Page 8 of Daisy (Omega Chosen #3)

Cassian

T he past has teeth.

I learned that lesson young, in foster homes that smelled like cigarettes and disappointment, in group homes where the strong survived and the weak disappeared. I learned it again every time I stepped into an underground ring, trading pieces of my soul for enough money to eat.

But I thought I'd escaped it when I found August.

Sitting in our small apartment now, watching him move around the kitchen making dinner like this is any other evening, I can almost pretend the past is just that—past. That the violence and desperation that shaped me are things I've left behind, filed away in some dark corner of my memory where they can't hurt either of us.

Almost.

"You're thinking too loud," August says without turning around. He's making pasta—something simple but good, the way he does everything. "I can practically hear the gears grinding from here."

I lean back against the couch, studying the line of his shoulders as he stirs the sauce. A year together, and he still surprises me. Still sees through the walls I spent twenty-seven years building.

"Just thinking about what we're getting into," I tell him.

"Having second thoughts?"

"About protecting innocent omegas from violent alphas? No." I stand up, crossing to wrap my arms around his waist from behind. He melts back against me immediately, trust written in every line of his body. "About dragging you into danger? Always."

August covers my hands with his, thumb tracing over the faded scars on my knuckles. "You're not dragging me anywhere. This was my idea, remember?"

"Your idea to help. My idea to do it in whatever fucked-up way I know how."

"Cassian." He turns in my arms, hazel-green eyes serious. "Do you remember what you told me the night you bit me?"

Heat floods through me at the memory. Not just physical heat, though that's there too—August naked beneath me, neck arched in offering, the taste of his blood on my tongue. But emotional heat. The moment when everything I'd kept locked away came spilling out.

"I told you a lot of things that night," I say roughly.

"You told me you were done running from what you are." His hands come up to frame my face, fingers gentle against my cheekbones. "You said being with me didn't make you weak. It made you stronger. More focused."

I did say that. In the aftermath of claiming him, when endorphins and emotion had stripped away every filter I'd ever had. When the truth felt safer than the lies I'd been telling myself.

"And you said you'd never let anyone hurt me." August's voice drops to a whisper. "Not even yourself."

"I meant it."

"I know you did. And I believe you still mean it now." He presses a soft kiss to my jaw. "But Cass... what if protecting me means protecting them too? What if the only way to keep me safe is to make sure the world doesn't completely fall apart?"

Smart. Too smart for his own good, my beta. He knows exactly which buttons to push to get through my defenses.

"You think if we don't act, the violence will spread?"

"I think angry alphas don't stop at one target." August steps back to check the pasta, but his scent carries his worry—cedarwood and parchment with bergamot, now edged with anxiety. "I think once they decide the rules don't apply to them, they'll keep pushing boundaries until someone stops them."

He's right. I know he's right. I've seen it happen before, in the underground circuits, in the foster system, in every corner of society where desperate people decide they have nothing left to lose.

Violence spreads like infection. And once it starts, it's almost impossible to stop.

"Okay," I say. "So we go. We watch. If something happens?—"

"When something happens," August corrects.

"When something happens, we step in." I turn off the burner under the sauce, decision made. "But we do this smart. No unnecessary risks. No heroics."

August smiles, the expression lighting up his whole face. "Deal."

We eat dinner in comfortable silence, but I can feel the tension building between us. Not bad tension—anticipation, maybe. The knowledge that after tonight, things might be different.

I've spent a year building a quiet life with August. Working odd jobs, staying out of fights, pretending I'm not the kind of man who solves problems with violence. It's been peaceful. Good.

But peace is a luxury, and some situations don't respond to quiet solutions.

"Wait..." August says as we clear the dishes, his voice thoughtful. "Don't you know someone who works at the Omega House? One of the guards?"

I pause, plate halfway to the sink. His hazel-green eyes search my face.

I set the plate down carefully, my mind immediately going to ice-blue eyes and shared foster home memories. "Dante."

"That's his name?"

Complicated question. Dante and I shared more than just foster homes—we shared the understanding that the world was divided into predators and prey, and you had to choose which one you were.

We just made different choices.

The Riverside Group Home smelled like industrial disinfectant and broken dreams.

I was fifteen when they placed me there, fresh from my third failed foster placement. Old enough to know better than to hope, young enough to still be surprised when hope died anyway.

Dante was already there when I arrived. Sixteen, tall for his age, with these ice-blue eyes that missed nothing. He had a reputation—not for causing trouble, but for ending it. The younger kids gravitated toward him like he was magnetic north.

We didn't talk for the first month. Just watched each other, taking measure.

The thing about group homes is they have their own ecosystem. Alphas, betas. Everyone found their place in the hierarchy, usually through violence or the threat of it.

Dante's place was at the top. Not because he was the biggest or the meanest, but because he was the most controlled. When someone stepped out of line, when the staff weren't paying attention and things got ugly, Dante handled it.

Quietly. Efficiently. With just enough force to make his point.

I respected that. Didn't like it, necessarily, but I respected it.

The first time we spoke was over a kid named Tommy. Twelve years old, beta-born, small for his age. Some of the older alphas had decided he made a good target for their frustrations.

I found them in the laundry room, three sixteen-year-olds cornering one terrified kid. The smart play would have been to walk away. Mind my own business. But I've never been particularly smart.

"Problem here?" I asked, stepping into the room.

The biggest alpha—Rick, I think his name was—turned to sneer at me. "No problem. Just teaching little Tommy some manners."

Tommy's face was already bruising. His scent carried pure terror.

"Looks to me like he's learned enough for one day," I said.

"Looks to me like you should mind your own fucking business," Rick shot back.

That's when Dante appeared in the doorway.

He didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Just looked at Rick with those cold blue eyes, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

"You're done here," Dante said quietly.

Rick started to argue, but something in Dante's expression stopped him. All three alphas filed out without another word.

Tommy ran.

Dante and I stood there in the sudden silence, sized each other up properly for the first time.

"You didn't need to step in," he said finally.

"Neither did you."

"Tommy's under my protection."

"Didn't know." I shrugged. "Wouldn't have mattered anyway."

"No?" Dante's head tilted slightly. "Why?"

"Because they were hurting him. That's enough."

Dante studied me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "You fight?"

"When I have to."

"Want to spar sometime? Properly, I mean. Not just breaking up bullies."

I considered it. Dante was bigger than me, probably stronger, definitely more experienced. But there was something about him that intrigued me. A control I recognized but couldn't quite understand.

"Sure," I said.

That became our routine. After chores, after homework, after the staff thought we were settling in for the night, we'd find an empty room and go at each other.

It was the closest thing to friendship I'd ever had.

Dante fought like he did everything else—controlled, calculated, always thinking three moves ahead. I fought like the feral thing I was becoming—all instinct and fury and the bone-deep knowledge that losing meant something worse than pain.

We were good for each other, in a twisted way. Dante taught me technique, strategy, how to channel rage into something useful. I taught him what it felt like to fight someone who wouldn't back down, who'd rather break than bend.

"You're going to get yourself killed someday," he told me after a particularly brutal session. We were both bloody, both breathing hard, both grinning despite ourselves.

"Maybe," I agreed. "But I'll go down swinging."

"There are smarter ways to solve problems than violence."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Like making sure the violence happens on your terms instead of theirs."

I didn't understand what he meant then. Thought he was talking about fighting strategy, about picking your battles and timing your attacks.

It wasn't until years later that I realized he was talking about becoming part of the system instead of fighting against it.

We went different directions when we aged out. Dante found structure, purpose, a place within the machine that had tried to break us both. I found underground rings and empty apartments and the kind of life that burns bright and fast.

We lost touch. Different worlds, different choices.

But I never forgot what he taught me about control. About channeling rage into something useful.

"Sounds like you two were close," August says softly.

"For a while." I finish loading the dishwasher, trying to organize thoughts that feel too big for words. "But we wanted different things. He wanted to fix the system from the inside. I wanted to burn it down."

"And now?"