Page 45 of Daisy

I stop moving entirely.

Processing the implications.

If all omegas are officially safe, then they're lying. Daisy was absolutely in danger. The guys pulled her away from a rogue alpha who was attacking her. But they're covering up that she was taken.

The political ramifications hit me like ice water. The Governor knows she's gone. He has to know, she's his niece. But instead of admitting one of his omegas was taken during the attack, he's telling the public everything is fine.

Which means he'll be looking for her quietly. Privately. Without admitting his security failed.

My hands remain steady as I pay for groceries, but my chest tightens with understanding. This makes him even more dangerous.

Back at the cabin,I knock in our agreed pattern. Gunner's voice calls through the wood, careful and alert.

"It's August."

When the door opens, I'm immediately hit with the complex scent dynamic in the room. Daisy's natural sweetness,now mixed with stress and uncertainty. Gunner's protective sandalwood. The lingering traces of Cassian's presence.

"I brought you some things," I tell Daisy gently, setting bags where she can see them.

Her reaction is immediate and telling. She stares at the bags like they might vanish. When she asks "For me?" in that whisper of disbelief, I understand we're dealing with someone who's been taught she doesn't deserve basic consideration.

Heartbreaking.

I watch her discover the grey sweater, the way her fingers trace the soft fabric with wonder. It's like watching someone encounter a new language. The language of personal choice.

"Thank you," she says, and the gratitude in her voice tells me more about her conditioning than hours of analysis could.

While she showers, I show Gunner the news article on my phone. Watch him process the same implications I did.

"They're saying all omegas are safe," he says quietly, his green eyes darkening.

"But we know that's not true," I finish. "Which means the Governor is covering up that she was taken."

When Daisy emerges wearing clothes she chose from the two bags I bought, the transformation is remarkable. Not just the obvious changes, the way the soft fabrics complement her coloring, how the comfortable fit allows her to move naturally. It's subtler than that. Her posture has shifted. Her scent has warmed.

Choice, it seems, is transformative.

"This feels nice," she says, looking down at herself with wonder. "I don't know how to pay you back. I don't have a job."

"Your job right now is to heal," I tell her firmly. "That's it."

She nods, but I can see she doesn't quite believe it. Her eyes dart away when I look at her directly, and she pulls the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands.

I can see how they've tried to break her down, make her believe she's only worth what she can give others. But they didn't succeed completely. She's still curious about the world around her. Still responds to kindness, even if it confuses her.

There's hope here.

Over food, I watch her navigate the simple pleasure of choosing what to eat. Each bite seems to surprise her, as if flavor is something she's forgotten to expect.

When I tell her about the news, that all the omegas are safe. The relief that floods her scent is immediate and overwhelming. But I frame it carefully, focusing on her need for hope rather than the political implications.

She doesn't need to know yet that her rescue has been erased from the official record.

"What's your favorite color?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Her confusion at the question tells me everything. "I was never asked what I liked. Just told what was appropriate."

Of course. Personal preferences would be irrelevant in a system that views her as a political asset.