Chapter 253

Chapter 253
Kevin

I pushed open the bedroom door and instantly felt a goddamn stab of intense jealousy pierce my chest. Isabella and Michael were tangled together on my bed.

Her black hair spread like ink across the pillow, her head resting on his broad chest, one small hand possessively placed on his abdomen. They looked fucking perfect together, like some stupid romance movie scene that plays at two in the morning when normal people are asleep.

Every muscle in my body tensed, urging me to stride over and yank her from Michael's embrace, to claim what should be mine.

I wanted her in my arms, not his. The possessiveness nearly choked me, my fingers curling into fists, nails digging painfully into my palms, leaving crescent marks that would last for hours.

Christ, look at what we've become. Three Alphas fighting over one Omega like teenagers scrapping for the last slice of pizza. Fucking pathetic.

My relationship with Michael and Richard had always been complicated as hell. We were friends, allies. But since Isabella showed up, everything had shifted like tectonic plates in an earthquake. She was that rare Golden Omega, theoretically capable of forming mate bonds with all three of us. But in practice, each of us wanted her attention solely on ourselves, her eyes only on us, her body responding only to our touch.

I took a deep breath, air hissing through clenched teeth, trying to calm the fire burning in my chest. Surprisingly, as the jealousy receded, a strange feeling replaced it. Looking at them entwined together, I felt an unwilling... warmth? Harmony? Fuck, I don't know how to describe it—some sickly-sweet new sensation like honey spread over bitter medicine. I hated it. It made me soft, vulnerable, everything I'd spent a lifetime avoiding.

But that's exactly what Isabella did to us. I never used to care about anyone's feelings, never gave a shit what others thought of me. Now I found myself wondering if she liked the food I prepared, if she found my house comfortable enough, if my silence bothered her. It was fucking ridiculous.

She was like an addiction I couldn't quit, flowing in my blood. Like alcohol to an alcoholic, like air to a drowning man. If accepting these nauseating emotions was the price, so be it. But I wouldn't let her leave again. Ever.

I walked to the bedside, my footsteps deliberately silent on the hardwood floor. I studied Isabella's sleeping face with an intensity that might have unnerved her had she been awake. Her expression shifted from peaceful to a slight frown, her forehead creasing as if troubled by some dream. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, lips parting slightly as if to speak, her bottom lip quivering.

She needed to eat. That much was fucking obvious. Since moving in, she'd barely touched food, pushing it around her plate like a child. Even in sleep, exhaustion marked her face, the dark circles under her eyes as prominent as bruises.

Don't expect me to wake her with some sappy "good morning, baby" bullshit. That wasn't me, and it never would be.

I stood awkwardly by the bed, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, feeling strangely out of place in my own bedroom. I wasn't used to... caring for someone like this. Wasn't used to the ache in my chest when I saw her hurting. I reached out, my large scarred hand hesitating before gently cupping her cheek.

Fuck, her skin was softer than I'd imagined, warm as sunshine despite the cool room. My thumb unconsciously stroked her cheekbone, the gesture gentler than I was willing to admit, even to myself.

Her eyelids fluttered, opening halfway. Her gaze unfocused, looking at me through a haze of sleepiness with a mix of confusion and recognition.

"Can I sleep a little longer, Daddy?" she murmured, the words slipping out like secrets before her eyes closed again, immediately sliding back into sleep, her breathing deepening.

That word—"Daddy"—instantly sparked a rush of satisfaction within me, like electricity coursing through my body. My cock immediately twitched in response, heat spreading everywhere. I remembered her calling me that once during a particularly intense interaction, when she was beneath me, her eyes glazed with pleasure. But she'd never used the term again, and I'd never brought it up, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

Daddy. The word echoed inside me, like a declaration, an affirmation rising from the depths of my core, something primal and possessive.

Society misunderstands this kink, this preference. People always associate it with something sick, twisted, or broken. But for me, "Daddy" represents the ultimate dominant role—protector, provider, guide. It perfectly aligns with my wolf instincts, with everything I've wanted to be for her.

Maybe it stems from my own fucked-up upbringing. I never had a real father figure, never had someone to protect me, to provide safety when the world turned dark and threatening. So I became the person I wanted—the strict, always-knows-best "Daddy." The one who makes the hard decisions and bears the consequences.

And right now, Isabella needed exactly that. She needed someone to tell her what to do, to take care of her, to make sure she ate well and slept well. She needed me to be her anchor in the storm.

The best thing for her now was to wake up and eat something. Everything else could wait.

I reached out to touch her again, fingers gently threading through her tangled hair. Fuck, this felt uncomfortable, like wearing someone else's skin. I was never good at expressing... emotions. Words stuck in my throat like thorns. But instinct drove me to care for those important to me, even if I couldn't express it verbally.

"Bella, wake up," I said softly, my voice gentler than usual, almost unrecognizable to myself. I could be gentler, at least now, when she needed it in her vulnerability.

"Hmm?" Michael opened his eyes, voice heavy with sleep. He glanced at me, then at my hand still in Isabella's hair, the corner of his mouth turning up in what might have been a knowing smile. "Are you trying to wake her up or lull her back to sleep?"

Fuck. I yanked my hand back so fast I nearly hit myself in the face, shoulders tensing straight. Being caught in a moment of tenderness made me uncomfortable, like being caught naked in public. I cleared my throat, shifted my weight, suddenly hyper-aware of my body and its emotional betrayal.

"Go get her some clothes," Michael suggested, still gently stroking Isabella's back. She made a small contented sigh that tightened something in my chest like a vise. "She's exhausted."

"She needs to eat first, then rest," I insisted, forcing my voice to sound more firm, more like the Kevin everyone expected. "She won't regain her strength without food. She's lost too much weight."

Michael nodded, his expression thoughtful. "You're being considerate. Good."

I turned and left the bedroom, my footsteps heavier now, each movement radiating frustration. I couldn't even do something as simple as wake her up properly when someone was watching. Fucking pathetic. I headed toward the adjacent walk-in closet specifically prepared for her, hands clenched at my sides.

Through the open door, I heard Michael softly rousing Isabella in the bedroom: "Good morning, beautiful. Time to wake up." I mentally scoffed at the saccharine approach, though I reluctantly admitted that in certain circumstances, I might employ similar tactics. When no one was watching. When I allowed myself that vulnerability.

This closet was part of our responsibility as her mates—ensuring her comfort. Choosing clothes for her gave me a strange satisfaction I couldn't fully explain. I was never good with emotions, words always jumbled and insufficient. But I knew how to care for those important to me. Preparing meals, ensuring hot baths, occasionally buying her favorite chocolate—these things required no verbose declarations or emotional displays.

In this relationship, choosing her clothes was both caretaking and a slight control. My fingers brushed over fabrics, assessing each garment. I noticed the weather had turned colder recently, and considering her physical condition, she'd likely feel the chill.

Her body had lost its insulating layer, making her more susceptible to temperature changes. I selected deep gray sweatpants lined with wool, a soft blue sweater—I knew it was her most comfortable one because she always reached for it first—and a pair of thick fluffy socks to keep her feet warm. I also grabbed a spare pair of shorts in case she needed to change her underwear, though the thought sent heat rushing to my face.