POV: Serena
The photographs were still on my coffee table three hours later, now contained in evidence bags courtesy of Riven's meticulous documentation process. I sat on my couch, watching four alpha operators transform my home into a tactical operations center, and tried to ignore the feeling of walls closing in.
This was necessary. I knew it was necessary.
That didn't make it easier.
"Motion sensors here and here." Riven indicated points on a digital schematic displayed on his tablet. He'd barely spoken since arriving, just worked with terrifying efficiency. "Pressure plates under the entry mat. Biometric lock on your door with facial recognition tied to an approved access list. If anyone tries to breach, you'll know immediately, and so will we."
"How immediately?" I asked.
"Three-second delay maximum. Alert goes to your phone, our phones, and triggers a silent alarm that notifies building security and local PD simultaneously." His violet eyes met mine briefly before returning to the schematic. "You'll also have a panic button—wearable, waterproof, always on. One press sends your exact location and activates a direct line to whoever's on protective detail."
I looked at the small device he held up. Sleek, designed to look like a fitness tracker. Unobtrusive.
Also a leash.
"What if I don't want to wear it?" I kept my voice even.
"Then you're choosing to limit our response capability." Riven's tone was matter-of-fact, no judgment. "Your choice. But it's the difference between a three-second response and a three-minute response when something goes wrong."
Hard to argue with logic.
"Fine. I'll wear it."
Silas looked up from where he and Ash were reviewing security footage on a laptop. "Serena, we need to talk about your schedule for the next week."
Here it was. The restrictions. The "for your own good" limitations that would gradually transform my life into a gilded cage.
I stood, needing the physical advantage of height even though Silas still towered over me. "What about it?"
"You have three public appearances, two recording sessions, and a photo shoot." He gestured to his own tablet, which displayed my calendar. "We need to advance-scout every location, establish security protocols with each venue, and coordinate with your existing team."
"Okay." I waited for the other shoe to drop.
"We'll also need you to limit solo travel. One of us accompanies you to every location, or you use a driver we've vetted."
"I drive myself."
"I know. But your car is a vulnerability we can't fully control. Wrong place, wrong time, someone with access to your parking space—" Silas met my eyes. "I'm not telling you you can't drive. I'm asking you to reconsider until we've neutralized the immediate threat."
Asking. Not ordering.
"What if I refuse?"
"Then we adapt. Put a tracker on your car, have someone follow at a distance, make sure you're never out of backup range." He set down the tablet. "This works better if you cooperate. But we'll work with whatever boundaries you set."
I studied him, looking for the manipulation, the alpha posturing, the inevitable push to control my choices.
Found none of it.
"You mean that."
"Yes."
"Why?" The question came out sharper than intended. "Every other security team wanted complete control. Why are you different?"
Silas was quiet for a moment. Then: "Because control is an illusion. You can lock someone in a safe house, restrict their movements, monitor every aspect of their life, and they'll still find ways to circumvent you if they don't buy into the program. Real security requires partnership. Compliance. Trust."
"And you think you can trust me?"
"I think you've survived this long by being smart, careful, and strategic. I'm not going to insult you by pretending you need me to make your decisions." He moved closer, not invading my space but closing the distance enough that I had to look up to meet his eyes. "But I am going to ask you to trust my expertise the same way I'm trusting yours."
Fuck. He was good.
"Fine. I'll use a driver for the next week. After that, we reassess."
"Fair enough."
Rita emerged from my bedroom, phone pressed to her ear. "—yes, I'll let her know. Thanks." She lowered the phone. "That was your manager. Your appearance on the Morrison Show next week is confirmed. They want to do a pre-interview about the new album."
"Great." I'd been looking forward to that appearance. Morrison was one of the few interviewers who actually asked intelligent questions instead of focusing on my designation or personal life.
"They're also asking about security concerns," Rita continued. "Apparently there are rumors circulating about a stalker situation."
My stomach dropped. "How would anyone know about that?"
"Social media." Ash turned his laptop around, showing me a Twitter thread. "Someone noticed the increased security presence at your last performance. Started speculating. A few of your fans put together a timeline of 'concerning incidents' and now it's gaining traction."
I read through the thread, watching strangers dissect my life with terrifying accuracy. They'd noticed things even I hadn't connected—a moment at a venue where I'd left through a back exit instead of the stage door, a cancelled appearance last month when I'd felt too exposed to go through with it.
"They mean well," I said quietly. "They're worried."
"They're also creating a pressure situation," Silas said. "If your stalker sees this attention, it might accelerate their timeline. Public scrutiny can be a trigger."
"So what do we do?"
"We control the narrative." Lucien spoke from his position at my dining table, where he'd set up what looked like a mobile intelligence center. "Your management releases a statement acknowledging you've enhanced security as a precaution, standard for someone with your public profile. Nothing about specific threats, nothing that gives the stalker information about what we know."
"Make it boring," Ash added. "Routine security upgrade, happens all the time, not worth the attention."
"Will that work?" Rita asked.
"Probably not completely. But it'll take some momentum out of the speculation." Lucien looked at me. "The alternative is saying nothing, which allows the narrative to spiral, or confirming there's a credible threat, which tells your stalker they've succeeded in disrupting your life."
Both bad options.
"Go with the boring statement," I decided. "Rita, work with my management on the exact wording. I want to approve it before it goes out."
"On it." Rita headed back to the bedroom with her phone.
I looked around my apartment. Four alphas, equipment everywhere, my private space invaded by necessity. The walls felt closer than they had this morning.
"I need air," I said abruptly.
Everyone looked at me.
"Balcony," I clarified. "Five minutes. Alone."
Silas's jaw tightened. "That's not—"
"I'm seventeen floors up. No one's climbing the building. I need five minutes of space to breathe without four alphas and their scents saturating every molecule of air in my home." I kept my voice level, but the edge was there. "Five minutes."
Silas and I stared at each other. I watched him calculate, assess, weigh the risk against the necessity of keeping me cooperative.
"Five minutes," he said finally. "But I'm checking the balcony first."
"Fine."
He moved past me, opened the balcony door, checked the space with professional thoroughness. Clear sightlines, no blind spots, no way to access from adjacent balconies.
"Clear," he said, stepping back inside. "Five minutes."
I walked out and closed the door behind me.
The Seattle afternoon was cool, overcast, typical for January. I moved to the railing, gripped the cold metal, and finally—finally—let my scent control slip.
The exhaustion hit immediately. Maintaining suppression for hours took constant concentration, constant energy. Most omegas couldn't hold it for more than thirty minutes without serious physical consequences. I'd trained myself up to six, eight hours on a good day.
Today was not a good day.
I breathed in the cold air, let my scent release naturally, felt my body's desperate relief at dropping the mask. Out here, seventeen floors up with no one to witness it, I could just be. No performance. No control. Just exhaustion and fear and the creeping sensation that my carefully constructed walls were crumbling.
Someone had been in my home. Again. While I was gone. While I thought I was building something resembling safety.
They'd left photographs. A rose. A message that said: I can reach you whenever I want.
And the worst part? They were right.
All my training, all my preparation, all my tactical awareness—none of it had stopped them from walking into my space and leaving evidence of their obsession on my coffee table.
I'd failed.
No. Not failed. Been outmaneuvered. There was a difference.
I straightened, forcing my spine into alignment, pushing the fear down where it couldn't touch me. I'd survived worse than this. I'd survived Sanctuary. I'd survived six months of psychological conditioning designed to break me into the perfect submissive omega.
I'd survived by being smarter, more stubborn, more willing to endure than anyone expected.
This was just another survival situation.
And now I had backup.
The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. One wrong step, one moment of trusting the wrong people, and I'd fall into exactly the kind of dependence I'd spent fifteen years avoiding.
But Silas had said partnership. Had demonstrated it by asking instead of ordering, by adapting instead of controlling.
Marcus trusted him. That had to mean something.
My brother didn't trust easily. Didn't trust anyone with his team, his operations, his life. If he'd recommended Silverthorne Security, if he'd specifically called Silas Vorn, there was a reason.
I just hoped that reason was good enough.
The balcony door opened. I didn't turn around, but I knew who it was by the scent. Leather and gunmetal, now familiar after hours in close proximity.
"Five minutes is up," Silas said quietly.
"I know."
He moved to stand beside me at the railing, not touching, just present. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
"This is hard for you," he said finally. "Having us here. In your space."
"Yes."
"Because of what happened when you were eight."
I glanced at him. "Marcus told you about Sanctuary?"
"Broad strokes. Kidnapping, omega facility, six months of captivity. He didn't give details." Silas kept his gaze on the Seattle skyline. "But I can extrapolate. Isolation, conditioning, attempts to reshape you into someone compliant."
"They called it 'optimization.'" The word tasted bitter. "Believed omegas were inherently flawed, needed to be corrected. Taught to submit properly, bond appropriately, fulfill our 'biological purpose.'"
"Jesus."
"I was eight years old, and they were trying to condition me to accept that my worth was determined by my ability to please alphas." I gripped the railing harder. "So yes, having four alphas in my home, even alphas I'm choosing to work with, even alphas who are trying to help—it triggers something. Makes me want to run."
"But you're not running."
"No. Because running doesn't solve the problem. It just delays it." I finally looked at him. "And because you've earned approximately three hours of provisional trust by actually listening when I say no."
His mouth quirked slightly. "Three whole hours. I'm honored."
"Don't be. Three hours of trust from me is more than most people get in a lifetime."
"I believe that." He turned to face me fully. "For what it's worth, I understand the impulse to control everything yourself. To believe that trusting anyone is a vulnerability you can't afford."
"Military background?"
"Something like that." He was quiet for a moment. "I had a teammate once. Good operator, excellent instincts. But he couldn't delegate, couldn't trust backup to do their jobs. Tried to handle everything himself because asking for help felt like weakness."
"What happened to him?"
"He got himself killed on an operation that should have been routine. Because he didn't call for extraction when he should have. Didn't trust his team to pull him out." Silas met my eyes. "Pride is expensive. Sometimes it costs everything."
The weight of that statement settled between us.
"I'm not proud," I said quietly. "I'm afraid."
"I know. But the result is the same. You push away help because accepting it feels dangerous. And maybe it is dangerous—trusting the wrong people absolutely can get you hurt. But trusting no one?" He shook his head. "That guarantees you're facing threats alone."
"I'm not alone anymore. I have you. Your team."
"For now. Until you decide we're too close, too intrusive, too much of a threat to your control. Then you'll find a reason to cut us loose." His voice was gentle but certain. "I've seen it before, Serena. Clients who need help but can't accept it. Who self-sabotage every security protocol because cooperation feels like submission."
"I'm not going to do that."
"You're already doing it. You needed five minutes alone on this balcony even though it meant arguing with me about safety protocols. You negotiated driving privileges before we'd even established a baseline threat assessment. Every boundary you set, every accommodation you demand—" He paused. "You're testing us. Seeing how far you can push before we start trying to control you."
Fuck. He'd read me perfectly.
"And if I am?" I challenged. "If I need to know I can still make my own choices, still have agency in my own life?"
"Then we work with it. I told you—partnership requires trust both ways. You need to trust us to keep you safe. We need to trust you to let us." Silas moved slightly closer. "But testing has to have a limit. At some point, you have to decide: are we partners, or are we just another threat you're managing?"
I stared at him, at this alpha who saw through my defenses with unsettling accuracy, and felt something shift in my chest.
Fear. Definitely fear.
But also something else. Something that might have been hope.
"I don't know how to do this," I admitted. "How to trust people without losing myself."
"Then we'll figure it out together." He extended his hand. "Deal?"
I looked at his hand. Callused, scarred, the hand of someone who'd fought for everything he had.
Just like me.
I took it.
"Deal."
His grip was firm, warm, and for just a moment, I let myself feel it. Let myself acknowledge that maybe—maybe—I didn't have to do this alone anymore.
Then I released his hand and stepped back, rebuilding my walls.
"We should go inside. Your team probably thinks I've shoved you off the balcony by now."
Silas smiled. "Ash definitely has a betting pool going about how long until you try."
"Smart money says seventy-two hours."
"I'm betting longer. You're stubborn, but you're not stupid."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was meant as one."
We headed back inside. The apartment still felt too full, too saturated with alpha presence. But the crushing weight had eased slightly.
Small progress. But progress nonetheless.
Riven looked up as we entered. "Security installation is complete. I've uploaded access codes to your phone. You'll need to set your biometric profile before the system is fully active."
"Show me."
I spent the next twenty minutes learning my new security system—far more sophisticated than anything I'd installed myself. Fingerprint and facial recognition for entry. Motion sensors that could differentiate between authorized occupants and intruders. Cameras with AI-assisted threat detection.
It was impressive. Thorough. Exactly what I needed.
Also exactly the kind of system that could be used to monitor my every movement if I wasn't careful.
"Who has access to the camera feeds?" I asked.
"You, me, Silas, and our secure server." Riven pulled up the access log. "Every time someone views footage, it's logged here with timestamp and user ID. You can review the logs whenever you want."
"Can you delete footage?"
"No. System's designed to prevent tampering. Footage is automatically backed up to an off-site encrypted server. Even if someone destroyed your local storage, we'd still have the recordings."
"What about you? Can you delete from the backup server?"
Riven's violet eyes met mine. "Yes. But it would leave a permanent record that footage was removed, including what was removed and who did it. Complete transparency."
I studied him. He'd designed a system that was both maximally secure and maximally accountable. Someone who understood that security clients might have trust issues.
"Good," I said. "That works."
"Thought it might." He packed up his equipment. "I'll monitor the feeds remotely for the next forty-eight hours, make sure everything's functioning correctly. After that, it's mostly automated unless something triggers an alert."
"Thank you."
He nodded once and left, silent as he'd arrived.
Lucien closed his laptop. "I've completed the initial threat profile based on available information. The pattern suggests someone with extensive resources, technical capability, and intimate knowledge of your schedule and movements. They're patient, methodical, and increasingly bold."
"In other words, dangerous," Ash said.
"Very. They've escalated from passive observation to active intrusion. The photographs represent a significant boundary violation—they're no longer content to watch from a distance. They want you to know they can reach you."
"Recommendations?" Silas asked.
"Full protective detail for all public appearances. Secure transportation. Limited solo activity until we've identified the threat actor and neutralized their capabilities." Lucien looked at me. "I know you value your independence. But this person has demonstrated both the skill and the will to access your private spaces. We have to assume they're capable of more direct action."
The clinical assessment should have been frightening. Instead, it was almost comforting. Facts. Analysis. No emotional manipulation, just tactical reality.
"I understand," I said. "What's the timeline?"
"Unknown. They could maintain this pattern indefinitely, or they could escalate tomorrow. We need to prepare for both scenarios."
"Which means?" Rita asked. She'd been quietly observing from the kitchen, worry evident in every line of her body.
"Which means Serena doesn't go anywhere alone until further notice," Silas said. "One of us is always within response range. We establish security protocols for every location she visits. And we stay alert."
He looked at me. "This is going to be intrusive. Uncomfortable. You're going to want to push back against the restrictions. But I need you to trust the process."
There was that word again. Trust.
"How long?" I asked.
"As long as it takes. Could be days, could be months. We work the problem until it's solved."
Months of constant surveillance. Months of alphas in my space, monitoring my movements, controlling access to my life.
Months of not being alone.
The walls closed in again.
But the photographs were still on my coffee table, tangible evidence that my isolation hadn't kept me safe. That going it alone had just made me an easier target.
"Okay," I said. "We do this your way. But I need daily briefings. I need to know what you know, what you're planning, why you're making the decisions you're making. No keeping me in the dark 'for my own good.'"
"Agreed. Full transparency."
"And if I need space—if the constant proximity becomes too much—you give it to me. Even if it's tactically inconvenient."
Silas hesitated. "Within reason. I'm not compromising your safety because you're uncomfortable."
"Then we define 'within reason' together. Before it becomes an issue."
"Fair enough."
I looked around at the three remaining alphas in my apartment—Silas, Ash, Lucien. Men I'd known for less than twelve hours, now integral to my daily survival.
"This is insane," I said. "You realize that, right? I'm trusting my life to people I barely know."
"Marcus knows us," Silas said quietly. "And you trust Marcus."
"I do."
"Then trust his judgment. We'll earn the rest."
God, I hoped he was right.
Because if he wasn't—if Silverthorne Security turned out to be just another system trying to control me—I was going to be in exactly the kind of vulnerable position I'd spent fifteen years avoiding.
But if he was right...
If he was right, maybe I'd finally found partners who understood that protection and autonomy weren't mutually exclusive.
Maybe I'd found people who could help me survive without requiring me to surrender who I was.
Maybe.
"All right," I said. "Let's get to work."