Page 21

Chapter Fifteen

Lilianna

I woke to darkness, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar shadows surrounding me.

Panic fluttered in my chest before memory returned—I was in the Vale house, in my new suite, safe from my parents' constant surveillance.

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed showing it was Eight Seventeen in the evening.

I'd slept longer than intended, missing dinner entirely.

My stomach growled in protest as I sat up, pushing tangled hair from my face.

The house was quiet, though I could hear faint sounds of movement from downstairs—perhaps the others finishing their meal or settling into evening routines.

I should join them, I thought, then immediately questioned the impulse.

Was that my genuine desire or just the ingrained habit of making myself available whenever expected?

Nicolaus had said dinner was at seven but that I wasn't obligated to attend. A real choice, not just the illusion of one.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, feeling oddly vulnerable in my rumpled dress.

The blue fabric was creased from my impromptu nap, and I knew my hair must be a disaster.

My mother would have been horrified at the thought of me appearing before others in such a state—disheveled, unprepared, imperfect.

But these men weren't my parents. They had made that abundantly clear.

I moved to the bathroom, flipping on the light and confronting my reflection.

As expected, my carefully arranged blonde hair had come loose, falling in uneven waves around my face.

My dress was wrinkled beyond salvation. The perfect image my mother had constructed this morning was thoroughly dismantled.

And yet, I looked... real. A person, not a doll. Tired, a little uncertain, but alive in a way I rarely saw in my reflection.

On impulse, I reached up and pulled out the remaining pins, letting my hair fall completely free.

It tumbled past my shoulders nearly to my waist. My mothers conservative updo was perfect at hiding how long my hair actually was.

I ran my fingers through it, simply enjoying the sensation of touch without purpose.

The closet beckoned next. I shed the blue dress with a sense of liberation, hanging it far back where I wouldn't have to look at it.

Standing in just my underwear, I faced rows of clothing I'd never chosen for myself.

Each piece carried the weight of my mother's expectations—modest, appropriate, designed to present me as the perfect Omega.

But tucked in one suitcase were the few items I'd managed to acquire without her knowledge.

Nothing scandalous by normal standards—just a pair of soft cotton pajama pants with a pattern of stars and moons, and a faded university t-shirt I'd purchased from an online thrift store using the small allowance I'd secretly saved.

I'd hidden them beneath other clothes whenever I packed for brief trips, treasures I'd never dared wear where anyone might see.

Tonight, I chose them without hesitation.

The cotton felt soft against my skin, worn to perfect comfort by someone else's wearing.

The t-shirt hung loose and easy, nothing like the fitted, structured garments my mother preferred.

The pajama pants were perhaps the most rebellious thing I owned—printed with tiny crescent moons and stars in silver against deep blue fabric.

Childish, my mother would have said. Inappropriate for a young woman of my station.

I loved them.

Looking in the mirror now, I saw someone I barely recognized. Hair loose and free, clothes chosen for comfort rather than appearance, no jewelry to proclaim my family's status. Just... me. Whatever that meant.

My stomach growled again, more insistently this time.

I stood before my closed door, hand hovering over the handle.

The familiar anxiety crept in—what if they thought I looked inappropriate?

What if casual clothes sent the wrong message?

What if they expected me to maintain the formal appearance from this morning?

But Nicolaus had been clear about choices. Small ones that build toward larger ones. This was small—choosing comfort over propriety, authenticity over performance. I took a breath and opened the door.

The hallway was softly lit, as Julian had promised.

I could hear quiet conversation drifting up from the kitchen, punctuated by the gentle clink of dishes being cleaned.

My bare feet made no sound on the hardwood as I descended the stairs, following the warm glow of light and the lingering aroma of something delicious.

I paused at the kitchen doorway, suddenly uncertain. Christopher stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up as he washed dishes.

Julian sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, reviewing what looked like emails on his laptop, while Miles leaned against the counter nearby, drying a wine glass with careful attention.

Dried plates sat beside him, with Miles and Christopher moving in comfortable synchronization.

None of them noticed my presence immediately, giving me a moment to observe their easy domesticity.

"She's been asleep for hours," Christopher was saying, his voice tinged with concern. "Should we have woken her for dinner?"

"Nicolaus said to let her rest," Julian replied without looking up from his laptop. "Her body is probably catching up on months of stress-induced insomnia."

Miles glanced toward the doorway and spotted me, his face breaking into a warm smile. "Speaking of sleeping beauty," he said gently, causing the other two to turn.

Christopher's hands stilled in the soapy water as he took in my appearance. I braced myself for judgment, for some subtle indication that my casual clothes were inappropriate. Instead, his expression softened into something that looked remarkably like relief.

"You look comfortable," he said, his voice warm with approval. "And rested. How are you feeling?"

Julian closed his laptop, giving me his full attention. His hazel eyes swept over my loose hair and casual clothes without a trace of disapproval. "We saved you a plate," he said simply. "Christopher made his grandmother's chicken and dumplings. It reheats beautifully."

I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how much skin the loose t-shirt revealed compared to my usual high- necked dresses. "I'm sorry I missed dinner. I didn't mean to sleep so long."

"Don't apologize," Miles said firmly, setting down the wine glass. "You needed rest. Besides, there's no schedule here, remember?"

Christopher was already moving toward the refrigerator, pulling out a covered plate. "Would you like it heated up?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder. "Or I could make you something fresh if you'd prefer."

"Heated is fine," I said, still hovering in the doorway. "Thank you."

Christopher slid the plate into the microwave, pressing buttons with practiced ease. The casual domesticity of the scene – these powerful Alphas washing dishes, reheating food, relaxing in their home – felt surreal after the rigid formality of my parents' household.

"You can sit," Julian said gently, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Unless you'd prefer to take it back to your room?"

The question caught me off guard – another choice offered without judgment. "I'd like to stay here," I admitted, still at the doorway. "If that's alright."

"More than alright," Miles replied, "Would you like tea with your dinner? Or maybe wine? We opened a really nice Pinot Noir earlier."

I hesitated, still standing there and not moving, before taking a deep breath in. "Tea would be nice," I managed, then added, "If it's not too much trouble."

Julian pulled out a chair at the table, his movements deliberate but not demanding. "Nothing here is too much trouble, Lilianna. Especially not making you comfortable in your own home."

My own home. The phrase still felt foreign, impossible. I moved to the offered chair, tucking my bare feet beneath me as I sat—another small rebellion against years of being told proper ladies never curled up in chairs.

"I like your pajamas," Miles said casually, filling a kettle with fresh water. "The stars suit you."

Heat crept into my cheeks at his observation. "Thank you. They're not very sophisticated, I know."

"Sophistication is overrated," Christopher declared, setting a steaming plate of chicken and dumplings before me. The aroma made my mouth water instantly. "Comfort is what matters at the end of the day."

Julian watched me with quiet attention as Christopher placed silverware beside my plate. "You look more like yourself," he observed softly.

I paused, fork halfway to the plate. "What do you mean?"

"Less... curated," he explained, choosing his words carefully. "More authentic."

Miles set a mug of tea beside my plate, the fragrant steam carrying hints of chamomile and honey. "You seem more relaxed. Your scent is calmer."

I hadn't considered how my scent might be changing in this new environment.

I know my flowery scent could be too much, my mother had told me on many occasions.

The idea that my natural scent might be more appealing when I was comfortable—not manipulated or suppressed—was something new.

I tried to process what Julian had said as I took a tentative bite of the chicken and dumplings, unprepared for the explosion of flavor and comfort that spread through me.

I took a bite, the food was incredible—rich and comforting, the dumplings light despite their heartiness. I couldn't help the small sound of appreciation that escaped me.

"Good?" Christopher asked, his face lighting up at my reaction.

"Amazing," I admitted, taking another bite without trying to appear delicate or restrained. "I've never had anything like this."