Semua Bab The last omega: Bab 11 - Bab 20

Irene The dining room smells like roasted garlic and warm bread, and for once my hands don’t shake when I reach for a second helping. The long table is crowded with bowls and plates and elbows and laughter. I sit between them—Cassian on my right, Elias across from me, Rowan diagonally at the corner, Kevin at the end—and it feels like slipping into a story I never thought I’d be allowed to read. “Careful with that gravy, sweetheart,” Cassian murmurs, nudging the saucer toward me. “It has a mind of its own.” “Like you,” Elias says, deadpan, then lifts his brows at me. “Tell her what you did on patrol.” Cassian stabs a potato. “Absolutely not.” Rowan’s mouth quirks. “Oh, I’ll tell it.” “No, you won’t,” Cassian warns, already failing to hide a grin. Elias leans forward on his forearms. “He tried to jump the creek. Misjudged. Went in like a rock. I considered a rescue but—” “You laughed until you cried,” Rowan supplies. “I did not cry,” Elias says, perfectly serious. “My

Irene I wake to warmth and weight and the soft thrum of four steady heartbeats braided with mine. Morning slides through the curtains like liquid gold, pooling on the sheets, painting Cassian’s stubbled jaw, the line of Elias’s shoulder, Rowan’s quiet profile, Kevin’s calm eyes watching me wake. We are a knot of limbs and breath, tangled in a way that should feel dangerous and instead feels like home. For a long, astonished moment, I just breathe their heat around me. The house holding its breath. The hush before day truly begins. Cassian is the first to move. His palm skims my waist, careful, smiling . “Good morning,” he murmurs at my temple. His voice is rough with sleep, with something heavier. “Morning,” I whisper back. My own voice trembles, not from fear. Elias props himself on an elbow and looks at me like I’m a secret he finally gets to find out . His other hand slips through my tights, teasing. “Tell us to stop,” he says, gaze steady, “and we stop.” My pulse flutt

Irene Breakfast feels different after the kind of morning I’ve already lived through. Rowan sets down a plate of eggs and bread in front of me with an almost proud look, and I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Don’t get me wrong,” Elias says, leaning back in his chair with his usual grin, “but breakfast in bed tasted better.” Heat flashes across my cheeks. “That wasn’t breakfast,” I mutter, picking up my fork. Cassian chuckles, delighted with himself. “Might’ve been the most memorable breakfast we’ve ever had, though.” Rowan shakes his head, ears a little pink. “You’ll eat what I make and thank me for it.” “I do thank you,” I say quickly, tasting a bite. It’s good—warm and filling. But Elias catches the hesitation in my voice and smirks. “She’s too polite to say it, but clearly, we’ve spoiled her.” Kevin clears his throat before Rowan can bristle. “Why don’t we take her to the market today? She needs things of her own.” “The market?” I echo. “The one i’ve told you

Irene The air is warm and sweet tonight, thick with the scent of wild thyme and the faint salt carried on the breeze from the river. Summer lingers here, the kind that settles into the bones and makes the world feel softer. Rowan hums in the kitchen, the clatter of knives and pans floating through the open window as he prepares dinner. Elias and Cassian are on border patrol, their voices fading as they shift and vanish into the trees. Kevin mutters somewhere above, fixing the broken latch of the window with stubborn determination. For once, the house feels alive, every sound a reminder that I am not alone. I step outside into the garden. The soil crunches lightly beneath my shoes, the air heavy with warmth that clings to my skin. The garden is simple—rows of herbs, a few stubborn lilies that survived without much care, a tree leaning lazily over the fence. It’s not much, not yet. But in my eyes, I see what it could be. It can be more, Arya whispers in the back of my mind, her voi

Tom Jack likes silence when I come to him. No words, no questions. Just my hands, my mouth, my obedience. The room is dark the way he prefers it—lanterns turned low, the smell of smoke and leather hanging in the air. He sits on the edge of the table we use more than his desk, all angles and shadow, the line of his throat bared like a dare. “Here,” he says, voice quiet enough to make my pulse race. He doesn’t have to raise it. I’m already moving. I step between his knees and feel him breathe, that deep, controlled inhale that means I’ve done the right thing just by existing where he wants me. My fingers find his shoulders. The muscle under my palms is hot, coiled. Power, contained. Mine when he allows it. His always, whether I want it or not. “Good,” he murmurs, and the word lands on my skin like praise. I live for that. I hate that I live for that. I press closer. The edge of the table bites the backs of my legs. He doesn’t kiss me at first. He likes to take, to feel me so