“NOOOO,” she cries, voice half tragedy-queen, half actual pain, staring at her ruined batch as if it’s a litter of puppies that she herself has accidentally run over. “My beautiful, beautiful spice babies!”
I join her at the stove, arms wrapping around her waist from behind, chin propped on her shoulder.
“A tragedy,” I murmur, “they died as they lived: hot, sweet, and a little bit reckless.”
She makes a sound in her throat—somewhere between a sob and a laugh—and leans her head back against me.
“I can’t believe I let you distract me from my art,” she grumbles, but she’s already smiling, the loss of her cookies offset by the warm way my hands never leave her skin.
“You’re not mad?” I ask, meaning not just about the cookies.
She rolls her eyes, a feat considering the smoke.
“Mad? Grayson Wilde, you could set this entire house on fire and I’d still let you fuck me on the kitchen table.”
I want to tell her that’s exactly the plan, but she’s already scooping a still-piping-hot, half-burnt cookie off the tray and biting into it. She yelps—tongue burned, obviously—then grins through the pain.
“Still the best batch ever. Ten out of ten. Would bang my Alpha again.”
It’s my turn to laugh, and I do, the sound rumbling deep in my chest, vibrating against her back.
“Let me,” she says suddenly, spinning in my arms and shoving a blackened wedge of cookie past my lips before I canprotest. It tastes like a war crime, and I make a face, but she beams so radiantly that I swallow it anyway.
“Delicious,” I declare, and the way her eyes light up makes me want to spend the rest of my life feeding her burnt cookies and kissing the flour from her cheek.
She’s still holding the tray, so I reach around and set it aside, using the excuse to pull her closer. But even as I press her against me, lips grazing her neck, I feel the chaos brewing in her mind.
It’s not just the adrenaline crash or the ruined cookies; it’s the tidal wave of newness, the way every cell in her body is still adjusting to being wanted, cared for…chosen.
She kisses me then, sweet and possessive and just a little bit pushy, and I let her, because Reverie Bell is a force of nature, and I’m lucky as hell to be the one she chose to sweep away like the rest of my pack mates.
We stand there with smoke curling around us, but before either of us can get too sentimental, the smoke alarm finally wakes up and starts screeching.
“Best we clean this up,” I laugh when we jerk out of the kiss.
“Yeah, before Nash comes and scolds you,” she giggles, stating facts.
It was all worth it.
CHAPTER 34
Lawsuit
~REVERIE~
"Just the top of the house!" I call out encouragingly, watching Nash carefully position the final gingerbread roof piece with surgeon-like precision. "Slowly, slowly! Don't rush it or the whole thing might collapse!"
We're in the middle of Oakridge's bustling town square, surrounded by at least twenty other competing packs at the annual Gingerbread House Making Contest. It's absolutely freezing outside—my breath comes out in white puffs that disappear quickly into the crisp December air—but the atmosphere is warm and festive and buzzing with excited competitive energy that makes the cold bearable.
Strings of twinkling lights are draped everywhere, wrapped around lamp posts and bare tree branches and the ornate gazebo in the center of the square. Christmas music plays from speakers hidden somewhere—currently 'Jingle Bell Rock'—mixing with laughter and chatter from dozens of people. The smell of hot chocolate and roasted chestnuts and fresh cinnamon rolls from nearby vendors fills the cold air, making my mouth waterdespite the nervous butterflies in my stomach. Snow crunches under our boots. Everything feels magical and perfect and like a scene from a holiday movie that I'm somehow lucky enough to be starring in.
Four weeks ago, I never could have imagined I'd be here.
Standing in the town square with three incredible Alphas who want to keep me permanently. Building gingerbread houses and competing in community events and living my best life. It still doesn't feel completely real sometimes.
Like I'm going to wake up and discover it was all a beautiful dream.
Nash's hands are remarkably steady despite the cold as he lowers the gingerbread roof piece onto the royal icing we've spread along the edges with careful precision. The fit is perfect. The angles line up exactly right. The structure holds without any wobbling or shifting.
