Chapter Seventeen
Nolan
I'm the logical one between the two of us.
I'm the one who watches from the sidelines. Who calculates risks. Who memorizes exits. Who stays awake while the other rests, because someone has to be prepared when things fall apart.
I sit under the shaded patio, arms crossed, a cold glass sweating beside me—untouched.
And I watch Ciel.
He's in the pool. Laughing.
Actually laughing.
He splashes water at Jack, and that overgrown alpha retaliates by lifting him—gently, because he's pregnant—and dipping him back into the water with a grin that's too fond for my liking.
I hate it.
Not because it's wrong.
But because it's right.
Because for once, Ciel looks safe. Like he's found some kind of normal. Domesticity. A glimpse of peace without a ticking clock behind it.
And I can't compete with that. How could I compete with that? Look at this fucking house.
My jaw tightens until it aches.
I've carried him through hell. Through ruined shelters and empty wallets. Through nights where the only thing between us and death was me staying awake long enough to scare off anyone circling too close.
And now? One alpha with a beach house and a decent smile makes him laugh like that.
Because I can't compete with chandeliers and stocked pantries and a man built like every omega ( and beta) fantasy come to life. I can't compete with "normal."
All I've ever had to give him is survival.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to look away. The sight of them—Ciel's red hair gleaming wet in the sun, Jack's big hands steady and sure at his waist—burns itself into the back of my eyelids anyway.
I shove up from the chair, leave the glass sweating rings into the wood, and head inside before I say something I'll regret.
Because if I stay here one more second, I'll start to believe the thing I fear most.
That maybe he doesn't need me anymore.
It's always been us.
And it will be us.
No matter how long he plays house with that alpha.
I push back from the chair and head inside, leaving the sight of them behind me—Ciel's laughter, Jack's steady hands, the whole picture-perfect scene that doesn't belong to me.
Instead, I bury myself in chores.
Since Ciel's taken over the kitchen like he was born for it, I figure I shouldn't just be some shameless lump orbiting his world. So I've taken on the rest. Laundry. Cleaning. Reorganizing this mausoleum of a mansion.
The place is gorgeous, yes. Vast windows, polished wood, art on the walls that probably cost more than my entire life savings. But under it all, it feels… empty. Like it was staged for a catalog but never actually lived in. Behind the pretty surfaces, there's no warmth. No history. Just silence and echoes.
I don't mind. It gives me something to do.
When I'm not in the over-equipped home gym—because of course an alpha like Jack has one—I'm cleaning. Polishing. Folding. Sweeping. It keeps my hands busy. My thoughts quieter. It makes me feel… useful.
I gather the laundry basket, arms full of clothes, and head for the laundry room. It's peaceful there. No laughter. No splashing water. Just the hum of the machines, the faint ocean breeze through a cracked window, and the occasional clink of buttons against the drum.
I sort everything out.
Ciel's clothes end up in a separate pile. Smaller. Lighter. Softer fabrics.
And I hesitate.
I pick up one of his shorts—gray, cotton, worn thin at the hem. I shouldn't. God, I shouldn't. But before I can stop myself, I lift them closer and press them to my face.
Like a fucking weirdo.
His scent is faint but still there. Something warm. Clean. A little floral from the detergent. But underneath all that—something him. Something that cuts straight through me, sharp and bittersweet.
It squeezes my chest in a way I can't name.
It's not pheromones—I know that. Betas don't get that luxury. No chemical rush, no dizzying haze of "belonging." Just this faint, human warmth that I can't stop chasing like an addict.
And God, I want to know. Just once. What it would feel like if I could smell him the way an alpha does. If his presence could flood through me like fire and honey instead of this soft, ghost of a scent that only makes me ache.
Because the truth?
I've been in love with him for years. Quietly. Pathetically. One-sided. I don't I've ever not been in love with him.
And right now, I'm standing in a laundry room, sniffing his shorts like a deranged raccoon.
I hold them a little too long.
Then shame slams into me.
I toss them into the washer like they burned me. "What the hell is wrong with me?" I mutter, scrubbing a hand over my face.
This is why I stay busy. Why I clean until my hands crack, why I run until my lungs give out. Because if I don't—my mind goes here. To him. To what I want. To what I'll never have.
I jab the start button, and the machine rumbles to life, sloshing away my humiliation. I sit on the counter, pressing my palms over my eyes, willing the thoughts to stop.
But silence creeps in. And silence is dangerous.
I grab the next shirt from the pile just to keep moving.
And freeze.
It's not Ciel's.
It's Jack's.
Big. Broad in the shoulders. Dark blue, salt-stained at the collar from sweat. It reeks of morning runs and smug alpha energy. Normally I'd shove it straight in without a thought. But the second the scent hits me—
Something twists.
Clean sweat. Sharp pine. Sun-warmed cotton. And underneath it, that deeper note—raw, alpha, infuriatingly solid.
I jerk back, glaring at the shirt like it just insulted my mother.
"Nope. Nope nope nope."
And yet—my hand doesn't move.
Instead, like some masochist, I lift it again. Hesitant. Testing.
And goddammit, it smells… good.
My stomach drops.
"What the fuck am I doing?" I hiss, shoving it into the washer like it betrayed me personally.
I slam the lid shut and lean back against the counter, disgust churning in my gut.
I'm jealous of Ciel, because I'll never have him. And I'm jealous of Jack, because… because what? Because he's the kind of man who could. No other reason.
I laugh bitterly under my breath.
"Perfect. I'm losing it. Step one: sniff your best friend's shorts. Step two: get turned on by the smell of your rival's T-shirt. Step three: drown yourself in the ocean."
I run a hand through my hair, staring at the spinning machine.
Yeah. I definitely need the gym. Or bleach. Or an exorcism.