After My Alpha Used His Voice to Silence Me

The weeks blurred together in a way that felt both too fast and impossibly slow. Cassian was everywhere and nowhere. At pack runs he stayed close, his hand at my back, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear when he asked if I needed water or rest. During meetings he sat beside me, his posture protective, his gaze sweeping the room like he was daring anyone to question my place. The pack members smiled. A few of the older Lunas touched my arm and said how good it was to see us together again.

But at night, in our private quarters, he turned away.

He didn't say anything. He just faced the wall, his breathing evening out too quickly, like he was pretending to sleep. When I reached for him once, my hand barely grazing his shoulder, he went rigid. The next morning he was gone before I woke.

I told myself it was the adjustment. Three years was a long time. We both needed space to find each other again.

But then my sleeve rode up during breakfast one morning—just a few inches, enough to show the thin white scars that traced my forearm. Cassian's eyes flicked down. His jaw tightened. He looked away and didn't look back.

I pulled the sleeve down and kept eating.

He started disappearing for late patrols. Two, three times a week. Sometimes more. He'd kiss my forehead before he left, his voice gentle. "Just checking the borders. I'll be back soon." But Selene, weak as she was, couldn't track his scent past the packhouse gates. She tried once and came back to me with nothing—just a faint, nauseating cold that settled in my stomach and wouldn't leave.

Brooklyn, meanwhile, moved through the packhouse like she owned it.

She wore Omega grays, kept her head slightly bowed when Cassian was around, played the part perfectly. But pack members greeted her by name. She ate in the main dining hall, not the Omega quarters. I saw her laughing with the Gamma's mate once, their heads bent close like old friends.

When she passed me in the hallways, she smiled. Warm. Humble. Her eyes always found mine for just a second longer than necessary.

Buster growled every single time.

Low, sustained, the kind of sound he'd never made at anyone else. I'd rest my hand on his head and he'd quiet, but his body stayed tense until she was gone. I trusted that growl more than I trusted my own rationalization.

One night, three weeks in, I had an episode.

I didn't remember falling asleep. I didn't remember the nightmare. I just woke to Buster's bark—sharp, repeated, insistent—and realized I was standing in the hallway outside my room, my hand on the wall, my vision tunneling.

I focused on his bark. Counted the intervals. Four seconds between each one. My breathing slowed. The tunnel widened. I was back.

"Good boy," I whispered. My voice shook. "Good boy."

My throat was dry. I needed water. The kitchen was downstairs, too far, but the packhouse lounge had a small bar setup. I could get a glass there and come right back.

Buster followed me down the hall, his body pressed against my leg.

The lounge door was closed but not locked. I pushed it open.

Cassian and Brooklyn were on the couch.

Her head was on his chest. His hand was in her hair. They weren't kissing, weren't doing anything overtly sexual, but the intimacy of it—the ease, the comfort—hit me like a physical blow.

They sprang apart.

Cassian was on his feet in half a second, his expression shifting into something pained and urgent. "Annalise—"

"I just needed water," I said. My voice came out flat.

Brooklyn stood slowly, smoothing her dress, her face carefully neutral. She didn't say anything. Just looked at Cassian.

"She was having a panic attack," Cassian said, crossing to me, his hands reaching for my shoulders. "I found her in here, hyperventilating. I was calming her down. That's all."

His eyes locked on mine. Unblinking. Steady.

"She's unstable, Annalise," he continued, his voice dropping into that tender register he used when he wanted me to trust him. "The captivity damaged her. If I don't manage her carefully, she could hurt herself. Or someone else. I'm doing this for the pack. For you."

I looked past him at Brooklyn. She had her arms wrapped around herself now, her head bowed, playing the part of the fragile, traumatized rogue.

Buster growled.

Cassian's jaw tightened. "Control your dog, Annalise."

I put my hand on Buster's head. He quieted but didn't stop staring at Brooklyn.

"Okay," I said.

Cassian blinked. "Okay?"

"I understand," I said. "You're protecting the pack."

Relief flooded his face. He pulled me into a hug I didn't return. "Thank you," he whispered into my hair. "Thank you for understanding."

I let him hold me for five seconds. Then I stepped back. "I'm going to bed."

"I'll be up soon," he said.

He wasn't.

I went back to my room with Buster and sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were shaking. Selene sent a single sensation through me—cold, absolute, the kind that felt like drowning.

I waited until two a.m. Then I got up.

The security office was on the second floor, tucked behind the Beta's quarters. Cassian had restricted access months ago, citing pack protocol. But I'd grown up in this packhouse. I knew the system's architecture, knew the old bypass my father had shown me when I was sixteen—a backdoor code that predated Cassian's restrictions.

I slipped into the office. The monitors glowed faintly in the dark. I entered the code. The system opened.

I started with the lounge. Pulled footage from tonight, then last week, then the week before. Brooklyn entering at midnight. Cassian following ten minutes later. The angle didn't show everything, but it showed enough—his hand on her lower back, the way he cleared the hallway before bringing her inside, the way they sat too close for too long.

I pulled footage from the Omega quarters. Brooklyn's assigned room was small, sparse, exactly what an Omega servant would have. But she was never in it. I tracked her movements. She spent her nights in the east wing—premium guest quarters with private baths and sitting rooms.

I pulled footage from the dining hall. Cassian bringing her a plate personally, sitting with her while she ate, his body angled toward hers in a way that looked like protection but felt like possession.

I saved everything to a small device I'd tucked in my pocket. The files transferred silently. When the progress bar hit one hundred percent, I cleared the access log and left the office exactly as I'd found it.

Buster was waiting in the hallway. I crouched down and pressed my face into his fur.

Selene stirred. Not warmth. Just cold. But it was certain. Absolute.

I went back to my room, locked the door, and hid the device in the false bottom of my paint supply box—a hiding spot I'd used since I was a teenager, a place Cassian had never thought to look.

Then I sat on the floor with my journal and started sketching. Wolves. Shadows. Lines that felt like cages.

Buster lay beside me, his head on my knee, and didn't move until the sun came up.