Page 86 of Run Wild Omega

Margaret sets a plate of pancakes in the center of the table—golden, fluffy, stacked high. A second plate of bacon follows. Then a pitcher of warm maple syrup and a dish of butter.

“Eat first,” she says. “Talk after.”

We eat. God, we eat. I don’t realize how hungry I am until the first bite hits my stomach, and then I’m ravenous, stacking pancakes on my plate and drowning them in syrup like I’m fifteen again.

Miles eats with methodical precision, exactly four pancakes, exactly three strips of bacon, arranged geometrically on his plate. Wyatt eats fast and without looking at his food, his eyes distant, his jaw working automatically.

Margaret and Henry don’t eat with us. They sit and watch, Margaret refilling coffee cups, Henry’s hand resting on the table near his wife’s. They have the particular stillness of parents who are holding themselves together for their child’s sake, saving their own breakdowns for private moments.

After the plates are cleared, Margaret is the first to speak.

“She’s awake. Upstairs, in her old room. I helped her move up there this morning—the couch was killing her back.” She pauses, her hand on the coffee pot. “We talked last night. After you all left.”

My fork stills. “About what?”

“About a lot of things.” Margaret’s gaze is steady, direct. “We know she’s been taking scent blockers since she came back home. We also know that she’s worked so hard to get her footing, and working with Leo has been great for her, but I know my daughter, and I know she’s terrified of being in a relationship. Especially after what Mara went through with her first pack.”

I feel Wyatt tense beside me.

“I’m not telling you this to betray her confidence,” Margaret continues. “I’m telling you because you’re about to walk upstairs and put your scent on my daughter, and I need you to understand what that means for her. She’s not a woman who lets people in easily. She hasn’t let anyone in since she came home from Denver.”

“Margaret—” Henry starts.

“I’m saying it, Henry.” She looks at each of us in turn—me, Wyatt, Miles. “Whatever happened to her in that city broke something in her. She patched it up, and she’s been walking around on that patch ever since, pretending it’s solid ground. If you do this and then let her down—if you make her feel like a burden or a strategy or a problem to be managed—I will never forgive you. And I’m not a woman who says things she doesn’t mean.”

The kitchen is silent.

“We won’t let her down,” Wyatt says. His voice is rough, but there’s a weight to it that makes even Margaret pause.

“See that you don’t.” She picks up the coffee pot again, her composure sliding back into place like armor. “Now go on up. She’s expecting you. And think about what I said. All of it.”

We go.

The stairs creak under our boots. The hallway at the top is narrow, lined with family photographs—Tess as a baby, Tess on her first bike, Tess and Mara in matching Halloween costumes, Tess at graduation, her cap slightly crooked, grinning so wide it looks like it hurts.

Her old room is at the end of the hall. The door is open.

She’s sitting up in bed, propped against the headboard with pillows. The cast is visible under the blanket, a bulky white cylinder that makes the bed look lopsided. She’s wearing an oversized flannel—her dad’s, probably—and her hair is loose around her shoulders, clean but untamed. She looks pale, tired, smaller than she should be.

But her eyes are clear and focused.

“Close the door,” she says.

I close it.

Wyatt pulls the desk chair over to the side of the bed. Miles leans against the dresser. I sit on the edge of the bed, near her feet, careful to avoid the cast.

For a moment, no one speaks. Then Tess takes a breath, and I can see her bracing herself.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says. “Before we do this. Before any of you put your scent on me or sign anything or make any more decisions that involve my name and your names being connected.”

She looks at each of us, and I can see it in her face—the determination, the fear, the raw, reluctant honesty of someone who’s about to dismantle their own walls.

“I’m not doing this if you don’t have the whole picture. You’ve already lied for me once. You’re about to do something much bigger. And I won’t—” Her voice wavers, but she steadies it before she continues. “I won’t let you sign up for something without knowing what you’re actually signing up for.”

“Okay,” Wyatt says quietly. “Tell us.”

She picks at the edge of the blanket. “When I was at the Academy in Denver, I was involved with someone. A professor.”