Sam's Bedroom, Night Before the Gala
The rain was soft outside. Gentle against the tall windows of the Vincent estate. But inside the room, the silence was suffocating.
Sam sat on the floor, back against the bed, still in his undershirt and dark pants. His hands were trembling—he hated that. Hated how weak he felt.
Across from him, Oliver sat cross-legged, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like armor. His soft omega scent was calming, grounding, even as his wide eyes shimmered with worry.
They hadn't spoken in a minute.
There was too much to say.
And nothing they could risk speaking aloud.
Finally, Oliver broke the silence.
"You don't have to go, Sam."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
Sam looked at him, eyes rimmed with sleepless shadows.
"Yes, I do."
Oliver's voice cracked. "He'll be there."
"I know."
"And you'll see him. And your brothers will see you. And if they scent him on you—"
"I know, Ollie."
Sam leaned forward, resting his forehead against Oliver's, gripping his hand tightly.
"Listen to me," he whispered, eyes burning. "No matter what happens tomorrow, no matter what anyone says, I'm going to protect you. Do you hear me?"
Oliver's bottom lip trembled.
"You're the only one who knows what I really am," Sam said. "The only one who never looked at me like I was broken."
He gave a bitter laugh. "Hell, you're more family than half the blood I share."
Oliver blinked fast to hold back tears. "Then don't get hurt."
"Too late."
Sam exhaled slowly, pulling Oliver into a tight hug.
"But I'll survive. For you."
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.
Inside, two boys held on just a little longer—before the storm came.