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I clutch the blanket tighter.

I don’t know what to do with this. Withthem.

With the way my body wants to react, the way my omega keens quietly in my chest, urging me to reach for my phone, to type in those numbers and?—

I shove the note aside and push the blanket back into the box.

Alphas are dangerous, Evie. They’ll take what they want, tear you apart, and leave nothing behind but your broken scent in the wind.

I can’t.

Ican’t.

It doesn’t matter how much I want to. It doesn’t matter how good this feels, how right.

Alphas are dangerous. Their instincts will always win, no matter how sweet their words are. The second you let one too close, you’ll belong to him, and he won’t care if you beg to be free.

I don’t belong to them.

I won’t.

Alphas are dangerous, my girls. They are storms dressed as men, all hunger and heat, and you – my soft, sweet things – were never meant to survive their world. Stay hidden, stay quiet, or you’ll learn too late why omegas are born to be conquered.

It takes the rest of the day to get my grandmother’s words out of my head, but as I curl up on the sofa hours later, my fingers find the soft edges of the blanket again. And despite every wall I’ve built, every reason I have to stay away?—

I pull it around me and let myself sink into it.

XAR

Ididn’t sleep last night.

Didn’t even try.

The music wouldn’t let me.

It’s been months since I felt this kind of drive, this raw, clawing need to get something out of my system and onto the page. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was her. The way she looked at me like she wasn’t sure whether to push me away or let me in. The way her voice wavered when she said our names, like she was testing how they felt in her mouth.

Evie.

I don’t know what she’s doing to me, but I can’t stop thinking about her.

She got the gift yesterday. We know she got it. The tracking said it was delivered in the afternoon. Which means she’s had almost twenty-four hours to open it, to read our note, to see our numbers.

And still – nothing.

No text. No call. Not even a message to sayfuck off and leave me alone.

I should have expected this. Hell, I did expect it. She’s fighting this, just like she’s fighting us. But knowing that doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

My fingers tighten around my pen, the notepad beneath my hand already covered in half-scribbled lyrics.

I don’t remember the last time I wrote like this.

It’s different when it’s just me. When I don’t have to think about what will fit with the others, when I don’t have to shape something into what the label expects from us. This is something else – something raw, something I don’t even know how to put into words yet.

But the second my pen touches the page again, the words flow out like they were already there, waiting.

I exhale sharply, pressing the heel of my hand against my eyes.