"Then don't tell him. Not yet." I glance at Oakley and Corvus, both watching with concern. "Come home first. Get away from them. We'll figure out the rest later."
"Home," he repeats, like the word is foreign. "The pack house."
"Yes. Home. Where your actual pack is. Where people aren't trying to marry you off to strangers."
That gets a small laugh. "The bar is very low, apparently."
"Right now? Yes. Very low." I soften my voice. "When are you coming back?"
"Tomorrow morning. I'm leaving first thing." He sounds desperate. "I can't stay here anymore. Can't pretend to be who they want me to be."
"Good. Then come home."
"Vespera—" He stops. "Thank you. For not being angry. For understanding."
"I'm a little angry," I admit. "But mostly I'm worried about you."
"I'll be okay. Need to make it through tonight."
"You will. And tomorrow you'll be back and we'll figure out the Thanksgiving thing together."
"Together," he echoes. "I like the sound of that."
After we hang up, I sit there holding my phone, feeling the bond settle slightly. Still anxious, still pulling, but less sharp. Less desperate.
"He didn't tell them," Corvus says. "About you. About the claiming."
"No. He protected us." I look at both of them. "But for how long? His parents are suspicious. They'll keep pushing."
"Then we prepare," Oakley says firmly. "For when they find out. For what comes after."
"What if there is no after?" The fear breaks through. "What if he has to choose between us and them, and he chooses them?"
"He won't," Corvus states with absolute certainty. "I've run the psychological profiles. The probability of Dorian choosing family approval over his fated mate is less than eight percent."
"Your statistics don't account for terror," I point out.
"No. But they account for everything else." He meets my eyes. "He'll choose you. It'll take time. It'll be messy. But he'll choose you."
I hope he's right. Hope that when Dorian finally faces his parents' ultimatum, he'll have the courage Julian had.
Hope that love is stronger than legacy.
But hope and certainty are two very different things.
And right now, as I lie in bed trying to sleep, feeling Dorian's distress echo through the bonds, all I have is hope.
thirty-six
Dorian
Father'sstudyisexactlyas I remember—dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with first editions, the massive mahogany desk that's been in the family for four generations. The room smells like old money and older secrets: leather, tobacco, the faint cedar of his cologne.
Harrison Ashworth III sits behind that desk like a king on his throne. Still in his tailored suit from whatever business lunch he attended, silver hair perfectly styled, Alpha presence filling every corner of the room. At sixty-two, he's still imposing. Still terrifying.
I sit in the chair across from him—the same chair where I sat at sixteen when he told me Julian was dead to this family. Where I sat at eighteen when he handed me the keys to the pack house and told me not to waste the opportunity he'd given me.
Where I've sat for every significant conversation that shaped my life.
