Then her gaze slides past me, landing on Emery, and she stills.
Her head tilts, curiosity lighting her face.
“And you brought a friend.”
I step aside deliberately, opening the space between us in a way that feels oddly ceremonial.
“Mom,” I say, carefully, “this is Emery.”
Emery steps forward without hesitation, her posture calm and open. She doesn’t shrink under the scrutiny; she never does.
“Hi, Mrs. Wolfe,” she says, offering her hand with a soft smile that feels genuine, not placating. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
My mom takes her hand in both of hers immediately, warm and firm, as though she’s afraid Emery might vanish if she lets go. She studies her face with open fascination, eyes softening.
“Oh,” she says decisively. “You’re lovely.”
Emery blinks, then laughs quietly.
“Thank you.”
Beaming now, my mom turns to me with a conspiratorial look. “Beau never brings home lovely people,” she announces.
Heat crawls up my neck.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Emery says easily.
“It is,” my mom replies, just as easily. Then she squeezes Emery’s hand once more and peers at her more closely. “Are you hungry? You look like someone who forgets to eat when she’s busy.”
Before Emery can answer, a low sound cuts through the room.
My dad clears his throat from the armchair.
The shift is immediate and visceral. The air tightens, alpha pressure rolling outward from him in a way that’s purely invasive: meant to assess and dominate, and pointedlynotto welcome.
It always has been.
He looks up slowly, eyes tracking Emery from her boots to her face, then flicking—too pointedly—to the faint mark at her collar before returning to me.
“So,” he says. One word, heavy with judgment. “This is her.”
I feel Emery tense beside me, and something in me surges forward instinctively, my own alpha presence rising to meet his without conscious thought.
“Yes,” I say evenly, stepping half a pace closer to her without touching. “This is Emery.”
My dad’s gaze stays on me now, measuring. We’ve been doing this dance my whole life—his dominance pressing, mine learned through resistance rather than guidance.
“You didn’t waste any time,” he says flatly.
There it is.
“No,” I reply, just as flat. “I didn’t.”
My mom frowns, glancing between us as the silence stretches.
“Don’t start, Ken,” she says mildly, like she’s scolding children. “You could at least say hello.”
My dad grunts, unimpressed, but his eyes return to Emery.
