Chapter 22
Kara
But then it's gone, replaced by her usual mask of controlled disdain.
"Crystal, to the kitchen. Kara, you'll manage the coat check and guest seating." Her green eyes lock onto mine. "Remember—you represent this house tonight. Act accordingly."
Represent this house.
Not "you're one of us." Not "you're family."
Just... represent. Like a prop. A decoration. A living example of Sterling pack hospitality.
Fuck that. And fuck you.
But at least I'm not wearing the uniform.
"Yes, Luna," I say, and the words taste like ash and small victories.
She nods once, then glides past both of us toward the ballroom, leaving behind a trail of frost and expectations I'm not sure I can meet.
Crystal shoots me one last poisonous look before disappearing into the kitchen.
And I'm left alone in the entryway, dressed in silver sequins and borrowed confidence, waiting for a party I'm not sure I'm ready for.
5:30 PM exactly, I note, checking my phone.
Not one minute late.
Small victories.
I'll take what I can get.
---
Cole
4:00 PM — Nordstrom, Downtown Anchorage
"This one."
Asher's finger taps the glass display case. Once. Twice. The sound sharp enough to make the sales associate flinch.
I shift my weight, shopping bags crackling in my grip. We've been standing in the jewelry section for twenty fucking minutes, surrounded by diamonds that cost more than most people's cars, and my brother is still hunting.
Still trying to find the perfect thing.
Like there's a perfect thing that can erase ten years of torture.
"A custom white gold necklace," the associate says, her smile professionally enthusiastic. "Three Alaskan sapphires—each one representing—"
"I know what they represent," Asher cuts her off. His black ebony scent sharpens. "Can you have it ready tonight?"
"Tonight?" Her smile falters. "I'm afraid that's not—"
"Three days then. Rush order."
Blake's scent spikes beside me—gunpowder mixing with frustration so thick I can taste it on my tongue.
"A fucking necklace," he says, voice low and dangerous. "That's your big plan? Something she can't even wear?"
Asher doesn't look at him. Just keeps staring at those sapphires like they hold the answer to every mistake we've ever made.
"She needs to see we're serious," Asher says. "That this isn't temporary. This kind of jewelry—it can be passed down. Generations. It's a statement."
"A statement." Blake's laugh is ugly. Raw. "You want to make a statement, Ash? How about we actually make her fucking life better instead of throwing money at the problem like Dad would?"
The comparison lands like a gut punch.
Asher's jaw tightens. His scent goes cold—black ebony sharpening into something dangerous. Authority mixed with fury.
"Don't—" he starts.
"Don't what?" Blake steps closer, bags swinging. "Don't point out that we're doing exactly what he did? Ignoring what people actually need while we throw expensive shit at them to make ourselves feel better?"
Through the mind link, I feel Asher's rage building. Feel Blake's desperate frustration. Feel the way we're all tearing apart before we've even begun.
Fuck.
"Stop," I say quietly.
They both turn to look at me.
I'm holding a book—glossy pages full of Native Alaskan art. Hand-carved totems. Woven blankets. Things made by people who give a shit about more than just price tags.
"What about something like this?" I flip to the page I've been studying. A snow wolf carved from whalebone, suspended on a leather cord. "It says here: Protection and belonging."
Perfect.
Except—
"That takes three weeks to commission," Asher says, and I can hear the frustration bleeding through his Alpha control. "Her birthday is tonight, Cole. We don't have three fucking weeks."
Blake runs both hands through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. "So we get everything. All of it. Phone, computer, clothes, jewelry—fuck it, let's buy out the whole goddamn store. We have the money. She's had nothing for ten years. We can fix that right now."
The sales associate's eyes go wide. I can practically see her mentally calculating her commission, probably enough to cover her rent for six months.
But all I can think is: It won't be enough.
"Blake," I start.
"No." He spins to face me, and his eyes are too bright. Desperate. "We can do this. We should do this. She deserves—"
"She deserves a choice," I finish quietly. "Not an avalanche of guilt disguised as gifts."
The words hang there between us.
Blake's face crumples. Just for a second—a flash of raw pain before he locks it down behind anger again.
"Fine," he says, voice cracking. "You're right. Let's just get her a fucking card and some flowers and hope that makes up for a decade of abuse."
That's not what I meant.
"Blake—"
"Forget it." He turns away, shoulders rigid. Through the bond, I feel his self-loathing spiraling. Useless. Can't even apologize right. Can't do anything right when it comes to her.
Before I can respond, Asher's already pulling out his wallet.
"We'll take it all," he tells the sales associate. His voice is flat. Controlled. The voice he uses when he's making Alpha decisions he knows are wrong but sees no other option. "The necklace—put a rush on it, three days. The phone, tablet, laptop. Everything we discussed. And wrap whatever you can tonight. We need it ready in two hours."
Her fingers fly across her tablet. "Of course, Mr. Sterling. Let me just calculate the total—"
"I don't care what it costs." Asher hands her his black card. "Just make it ready."
Blake and I exchange looks through the mind link.
This isn't going to work, Blake sends, bitter and broken. Buying our way out never fucking works.
I know, I reply. But what else can we do?
The answer comes back dark and certain: Nothing. There's nothing we can do that will erase what we did to her.
The sales associate processes the payment. When she reads the total aloud—"Fifty-three thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars"—Blake's hand trembles slightly as he watches the transaction complete.
Through the bond, I feel what he's feeling. What all three of us are feeling.
If we'd spent this much every year. Every month. If we'd treated her like she mattered from the beginning instead of like shit—
She could have been a princess. A queen.
Instead, we made her a servant.
A punching bag.
A joke.
"Your items will be ready at five o'clock," the associate says brightly, oblivious to the three Alphas having a silent breakdown in her jewelry section. "We'll have everything wrapped and—"
"Thank you," Asher cuts her off, already turning away.
We leave Nordstrom loaded down with bags bearing designer logos. Armfuls of apologies wrapped in tissue paper and guilt.
And I can't shake the feeling that we're building a tower of presents that's going to collapse the moment she looks at it.
Because none of this is what she actually wants, I realize as we load everything into Blake's Escalade. She wants the ten years back. The childhood we stole. The safety we destroyed.
And that's the one thing money can't buy.