"It's Blake's car," I whisper, ice flooding my veins. "Or one just like it."
The sedan sits for another ten seconds—a clear message that he knows we're watching, that he wants us to know he's there. Then it continues past, disappearing into the darkness like it was never there at all.
"Martinez is moving to intercept," Cole reports, watching his phone's security feed. "But they'll be long gone."
"He's showing us he can get close," River interprets grimly. "That our protections don't matter."
"Or he's testing response times," Mavi counters. "Seeing how fast law enforcement reacts."
Either way, the message is clear: Blake Harrison isn't done with us. Not by a long shot.
Luna stirs in her sleep, making soft distressed sounds like even unconscious she senses the danger circling our home. Austin rocks her gently, humming something low and soothing, but his eyes track the windows like a sentry.
"We should take shifts tonight," Cole decides. "Two awake, two resting, rotate every three hours."
No one argues. The time for pretending we're safe has passed, swept away by black sedans and old ghosts and the promise of violence lurking just beyond our property line.
I think about Celeste, another omega who sat in this room feeling protected, making plans for a future that would never come.
Did she have moments like this, surrounded by these same men, believing love could overcome obsession?
The thought chills me more than Blake's surveillance ever could.
Because sometimes love isn't enough. Sometimes the monsters win. And sometimes the only victory is in learning from the ashes of those who came before.
"I won't be her," I whisper, not sure if I'm making a promise or a prayer. "I won't be another ghost in this house."
"No," Cole agrees fiercely, pulling me against his side. "You won't."
Outside, Deputy Martinez's flashlight continues its steady arc, a small defiance against the gathering dark. But we all know the truth—the real danger isn't out there in the shadows.
It's in the patterns we're doomed to repeat, unless we find the strength to break them.
Celeste’s Unraveling Past
~WILLA~
The nursery smells like sawdust and Luna's baby powder, a combination that shouldn't work but somehow does.
Morning light filters through the gauze curtains Austin hung last week, painting everything in soft focus that makes the world feel less sharp-edged than it has since Blake's appearance at the market.
My knees protest against the hardwood as River and I work to secure the loose floorboard that's been creaking every time someone walks past the crib—a sound that inevitably wakes Luna from her afternoon naps.
"Hand me that smaller hammer?" River's voice is gentle, the same tone he uses with skittish horses and crying babies. We've fallen into an easy rhythm over the past two weeks since that night of revelations, each of us finding our place in the careful dance of hypervigilance and attempted normalcy.
I pass him the tool, our fingers brushing in the exchange. He doesn't flinch anymore when we touch accidentally, and I count that as progress. We're all learning to live with casual contact again, to trust that hands reaching toward us mean comfort, not control.
"This whole corner needs reinforcing," River observes, running his palm along the boards. "Probably original to the house. Your grandfather built things to last, but even hundred-year-old wood has its limits."
"He'd have fixed it himself if he'd lived to see Luna here," I say, picturing my grandfather's weathered hands working these same boards. "Would have been out here with his toolbox the first time it squeaked."
River's smile is soft with understanding. "He'd have loved her. Probably would have carved her a whole set of wooden toys by now."
The image makes my chest tight with loss and possibility intertwined. Luna gurgles from her playpen in the corner, surrounded by the soft toys the men have accumulated for her like dragon's hoard. She's attempting to stuff an entire plush horse in her mouth, a feat of baby physics that defies logic.
"That can't taste good, star girl," I tell her, but she just grins around the soggy fabric, those mismatched eyes bright with mischief.
River shifts position to examine the corner where the boards meet the wall, and I follow, crouching beside him. My fingers trail along the wood grain, feeling for gaps or weakness, when I notice it—a space where the board doesn't quite meet its neighbor, too uniform to be natural warping.