24. Elena

Lorcán lookslike he was just slapped by my words, so instead of saying anything else, I go back to disinfecting my hands and rinsing out my mouth.

"So, both of them then?" he sighs, tugging at his dirty blonde hair and pacing behind me. "Cillian and Finn are your fucking scent matches. Of-fucking-course they are," he seethes.

There's more to their relationship than Lorcán has disclosed. I haven't seen them together to pick up on it, but it's more than clear the Alpha behind me feels this unavoidable need to prove himself to his brothers.

Lorcán laughs loudly before punching the metal stall door of the bathroom.

"They get everything. Why would this be any different?" he scoffs, looking at me through the mirror.

I sigh and find myself automatically wanting to comfort him, but a piece of me is holding back. I am still full of so much anger over how long he lied to me and attempted to toy with my emotions.

Yet, Lorcán has been my saving grace in that house. He and his scent have been the only things that have prevented me from going down a complete fucking spiral.

"Lorc," I sigh, the nickname Declan calls him, falling from my lips easily, but he shakes his head.

"Declan will bring you home," he says softly before yanking the bathroom door open and storming out.

Declan is quick to enter the space and lets out a low whistle.

"Blondie, I've got to say, I'm impressed. Your ability to get under the O'Brien brothers' skin is impeccable."

I roll my eyes at the Beta, making him laugh as he shakes his head.

"Lorcán will get over it," he tries to reassure me.

"You don't even know what ‘it' is."

"Hmm, could it possibly be that you're his twin brothers' scent match and not his?" he muses.

"I didn't even want to admit it to myself."

"He'll get over it," he repeats.

But the question is, do I want him to? Is this the pack that I want? The images of Finn getting the shit beat out of him roll through my head. Despite how I feel about the bastard, my body had such a revulsive response to seeing my scent match get hurt.

Can I really live like this?

I suppose the true answer is I don't really have a choice, and I never did.

It's the first night I decide to sleep in my designated room, after what happened in the bathroom with Lorcán, it just didn't feel right to be in his bed with how angry he is. I don't even know if he came home or not.

The longer I stay in this room, the more frustrated I get.

Why couldn't my scent matches be normal men, not ones who get shot in the leg or like to fight for a living? What if Lorcán was my scent match, and that first day he came to work for my father, I recognized it, and we started this pack under different circumstances?

It's all a bunch of what-ifs and hypotheticals. But there's only one reality: everyone in Vegas who matters knows I'm part of pack O'Brien, and there's nothing I can do about it, even if I wanted to.

I'm tossing and turning in bed when I finally decide to get up and get something to drink. I haven't been downstairs by myself since that night at dinner. I wince when I think about it, for too many reasons to name.

My footsteps are quiet as I trail down the stairs and through the hallways until I get to the kitchen. I open the fridge, which casts a light over me and the island behind me when a deep voice startles me.

"You didn't stay the whole fight. Thought you'd like seeing me get my ass kicked," Finn says.

My hand flies to my racing heart as I turn around and look at him. He looks like fucking shit. His face is swollen, dry blood crusting over some parts of his face. His battered knuckles are circled around a tumbler of alcohol. When his heavy-lidded, glossy eyes meet mine, I realize he's drunk.

"It was all a bit too much for me."

"Mmm."

"Do you…" I consider turning around, minding my own fucking business, and going back to bed, but my bleeding heart won't let me. "Do you want me to help you clean those wounds?"

"The Italian mob doctor teach you that?"

I roll my eyes and go to walk around the island when his hand grabs my wrist.

"I'll get the kit," he relents. He groans with the effort he uses to get off the stool. He opens a cabinet, pulling out a large kit of medical supplies, and leads me into the living room.

Finn plops down on the couch like he doesn't have a care in the world, and I start with his hand. Using disinfectant on his knuckles, letting some just air dry while covering others up with bandaids.

The Alpha doesn't look at me, he just rests his head on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"Do you need me to look at your ribs?"

"They're just bruised," he says softly to the ceiling.

"Alright, then, let me see your face."

He takes a few deep breaths and sighs dramatically before pushing his head up from the back of the couch to look at me.

It's hard for me to look at him with all the damage to his face, but he just stares at me with those deep-green, menacing eyes. Finn looks at me like I'm the worst thing that's ever happened to him, and I don't know how to handle it.

How do I irritate him so much by just existing? He breathes through his mouth and not his nose, yet the damage to his nose looks minimal.

"Why do you hate me so much?" I ask him as I clean off the dried blood.

"I don't hate you."

"You act like you hate me. You locked me in a room for three fucking days."

"I don't hate you," he repeats more sternly.

"You have a really weird way of showing it."

"If anything, we have something in common. We both hate me."

I stop cleaning his face for a moment to look at him, really look at him. "I don't hate you."

He laughs and winces from the pain that's caused when he shakes his head. "Well, that makes one of us."

"Why?"

Finn stares at me, his lids heavy with the alcohol coursing through his veins. He doesn't answer me, he just stares at me for a long time before speaking.

"You can't fix me. Women always think they can fix us. So let me save you the trouble. I'm fucked up, mean, and hard to be around. I can't give you anything."

I swallow. His gaze doesn't leave mine.

"So you know what we are?" I ask, not knowing if he or Cillian have noticed. Alphas have a far better sense of smell. Hell, Cillian probably knew the moment we met—they both have to know.

"It doesn't matter. I can't be what you want me to be, ever."

I laugh sardonically.

"Then why keep me here? Why lock me away? Why do any of this?"

"You want out of your cage?" he asks calmly, so calmly that I'm scared something in him is about to switch.

He pulls out his wallet, digging out all the cash he has before pulling out the keys to his car.

"Take it," he mumbles drunkenly, pushing them into my hands. "You don't want to be here? You want to fucking start a life with some Alphas who can take you away from this fucked up world? Then go."

I hold the keys to his car and the couple thousand dollars in my hand.

"I'm sure you can find some poor bastard to make you a new ID. Just fucking go."

"This isn't a trick?" I ask, the heaviness of his keys feeling like a lead weight.

"It's not a trick. Just fucking leave, Elena. Go."

"You won't come looking for me?"

"I can't promise what the others will do, so you better hurry the fuck up," he sighs, resting his head on the back of the couch again, looking absentmindedly at the ceiling. "I can't fucking go through this again. Just leave," he whispers.

I debate on grabbing anything, but truthfully, I don't have much here. All the shit I ordered will be delivered over the next few days.

Finn grabs his phone and opens the security app, and I watch as he disables multiple cameras and locks. "You have three minutes," he states to the ceiling.

I don't waste any of them. I don't even get shoes. My feet just carry me to the garage door that's off the kitchen. There are eight cars in here, and when I click the unlock button, my jaw drops.

I'm glad I didn't tell him that I've only driven a golf cart before as the lights to the BMW Z4 flash. I adjust the driver's seat significantly and realize it's a push start. The engine revs, and I wince, worrying someone might come barreling out here to drag me back into the mansion.

My hands shake as the garage doors open for me. No doubt, Finn's doing.

I take a deep breath as I lightly touch the gas with my bare foot. It doesn't go anywhere, and I curse as I put the car in drive. Slowly, I leave the garage and make my way down the driveway.

It feels like my heart is going to beat out of my chest when I make it through the security gates of the neighborhood, and I'm finally on the open road.

Then it hits me that I have no phone and not a single fucking clue of where I'm going. Or what I'm doing, did I really just leave there without a plan? A-fucking-gain?

So I just drive.

I'm not sure if it's because it was the last place I went in a car or an unconscious need for closure. But I find myself at my father's cemetery. It's, of course, closed at this time of night, so I have to park outside of the front gates and climb over them.

It takes me a moment to find his large, over-the-top headstone. I laugh a little when I see it. Matteo Amante was always larger than life, and this marble monstrosity proves that.

There are no flowers on his grave, and I feel guilty over it as I sit down to run my fingers over the indented letters of his name.

"You left a real mess, Pápa."

The night is cold, and I'm shivering as I sit in the middle of an empty cemetery, wondering why I brought myself here. He's dead; there's nothing that can be changed, he can't answer my questions. But maybe I can get some sort of closure.

"I'm mad at you for lying to me. I'm furious with you for signing a pack contract on my behalf. But most of all, I'm so fucking pissed you aren't here for me to tell you this in person."

I wipe a tear off my cold cheek as I remember my dad's face, his scent, and the way he brought comfort to me when I needed it. What's the use of being mad at a dead man, why am I hurting myself by harboring so much anger?

"Despite all that, I still love you, and I forgive you. I still don't know why you chose them? Was it because you wanted to work with the Irish? Then why did you wait? I wish I just knew why," I sigh, talking to his grave.

"Did you know they were my scent matches? Did you know I'd be difficult? I just need you to tell me what to do."

Of course, I get no response. My mind is working overtime as I think over everything and realize I didn't take my suppressants today. It's probably why Finn's fight affected me so much and why I'm suddenly ready to sob all over the place.

I just want my head to be clear. I want to think logically, but it's like my anger keeps taking the forefront.

I don't want to be angry anymore. I don't want to hurt anymore. Fuck, maybe it's the Omega in me, but god, I just want to be taken care of. I lie on the ground, looking upwards at the sky. There's still too much light pollution to see the night sky clearly, even though I'm outside of the city, but I can still see some stars.

All I ever wanted was a choice and someone who loved me fiercely and would protect me no matter what. That's what they were doing at that house, wasn't it? In their own way, in the ways they thought I would be safe, they were taking care of me.

I think over how I feel about each of them, past and present. There was always an attraction and a dependence on Lorcán, and now I can choose to actually act on it. He's taken every second of vitriol I've thrown his way on the chin and has asked me for nothing in return; he just wants me.

Declan makes me laugh, talking to him was easier than it's ever been with anyone and the way he told me his deepest secret? I feel like a traitor for letting him confide in me and then running away. Life with Declan would be a fun and easy one. Isn't that what I always wanted?

I feel like I was pathetically halfway in love with Cillian while working at the High Roller. Our sexual chemistry was off the charts, and I felt safe with him. My brother shot him, his brother kidnapped me, it's a whole fucking mess. I don't know his reasoning for why he did what he did at the High Roller, but don't I owe him the chance to explain?

Then there's Finn. I saw a different side to him tonight, a man that's clearly broken and hurt. It doesn't excuse what he did to me, and I don't know if I could ever see anything romantic with him. But Finn and Cillian are my scent matches. Can I truly walk away from the men who are literally destined to be mine?

It's simple, I can't.

Going back is a choice. It's my choice and no one else"s. If I get off this cold ground and drive back to that house—if I can find my way back—then it's me actively choosing them to be my pack and my attempt to let this anger go.

It's exhausting being so angry when all I ever wanted was happiness.

I wipe my eyes and look down at my father's grave, wondering if, in some cosmic afterlife way, he helped me work through my emotions.

I never claimed not to be dramatic or difficult, and my pápa knows that better than anyone. I touch his gravestone one more time and sigh at the cool texture against my hand.

"Even dead, you know me better than myself. I'll be back soon. Tell Mama I miss her and love her too," I say, leaving out any mention of the legacy my greedy brother is destroying in his wake.

Thinking about Anthony is only going to make me angry again, and I already have to swallow my pride to drive back to this house. It's going to be embarrassing to explain my failed escape, but I just needed a minute. I needed a minute of not being in that house surrounded by their scents and demands. I needed this clarity, a moment to collect my thoughts without my pheromones getting in the way, to make sense of what it is I really want.

It's not a white picket fence in the heart of America. The pack I'm meant to be with is a few miles away in a big-ass house with a pool and likely a torture dungeon in the basement. I was born into this life, which wasn't a choice. Maybe I'm delusional, thinking going back is a choice and not a necessity. But I can't deny the way my chest aches over the thought of never seeing them again.

Maybe it's Stockholm syndrome. Maybe it's my stupid fucking Omega hormones, either way, I'm headed back to my Irishmen, ready to face the music and try to let some of this resentment go. I won't forgive them for everything, at least not right now. But I owe it to all of us to actually try and make this work.

I dust off my butt as I walk back toward the car, only now realizing that I'm only wearing one of Lorcán's shirts and a pair of panties. As I grow closer to the entrance, bright red and blue lights flash just beyond the gates behind Finn's fancy sports car.

I sigh. As I'm walking, a bright white light nearly blinds me, making me hold my hands up.

As soon as I'm close enough to the two cops, they realize I'm an Omega and their energy quickly changes.

"Do you need help over the gate, sweetheart?"

"No, I got it," I reply before climbing the fence and landing a little in a way that I hope is badass, but more than likely, they think I'm on drugs and breaking into a Catholic cemetery.

"What are you doing out so late by yourself?" the other cop asks, this one immediately putting me on edge.

If there's one thing you learn early on by being a don's daughter, it's that you don't fucking talk to the cops. Don't be a fucking rat, and don't trust pigs, is what my dad always used to say. Especially not the ones that were taking payment from the mob, trust those the least.

"Do you mind taking out your ID and registration?" he asks, not even giving me a chance to answer the question.

"Honey, are you in some sort of trouble? We could help you," the ‘good' cop asks.

I might be a lot of things, but a complete idiot isn't one of them, despite the way I'm currently dressed and my behavior as of late. We will definitely blame all of my delusions on just being an Omega under a high-stress situation.

Besides the fact that I've made my decision, the last thing I would do is trust the government. An unclaimed, no family in sight Omega in the hands of officials? Sounds like a worse fate than the one I currently find myself in. Which, if I'm being honest, isn't so bad. God, I feel stupid for taking Finn's keys.

"It's my boyfriend's car, Finn O'Brien. We had a little fight."

They both swallow, and one of the cops opens the passenger's door to pull out the registration. When he realizes I'm not lying, he swallows thickly.

"Do you have an ID on you?" he asks, and I shake my head. He sighs, knowing that if I'm telling the truth, he'd be in far more trouble if he took me in than calling the man himself. I wonder if these guys are on his payroll, or if the O'Brien's are more infamous than I realized.

"Then I suppose we should give Mr. O'Brien a call."

I roll my eyes and round the car, opening the driver's side door. "I'll just wait in here until we get this squared away."

Neither of them gives me shit, and I can't deny that I like the way it feels to be attached to powerful men; it's something I've grown accustomed to. It's definitely something I wouldn't get if I ran away to find a pack in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. I hate that liking status is a hard habit to kick, but I suppose I don't have to in the grand scheme of things.

While the officer makes some phone calls, I think of all the ways I can torture my men to get back into my good graces.