Page 22

Chapter 21

A World in Flames

Sinclair

W e stayed in the vault for hours, pouring over documents and material, and only made it through a fraction of the records. Being so far underground, we didn’t even know it was morning until Bishop’s phone alarm went off at six thirty, reminding us to sneak back to our wing.

“We need more time.” Titus drags his hands over his face, exhausted.

Ecker slumps onto the couch, equally as tired. “We’ll just have to go back tonight.”

“Yeah, and when are we supposed to sleep?” Titus huffs.

“How about now?” I answer, an idea percolating. “We can nap now, and later, if we have a valid reason for being at the cottage, we can spend as much time there as we need. We won’t have to sneak around or worry about being caught.”

Titus leans back. “What are you suggesting?”

“A family dinner.” I smile, turning to Ecker. “You said your dad’s ribs took all day, right?”

Something soft and warm reflects in his gaze. He returns my smile. “Right. But we’re not talking about boxed mac and cheese here. Do you know what to do?” He quirks a brow.

“I have three alphas to take care of now. I gotta start somewhere.”

He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “You don’t have to do anything but sit pretty, baby girl.”

I laugh. “If you’re worried about me accidentally giving you all salmonella or something, don’t—I’ll have Seventeen help me.”

He sits back with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “ Okay , phew.”

Bishop laughs. “Right, because you only ever poison us on purpose.”

Ecker peruses the spice aisle like he’s at a fine art museum, tediously taking in every label.

“I’m sure I’ll recognize it,” he mumbles to himself as he scours row after row, looking for the specific steak seasoning his father used.

“Ah-ha!” He swipes one off the shelf triumphantly. “This and about five hours in the oven is all that’s needed for the best ribs you’ve ever had.”

I sling my arm around his waist, slipping my hand in his back pocket and smiling up at him. “Can’t wait.”

We find Titus and Bishop, just as Titus is loading a few cans of kidney beans into the cart. Bishop looks at the cans in thought, and I’m beginning to think these boys take grocery shopping way too seriously when he says, “If we use dry beans, it will go from a thirty-minute recipe to a three-hour one.”

“Good call,” Titus agrees and swaps them out while Bishop grabs a bag of rice.

This moment is so painfully mundane.

And I love every single thing about it.

Giddiness blooms in my chest, and I can’t help but stretch onto my toes to kiss Bishop’s and Titus’s cheeks. Titus gives my butt a light slap in return, and I feel my cheeks turn pink.

“This is nice,” I admit almost bashfully.

“What is?” Titus asks.

“Being normal.”

He bites his lip, fighting a smile, and I resist the urge to squeeze his sides and tickle him just to get him to crack a full smile.

Is Titus Cerulean ticklish?

The thought makes me laugh, and he looks at me with playful suspicion. “What now?”

“Oh, nothing,” I lie with a smirk, then mimic a camera with my hands, pretending to take a photo of my three gorgeous men with the most unexciting backdrop of rows and rows of beans. “Just capturing this slice of normalcy before we return to casually planning a coup.”

My mother’s father died in a car accident before she was born, and my grandmother never remarried or had other children. A John knocked up my mom, so my unwitting sperm donor could be any number of men.

For my entire life, that was the extent of my family.

No siblings, no cousins, no aunts or uncles, just me and Ma with Celia’s occasional appearance.

So, when I come back upstairs to a bustling kitchen after checking on the boys in the vault, it’s like experiencing something that you thought only existed in movies. It’s loud and a little hectic and makes my heart crack open, mourning something I never had while equally grateful that now I do.

The Beryll alphas are watching a football game on their computer, periodically erupting in cheers or groans of disappointment. Penelope checks on the ribs, while Paisley does her best not to cry cutting onions. Even Merigold is chatting happily while she prepares the salad.

At the next commercial break, Griffin gets up and nudges Paisley away from the cutting board. “I got it,” he says, taking the knife from her hand.

“Okay, tough guy.” She chuckles while sniffling and wiping her eyes.

“I just hate to see you cry,” he teases.

“Chivalry isn’t dead.” Merigold laughs.

I feel like pinching myself because how did we get here?

Cooking dinner for two noble packs, using the family recipes of two alphas I very much love, and laughing with my arch nemesis while she chops romaine.

My hand subconsciously goes to my sternum, where my ceremonial scars lie under my shirt. It feels like just yesterday I was holding my breath in the tub, my chest freshly cut and burning, thinking I was better off dead. And yet, I can hardly recognize that girl.

She was so full of rage, scared and angry. She felt like she had no one. No one except for the quiet and mousy attendant who carefully cleaned her wounds and was known by only a number.

That girl wanted to burn the world, then go up in flames with it.

I’m not her anymore.

I still want to burn the world, but I no longer want to go down with it. I want to build something better from the ashes.