Rejected By My Mate; Claimed By Lycan Quadruplets Chapter 178

Lisa's POV

I’ve lived my whole life balancing chaos and order. Raising four five-year-olds while trying to work, to hold everything together, to keep myself sane—it leaves no room for distractions. At least, that’s what I told myself. But lately… lately my children have been doing everything possible to make sure I have distractions. Four tall, infuriating, impossibly stubborn distractions.

The brothers.

Enzo, Ash, Atlas, and Kael.

I don’t even know when it started, this… campaign. First it was the ridiculous “family breakfast” my children orchestrated. Then the dinner, then the way they keep running into the house like it’s suddenly theirs to walk into. And I—stupid, weak, unguarded—haven’t had the strength to slam the door in their faces.

It’s one thing to have them around for the children. It’s another to have them hovering around me. Watching me. Helping me. Respecting me in ways they never did before.

And it’s driving me mad.

---

I was in the garden that morning, kneeling in the dirt with my gloves on, yanking weeds out between the flowerbeds. The children were running circles around the house with their wooden swords, shrieking like wildlings, their laughter spilling into the air. I’d already told them twice not to run near the roses, but they only nodded and dashed off again, ignoring me.

It felt good to be in the earth, to have something practical to do with my hands. I could focus on the soil, the roots, the simple task of pulling weeds instead of the messy, complicated tangle of my heart.

“Those look stubborn,” a deep voice said behind me.

I stiffened, turning my head. Enzo stood there, his shadow cutting across the ground. He had a basket in his hand—no, two baskets—and for a strange second I thought he’d brought more weeds to dump in the garden. But no. He crouched down beside me and set them down. One was full of tools, neatly arranged, polished as though new. The other held food—fresh bread, cheese, fruit, and a flask of tea.

I blinked at him. “What’s all this?”

“You’ve been out here since dawn,” he said simply, his dark eyes scanning my face. “Eat. Then work with better tools.”

I wanted to snap at him, to tell him I didn’t need his help. But my stomach betrayed me, growling loudly at the sight of the food. Heat flushed up my neck. “I’m fine,” I muttered.

He didn’t argue. He just sat down beside me, opened the bread, and broke off a piece. He held it out. His hands—those scarred, powerful hands—hovered there until I hesitated, then reached out and took it.

The bread was warm. Fresh. Soft in my mouth, almost too much to bear because of how thoughtful the gesture was.

I didn’t thank him. I couldn’t. My throat was too tight.

He didn’t press. He only stayed near me while I ate, silent, his presence solid at my side.

---

Later that day, I was inside, bent over the table with papers spread out everywhere. Lists, notes, half-finished letters. The children had finally collapsed for an afternoon nap, and I was determined to get through my work while the house was blessedly quiet.

A shadow fell across my papers.

I looked up to see Ash standing there, his arms folded loosely across his chest. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at me with those steady eyes, calm and warm in a way that made me feel seen—really seen—for the first time in years.

“You’re squinting,” he said finally. “Your eyes are tired.”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small, placing it carefully on the table beside my hand. A little tin of salve. “For your hands. You’ve been working too much. You forget to take care of yourself.”

I stared at it. The lid was dented, the edges worn. Not new. It was his. Something he must’ve used on his own scars, his own calluses.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered before I could stop myself.

He tilted his head. “Because you deserve it.”

My throat closed. I pushed the tin away, not because I didn’t want it, but because I wanted it too much. His kindness was a knife, sharp and dangerous.

He didn’t look hurt. He only nodded, stepped back, and left me with it on the table.

I touched the tin after he was gone, my fingers trembling.

---

The next day, Atlas showed up. Of course he did. He always moved like he owned the world, like nothing could shake him. I was carrying laundry down the stairs, struggling with a basket so heavy it blocked half my view. My foot slipped on the last step.

Before I could tumble, strong arms caught me.

I yelped, clutching the basket tighter, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Atlas grinned down at me, holding me steady. “Careful, sunshine. You’ll break your neck hauling things that heavy.”

“Put me down,” I snapped, even though my feet were firmly on the ground again.

He plucked the basket out of my hands like it weighed nothing. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No,” he said softly, surprising me. “Not anymore.”

I stared at him, thrown by the tone. For once, there was no teasing in his voice, no smugness. Just quiet sincerity.

He carried the basket into the laundry room and set it down without another word. But his grin returned as he walked past me, brushing his shoulder against mine. “Next time, call me. I like being your hero.”

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. Instead, I pressed my hands to my burning cheeks and hated how fast my heart was racing.

---

And Kael. Of all of them, I never expected him to linger. He was always the most serious, the most disciplined. But that evening, when the children begged to stay up and play while I still had work to finish, it was Kael who stepped in.

“I’ll watch them,” he said.

“You don’t have to—”

“I will,” he interrupted firmly.

And he did. He sat on the floor with them, building towers of blocks, listening patiently to their endless chatter, even letting Lyra crawl into his lap when she grew sleepy. His eyes, always so cold in the past, softened in the firelight. He glanced at me once, caught me staring, and looked away quickly, his jaw tight.

When the children finally nodded off, he carried them one by one to bed, as gentle as if they were glass. I watched him in silence, something heavy and terrifying blooming in my chest.

---

It kept happening. Every day, in little ways.

Enzo would appear with food when I forgot to eat. Ash would quietly take tasks out of my hands when I was overwhelmed. Atlas would make me laugh when I wanted to cry. Kael would stand at the doorway, silent but watchful, making sure nothing touched me.

They didn’t demand anything. They didn’t push. They just… stayed.

And I hated how much I noticed.

How my heart leapt when Enzo brushed dirt off my cheek with a rough thumb. How my stomach fluttered when Ash’s hand lingered just a moment too long as he passed me a paper. How my skin burned when Atlas leaned close, whispering jokes that made me bite back smiles. How safe I felt when Kael’s steady gaze followed me, silent but unyielding.

I told myself it was nothing. Just gratitude. Just confusion. Just the children, weaving their schemes.

But at night, when I lay awake staring at the ceiling, my heart pounding, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.

Something was changing.

And I didn’t know if I was strong enough to stop it.

---

The moment that undid me happened in the kitchen. I was reaching for a pot on the high shelf, standing on my toes, stretching with all my might. My fingers brushed the edge, but I couldn’t quite grip it.

A hand reached past mine. Strong. Warm. The pot came down easily, steady in Enzo’s grasp.

I spun, startled. He was too close. Far too close. His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw no anger, no pride—only quiet admiration.

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” he said softly.

The words broke something inside me.

I looked at him, at all of them, at the way they’d been circling around me these past weeks, not as enemies or rivals but as men who cared. Men who wanted to help.

And my heart, traitorous and wild, whispered the truth I didn’t want to hear.

I was falling.

Falling, even though I knew how dangerous it was.

Falling, even though I swore I never would.

Falling, because for the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone.

And that terrified me more than anything.