Page 48

REMI

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

I shouldn’t be here.

Nowhere even remotely close to here.

Hell, I shouldn’t want to be here, but I can’t help the sense of security and safety I feel just being inside these front doors.

The foyer opens before me, grand and luminous, a silent testament to the house’s promise of shelter. Twin staircases curve gracefully on either side of the spacious room, their banisters polished to a warm gleam, inviting ascent to the shadowed mysteries of the second floor.

Directly to the left, through an arched entryway, lies a sitting room bathed in soft lamplight—the plush chairs arranged as if awaiting quiet conversation, the air tinged with the faintest hint of cinnamon and the scent of old books.

The hardwood beneath my feet echoes each hesitant step, but something in this space—a certain hush, a gentle order—makes the world outside feel distant, troubles dulled, and voices softened.

For a moment, I let myself breathe, letting the quiet beauty of the room wrap around my frayed edges.

The gentle hush draws me further into the sitting room, curiosity nudging me from one step to the next. As I cross the threshold, my eyes sweep slowly over the space, taking in the details that make this house a home.

Along the far wall, framed photographs cluster together—snapshots of laughter, of arms thrown around shoulders, and grins that reach the eyes.

Some images are crisp and new, others faded at the edges, time-softened testaments to lives entwined.

A candid shot of all three alphas sprawled on a picnic blanket makes me pause, the warmth in their faces both foreign and familiar.

Between the photographs, shelves are lined with keepsakes: a vase painted in a swirl of reds, a delicate glass figurine catching the lamplight, a stack of well-thumbed books crowned by a pressed black tulip in a gilded frame.

My eyes shoot to the guys looking at me, and I see an identical smirk gracing their faces. It makes me smile before I can help myself. Ugh, I hate that I can’t stay mad at them. I hate that they can make me smile.

There’s a brass clock with curling hands that ticks softly, its rhythm steady and companionable. On the mantel, a trio of candles stands sentinel—one tall, one squat, one just beginning to burn low—casting gentle shadows across a mosaic bowl filled with smooth river stones.

Everywhere I look, there are stories: a tapestry stitched with patient hands, a faded ticket stub tucked behind glass, a child’s drawing in bold crayon colors.

Now, that gives me pause. It’s a child’s drawing of what I assume is the three alphas.

Each detail feels like a quiet greeting, an invitation to belong.

For the first time in days, I feel an ache of hope, fragile but persistent, blooming with safety.

It’s been a long time since I felt safe.

I think back to the time I was in the orphanage.

I was seven years old, had just been placed with the group home, and the feeling of belonging left me the day the house mother slapped me across the face for not eating my peas.

I remember crying for my mother and fathers, wondering where they were at and why they allowed me to be put in this awful place.

It turns out they didn’t allow anything.

They were killed in a head-on collision.

I was with my aunt for the night so my fathers could take my mother out for their anniversary.

Upon leaving the restaurant, a drunkard ran a red light and swerved into their lane.

They died on impact. Every single one of their lives was snuffed out within seconds.

Whereas, I have to live with the aftermath of someone’s wrong decision to get behind the wheel. I can’t even visit their grave because there is no grave. My aunt had them cremated and then sent me off to the group home. I can still remember her words, how awful and filled with loathing they were.

“I didn’t sign on to play momma. You’ll do nothing but be a hindrance, and I have my life to live.”

Up until that point, I thought she loved me. However, it was all for show. My aunt never loved me. As soon as the case worker removed me from her home, that was the last time I saw her. She doesn’t call. Doesn’t write. Doesn’t do anything. For all I know, she could be dead in a ditch somewhere.

“You’ll be safe here,” I hear from behind me. Looking back over my shoulder, I spy the guys standing in the doorway, watching me. Waiting.

I know what they’re waiting for. They’re waiting for me to break down. They’re waiting for the moment I can’t take this anymore, and I need someone’s arms to hold me tight.

They’re not wrong.

And I hate that they’re right.

It feels as if any moment, I’ll succumb to the storm brewing inside me. I feel like I’m smothering, and no matter how deeply I breathe, I can’t seem to catch my breath. It feels like a swirl of darkness and decay is churning inside my stomach.

I turn to face them fully, searching their expressions for answers, my arms wrapped unconsciously around myself like a shield. Their eyes are gentle, but there's something else hovering there—concern, maybe, or the silent offer of comfort I’m not sure how to accept.

I hesitate, the question tumbling out before I can catch it. “What?” I ask, my voice softer than I intend, as if the syllable itself is too fragile to disturb the hush in the room.

“I said you’ll be safe here,” Knox repeats, taking a step forward until he’s entirely inside the room.

“Safe from harm completely or safe from Al?” I can’t help but ask.

His eyes soften, the crinkles around the edges slightly disappearing. “Safe from all harm.”

I’m skeptical of his words. Yes, they took care of me when I ran into Knox’s office, but that could have been a trick to get me to trust them. A rouse that will beguile me to their ways so that they can reel me back in, only for them to hurt me again.

However, there’s a part of me—a small, flickering ember buried beneath years of disappointment and wary hope—that wants to believe him.

Against my better judgment, it aches to trust in the possibility of safety, to surrender, if only for a moment, to the idea that someone might actually mean those words.

I try to smother that fragile longing, but it persists, quietly stubborn, daring me to reach for something gentler than I’ve ever allowed myself to grasp.

Instead of answering, I nod my head and then turn back around to face the room.

I walk over to the sofa and take a seat, sitting slightly on the edge.

I’m not sure what to do with myself. Usually, I’m working at Sip-A-Brew, which takes my mind off a lot of things.

Now, I don’t have that luxury. I don’t even have a job.

I’m sure Al has terminated my existence at the coffee shop. There’s no way he hasn’t.

“Um, I know this is a lot to take in, but ... do you want to see your room?” Boone inquires, his eyes holding all the hope in the world.

“You mean, where I’m staying?” I ask.

He glances over at Knox and then Tripp before bringing his eyes back to mine. A million secrets seem to slither through his eyes, and none of them I know. He gives me a slight smile, kind of understanding, and then gestures for me to follow him.

“Yes, of course. The room you’re staying in.”

Boone shifts his weight, offering a reassuring smile that almost reaches the corners of his eyes.

With a gentle sweep of his hand, he gestures toward the hallway—a motion neither hurried nor insistent, but quietly patient, as if inviting a skittish animal to step into the light.

His fingers uncurl in an open, welcoming arc, palm facing upward, a silent promise that I can move at my own pace.

Something about the way he waits—body angled just so, expression unmarred by expectation—makes it easier to stand, to let my own feet carry me in the direction he suggests.

The gesture is simple, but it holds the warmth of understanding, a wordless encouragement that maybe, just maybe, I’m wanted here.

I hesitate for only a heartbeat, glancing quickly between Knox and Tripp.

Their faces wear matching expressions—hopeful, watchful, as if they're willing me forward with nothing more than the soft lift of their brows and a quiet expectancy in their eyes.

That silent encouragement is all I need.

I rise, smoothing my hands over my thighs, then fall into step behind Boone, letting the gentle promise in their gazes nudge me onward.

Boone leads me toward the staircase closest to the sitting room.

I follow behind him silently, my eyes drifting over all the decor.

It seems so timeless, so elegant. However, there is a certain hominess to it that it feels like a lived-in home instead of a museum.

The pictures are all candid shots of the alphas. Always in laughter, never in sadness.

We ascend the staircase, each step cushioned by the plush runner, the quiet creak of wood underfoot blending with the soft hum of conversation drifting from below.

Halfway up, I glance over the banister—just a glimpse of the sitting room’s golden light pooling on the floorboards, as if offering reassurance even as I leave it behind.

The air on the second floor is subtly different: cooler, tinged with cinnamon and something faintly powdery, like linens dried in the sun.