Chapter 13
Kara
[3:00 AM / Asher's Room]
The door opens silently under my hand.
You're breaking and entering. You're insane. You need to leave—
But I'm already inside.
The room is exactly what I expected: militarily neat, dark gray bedding pulled tight, desk covered in pack management documents. Everything organized. Everything controlled.
But the smell—
Black ebony and tobacco saturates the air. It pours from the half-open closet, from the bed linens, from the very walls.
I shouldn't move closer.
I do anyway.
Three steps to the bed. My fingers brush the pillow—and the scent explodes.
My brain short-circuits.
For one impossible second, I feel: Safe. Protected. Home.
Yes. Yes. This is right. This is Alpha's scent. Our Alpha. My wolf whines low, voice full of satisfaction. Lie in his bed. Let our scent soak in—
Then reality crashes back.
This is Asher's bed. Asher, who held you down in the snow. Asher, who called you Carrot for ten years. Asher, who—
"No," I gasp. "No no no, we have to go—"
Why? It's good here. Safe here.
"Because he hurt us!" My voice trembles. "Because he's a monster—"
He's our monster.
I stumble backward, my hip colliding with the nightstand.
A photo frame falls.
Shit shit SHIT—
I catch it before it hits the floor, hands shaking as I set it upright.
The photo shows fourteen-year-old Asher standing by the ice river, expression cold and closed-off.
This photo was taken right after. After the "hide-and-seek game."
Terror floods my system like ice water.
My scent. I've left my scent in here. On the bed. On the carpet. In the fucking AIR.
Good. Let him know we were here. Let him smell us.
"You want him to find out I broke into his room?!"
I want him to know we answered the call. His scent called us. Our scent will call him. That's how mates work—
"I don't fucking care how mates work!"
When he comes home and smells it—
I bolt from the room, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
---
[3:15 AM / Blake's Door]
I should keep walking.
I should go straight to my storage closet and never come back to this hallway.
Instead, I stop at Blake's door.
My hand hovers over the handle, my entire body trembling.
Gunpowder and leather seeps through the crack beneath the door—hot, explosive, raw in a way that makes my wolf want to submit and my human side want to run.
This one. My wolf whimpers. This scent makes me want to... want to...
"Want to what?" I snap, though I already know the answer.
Submit. Roll over. Show throat. Let him know we accept him.
"He almost killed us!"
"You naive idiot," I hiss. "Nothing will change."
But my hand is still on the handle. My body refuses to move.
I don't open the door.
But I can't walk away either.
I lean against the doorframe, eyes closed, and breathe.
Every inhale is like swallowing fire. With each breath, my wolf gets stronger, my human consciousness weaker.
Good. Yes. More. He smells like strength. Like protection. Like—
"Like danger," I interrupt. "He smells like fucking danger."
Danger is attractive to us. We like powerful mates.
This is what addiction feels like, I think distantly. This is what Mom felt like when she needed a hit.
Five minutes pass. Maybe ten.
Please. Just open the door. Just look. We can...
"No."
Why are you so stubborn?
"Because one of us has to stay sane!"
When I finally open my eyes, I realize my hand has left sweat marks on the handle.
Move. Fucking move NOW.
I tear myself away and stumble down the hall.
My wolf howls in my mind, voice full of loss.
---
Cole's door is the last one.
I'm so exhausted I can barely stand. Every muscle in my body is screaming. My mind is fracturing under the weight of sensory overload and terror and want.
Peppermint and ozone drifts from his room—the gentlest of the three scents, which makes it the most dangerous.
Because it doesn't attack. It seduces.
It reminds me of the night eleven-year-old Cole snuck me back inside after Blake locked me out. It reminds me of his stolen New Year's kiss.
Maybe... maybe he's different?
This one, my wolf says softly, voice suddenly tender. This one was kind to us.
"Once," I say bitterly. "He was kind to us once."
Once is better than never.
No. NO. He stood there and watched. He laughed when Blake—
A window opens on the third floor.
Luna Victoria, airing out the master bedroom.
The cold wind rushes through the hallway, and all three scents—ebony-tobacco, gunpowder-leather, peppermint-ozone—collide in the air.
They don't clash.
They merge.
Into something I've never smelled before. Something perfect. Something that fits together like three pieces of the same puzzle.
My knees hit the carpet.
No. Oh God, no—
Yes. My wolf's voice is full of awe and longing. Yes yes yes. Three. All of them. Ours—
"Shut up!" I whimper. "Fuck you, shut up—"
But my wolf and my human mind both recognize the truth in the same instant:
All three of them. At the same time. They're all—
Complete. My wolf is crying. We need all three to be complete. One can't give us everything we need. But three... three is perfect—
"This isn't perfect!" My voice breaks. "This is a curse!"
This is fate.
"Fate is bullshit!"
A sob tears from my throat. I clamp both hands over my mouth to muffle the sound.
This isn't joy. This isn't relief.
This is horror.
Fate just chained me to three men who spent a decade breaking me.
Fucking biological shackles. Goddamn inescapable chains.
I kneel there, nails digging into my palms, forcing myself to breathe.
You still have choices. You always have choices. Tomorrow you pack and get the fuck out—
But my wolf is laughing at me.
How far do you think you can run? You've already smelled them. Worse—they're going to smell you soon. The bond will start. You thought eighteen meant freedom? Naive little bitch. Your freedom died the moment the midnight bells rang.
"You're wrong," I gasp. "You're fucking wrong—"
We're the same being, Kara. You think I don't know what you're thinking? You want them. Your body wants them. Your heart wants to run, but your soul has already recognized them.
"I hate you."
You hate yourself. I'm just the part of you that you won't admit exists.
I can't go back to my closet. It's too close to their rooms.
Instead, I flee to the far end of the estate—a forgotten storage room filled with broken furniture and dusty Christmas decorations. It's freezing, damp, and smells like mold.
But it doesn't smell like them.
I collapse onto an ancient, lumpy sofa and wrap myself in a moth-eaten blanket.
Outside, the sky begins to lighten—not true dawn, not this close to the winter solstice, but the aurora fading as the deepest part of polar night passes.
I pull my knees to my chest and try to think.
Twelve hours until their birthday party. After that, they'll go to the clubs. I can pack then. I can leave.
You won't. My wolf says, voice oddly calm.
"I will."
What car will your suitcase fit in? How much money do you have for a ticket to where? What skills do you have to survive out there?
"I'll figure it out—"
You'll die. Or worse—you'll come back. Because once the bond starts, separation is like withdrawal. You know what Mom was like when she tried to quit. You want to experience that?
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.
"I'd rather die than be trapped here."
Liar. My wolf's voice is almost gentle. You don't want to die. You want the version of them that's good to you. You want love without the pain. But that's not what you get to choose. You only get to choose them or nothing. And with nothing... neither of us survives.
"So what do you want me to do?" I whisper. "Just... just accept it? Pretend the last ten years didn't happen?"
No. Make them grovel. Make them prove themselves. But don't run. Running only hurts us both.
"I hate this."
I know. But this is the hand we're dealt. We can fold and die, or play it out and see what we can win.
I press my forehead against my knees and close my eyes.
For the first time since turning eighteen, I doubt whether freedom is even possible anymore.