Unsteady

UNSTEADY Rivers and Roads Book 1 EVERLEY FALLS Unsteady by Everley Falls Copyright © 2023 by Everley Falls All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover Design: BCD∞™ Editing by: Bryony Leah Editorial Contents World Information 1. Esperanza 2. Esperanza 3. Lincoln 4. Lincoln 5. Esperanza 6. Esperanza 7. Mason 8. Esperanza 9. Esperanza 10. Micah 11. Cabe 12. Esperanza 13. Esperanza 14. Mason 15. Esperanza 16. Esperanza 17. Cabe 18. Esperanza 19. Esperanza 20. Esperanza 21. Lincoln 22. Esperanza 23. Micah 24. Esperanza 25. Mason 26. Esperanza 27. Esperanza Thank you for reading! World Information This book is set in an alternate universe—aka, the omegaverse. Welcome! Books in the omegaverse come in many different flavors, the common thread being the existence of different “dynamics” amongst humans (or aliens or shifters or what have you). Each person is designated as an alpha, beta, or omega, and each has their own unique biological quirks. If you’re not familiar with this genre, I recommend a quick Google search to clear up any confusion. The world of this series has its own quirks, and these are described thoroughly in-book. Additionally, like many omegaverse books this is a reverse harem or “why choose” romance, which means the main character does not have to choose between her love interests. Now, to the book! 1 Esperanza I lunge for the plate, catching it just before it can finish its slide down the precarious mountain of dishware drying beside the sink. “Gracias a Dios,” I whisper to myself. I’d been carefully assembling said mountain for the past hour, slowly turning the disgusting mess of a kitchen back into a workspace suitable for human food preparation. Grabbing a clean towel out from under the counter, I quickly dry the rescued plate and move a few other dishes cautiously over before they too make an ill-advised leap to freedom. They’d end up leaving the house in pieces, in the garbage, cuddled up to the unmentionably moldy food I just threw away. But at least they’d make it out. These days it’s hard not to wonder about the price I’d willingly pay to finally get myself out of this house. With a sigh I turn back to the sink, still full of soapy bubbles, and resume washing the dishes. I try to stay focused on my task instead of letting my gaze drift out the window to the backyard. It won’t do any good to tease myself with the sight of the outdoors right now, and if my dad catches me slacking there will be hell to pay. Again. Glancing at the clock instead, I see it’s nearing eleven o’clock and I’ll be expected to have lunch on the table soon. Something light will have to do today. This morning was the first time my dad let me out of my room in four days, and I’ve had no chance to put in a grocery order like I normally would. Bedroom, cage, prison, torture chamber . . . These words are all synonyms in my world. I shiver slightly thinking back on his latest round of experiments. The hot water encasing my arms does nothing to chase away the chills that crawl down my back. I finish the last dishes quickly, making sure to drain the sink and rub it down until the white porcelain is shiny enough that I can see my face in it. My father constantly tries to instill in me the lesson that a woman’s kitchen is a reflection of her virtue—and by extension, her value—as a mate. It’s probably the only reason he lets me out of my room at all, so I can practice serving my future husband. In a weird way, that’s one of the things I’ve come to despise him for the most. I actually love cooking, cleaning, and organizing. Those activities have always soothed me—even before my omega nature formally made itself known. But over the past couple of years he’s twisted it, turning my biology into shackles and forcing me to hate a part of myself I’ve always loved. I move to the fridge, pulling out a few sad-looking vegetables from the crisper drawer. Looks like it’s a soup day, and if I’m lucky I’ll be able to thaw out a few of the chicken meatballs I made a month ago to round out the meal. I allow myself to hum softly under my breath as I go through the motions of washing, chopping, and simmering, everything on autopilot. My mother always used to sing to my brother and me when we were younger, and it’s one of the only remaining ways I have to feel close to her. Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if she hadn’t died, wonder if maybe my father wouldn’t have snapped and taken on such extremist views. We were happy once upon a time, but the pain of losing my mother to a freak medical accident is something none of us seem able to move on from. I was only ten when she went to the hospital for a simple surgery to fix a herniated disc in her back, a leftover injury from a horse-riding accident in her youth. She reacted poorly to the anesthesia, and before the doctors could do a thing, she was gone. A rare allergy, they told us. My memories from that time are numbed by shock and grief, but I do clearly remember how I made my first rudimentary nest and lay with my brother in there for days while we just held each other and cried. Designations don’t typically reveal themselves until puberty, but my family always suspected I’d be an omega. It’s relatively rare for a family of betas, but not unheard of. There was supposedly an