. My neck stings, my chest aches, but I don’t move, afraid to break the spell.
Instead, I focus on the scents—the warmth of Rhett’s skin against my shoulder, the wild ozone of Cass’s hair as he sprawls next to my legs, Michael’s clean, soapy presence, Jace’s slow, measured heartbeat. For a second, I can almost believe we’re safe. Not forever, but for tonight.
They say trauma bonds people. I think they’re right, but I also think it’s more complicated than that. It isn’t just the pain that ties us together. It’s the way we survive it. The way we choose, over and over, to pull each other back from the edge.
I close my eyes and let the noise of the camp fade, let my own breathing sync with theirs. The world outside can burn. We have this, and that’s enough.
In the low light, with the hush of exhaustion heavy in the air, I can almost pretend this is what normalcy feels like. My little pack, sprawled in a heap, breathing in tandem. I lean back against Rhett’s chest—he’s solid, unmoving, like the whole world could collapse and he’d still be here, unmoved except for the steady thump of his heart under my shoulder. Cass is on my right, his head tipped back, mouth open in a lazy, post-fight grin that’s at odds with the purple bloom starting along his jaw. Jace is a gentle weight to my left, bandaged arm cradled in his lap, hand loose but ready in case I need it. Michael sits at my feet, legs stretched long, methodically cleaning the blood from his fingers.
Someone should say something, but nobody does, so the silence just grows, thick and dangerous.
It’s Rhett who finally breaks it. He shifts behind me, pulling himself upright until his mouth is by my ear. His voice is soft, but it’s the softness of sandpaper, rough with all the things he isn’t good at saying.
“I should have protected you better,” he says, the words shuddering from somewhere too deep to name.
I turn, surprised by the directness, but before I can protest, he’s already kneeling in front of me, one knee to the blankets, taking both my hands in his. His palms are battered, callused, but he holds my fingers like they’re made of glass.
“I will never leave you alone,” he says. “Not like he did. Not ever.” His thumb strokes the side of my hand, a gentle counterpoint to the sharp set of his jaw. Then, with surprising care, he reaches up, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. The gesture is so intimate, so uncharacteristic, it undoes me.
My eyes sting, hot and sudden.
He notices, but doesn’t look away. Instead, he leans forward, touching his brow to mine. “You’re safe,” he promises. “With me. With us.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and he stays there for a breath, then two, before pulling me into a careful, anchoring hug.
Cass watches the whole thing, a little smirk twitching at his lips, but when he moves in, it’s with less bravado and more naked need than I’ve ever seen from him. He slides into the space beside me, tugging me gently to his chest, burying his face in my hair.
“No more heroics, Birdie,” he murmurs. “You scared the shit out of me.” The words are muffled, shaky. He holds on tight, careful of my neck, his hands trembling just a little. When he pulls back, there’s nothing playful in his eyes.
“You’re the only one who sees me,” he admits, voice so low I almost miss it. “The only one who doesn’t want something else.” He kisses my hair, clumsy but full of intent, then grins—sheepish, unguarded. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
“Wouldn’t dare,” I say, and for once, he seems to believe me.
Michael waits until the others have peeled off before scooting closer, picking up my hand in his. He’s always been the quietest, the hardest to read, but tonight there’s no wall—just a raw, open look that says everything words can’t. He dabs ointment on my neck, gentle, his touch almost shy.
“I never thought I’d find someone worth fighting for again,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “But you make me want to try.” He laughs, short and brittle, then finally looks up. “You make me want to be better.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just squeeze his fingers, feeling the careful strength there, the promise.
Jace is last. He shifts so he’s sitting cross-legged in front of me, knees touching mine. He takes my hands, folding them together in his lap, and just breathes for a while. The silence isn’t awkward, not with him. It’s charged, like the air right before rain.
“You’ve given us all a home,” he says, simple as a truth. “We’ve all been lost, in one way or another. You… you make it make sense.” His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, tracing the veins there. “I didn’t know I needed that until you.”
It’s so much, all at once. I’m choking on it, overwhelmed, and I can feel my pulse thrumming in every fingertip.
“I’m not special,” I whisper, but Jace shakes his head.
“You’re the only one who thinks that,” he says. “To the rest of us, you’re everything.”
My breath catches. My head is spinning, dizzy with the sudden, inescapable weight of all they’ve put in my hands. I want to say something clever, something deflecting, but all I can do is hold onto them and try to breathe.
The room is silent, but it’s not empty. It’s full of the things we’ve never said, the promises made in blood and sweat and bruised bone.
We don’t need to speak anymore.
Our bodies do the talking, curled together on the blankets, hands touching, foreheads pressed, hearts pounding loud enough that I’m sure the others can hear. I close my eyes and let it all in—their words, their vows, their need.
For the first time in forever, I let myself believe them.
Maybe I deserve that, too.
The hush that follows is absolute—a vacuum where the world’s old rules have been sucked out and something new is waiting to be born. I’m the first to move, rising from the nest of blankets and bodies. The ache in my neck and shoulders is nothing compared to what’s burning inside my chest, a fever I can’t shake even if I wanted to.
The four of them look up, wary, expectant, as I stand in the center of the room.
“I choose you,” I say, and my voice is clear, brighter than I expect. “All of you. Not because I have to. Because I want to.”
The words hover, visible and alive.
I walk to Rhett first. He sits straight, eyes wary, like he’s waiting for a trick. I kneel in front of him and place my palm on his cheek, feeling the rasp of stubble, the heat of skin beneath. I lean in, close enough that he can’t escape my scent, and exhale slow, deliberate, letting it wash over him. The Alpha in him shudders—a tremor that runs from brow to jaw—but he doesn’t fight it. Instead, he presses his hand over mine, anchoring it in place.
“You’re mine,” I say, barely a whisper.
His eyes widen, not in surprise but in recognition. He knows what this is, what it means to be chosen—claimed, in the oldest sense.
Next is Cass. He tries to play it cool, but when I sit astride his lap, his breath catches. I slide my hand over his chest, right where his heart is pounding, and rest it there. Our eyes meet. He grins, but it’s a soft thing, trembling at the edges.
“Had a feeling you’d do it with style,” he jokes, but the words are breathless.
I lean forward, nuzzle his jaw, and leave my scent there—wild, honeyed, unmistakable. He clings to me, arms tight around my waist. “Never letting you go, Birdie,” he murmurs, and this time it isn’t a tease.
It’s a promise.
Michael is next, and the calm in his face is gone, replaced by something raw and desperate. I kneel between his knees and take his face in both hands, tilting his head so I can reach the space beneath his ear. I press my nose to his pulse point, inhale, and then let my own scent bloom there, mixing with the clean, sharp bite of antiseptic and adrenaline.
He shudders, closing his eyes. “Yours,” he says, barely audible. “I want to be.”
I let him hold me, his hands trembling, and for a second I’m afraid he’ll cry. But he doesn’t. He just breathes, deep and slow, letting it sink into his bones.
Jace waits for last. There’s a patience in him, a steady certainty, like he knows I’d never forget. I crouch in front of him, brush the hair from his brow, and rest my forehead to his.
“Thank you,” he says, and I feel the truth of it in the way his hands settle at my waist.
I exhale, slow and sweet, and he drinks it in. The change in him is visible—a melting, a softening, like ice breaking on a river.
With each touch, the air thickens, the scents in the room braiding together until it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. Rhett’s leather and storm, Cass’s wild spice, Michael’s clean bite, Jace’s steady earth—and me, wrapping through all of it like the last thread in a knot.
Something changes. I feel it, and so do they.
Rhett is the first to put words to it. “You’re…making a pack,” he says, voice awed. “A real one.”
Michael nods, understanding blooming in his eyes. “Never seen it done like this.”
Cass just grins, wild and hungry. “Should’ve known you’d rewrite the rulebook.”
Jace squeezes my hands, grounding me. “We’re together now. Really together.”
The air is different now—warmer, alive with a hum that’s more than just biology. I rise, circle the room, and return to the center, where I press my own wrist to my neck, completing the ritual. My pulse pounds against the skin, a drumbeat of belonging.
The five of us stand, hand in hand, a closed circle. Foreheads touch, eyes close. The ache of wounds is still there, but it’s dulled, replaced by the slow, electric thrum of something unbreakable.
We’re a pack. Not just in name or necessity, but in the marrow of who we are.
For the first time, I know what it means to be chosen—and to choose in return.
We stay like that for a long time, breathing in the new scent, letting it settle around us like armor.
Outside, the world is ruined. But in here, we’re whole.
After the ritual, we’re all a little unsteady—like the world has tilted and nobody warned us, and the old rules of physics don’t quite apply. My skin is hot, my pulse electric, and when Cass pulls me into his lap there’s no hesitation, just the hungry need to press close, to have proof this is real.
The first kiss is sharp as a shot. His lips crush mine, demanding, wild, tasting of blood and sweat and leftover adrenaline. When he pulls back he’s grinning, wolfish, and his thumb strokes the base of my throat where Viktor’s bruises are fading to yellow.
“You sure you’re up for it, Birdie?” He teases, voice low and rough.
I bite his lip in answer, drawing a stripe of red. He hisses, then flips us, pinning me to the blankets.
Behind us, Michael is already undressing—methodical as always, folding each piece of clothing before letting it fall. His body is all lean angles and fresh scars, the bandage at his arm seeping but forgotten. He kneels at my head, fingers tracing my hairline, then lowers himself for a softer, deeper kiss.
Jace moves in too, gentle but insistent. His hands are steady as he skims my hips, pulling the waistband of my pants down slow, reverent. He glances up, catches my gaze, and his smile is so full of longing that my breath stutters.
Rhett is last, but he’s never in a hurry. He waits until the others have claimed their place before kneeling behind me, his big hands bracing my thighs, his mouth at my ear.
“Let them love you,” he says, and his voice is the gunmetal calm of a soldier who’s survived more than one war. “Let us all.”
I do.
Cass is first, sliding into me with a hiss of need, his hips snapping forward so hard I see stars. He fucks me like he fights—reckless, sweet, the edge of violence always threatening but never quite arriving. His hands dig into my hips, pinning me in place, and when I start to shake he leans down, lips at my jaw.
“You’re mine now, Birdie. Ours.” The words are a dare, a benediction. I answer by raking my nails down his back, marking him as surely as he marks me.
Michael is next, cock already hard, the head glistening as he strokes it against my lips. I open for him, let him set the pace—slow at first, then deeper, as he cups the back of my head and groans.
