Then Jalen joins them, every step nonchalant, but he still manages to make it work.
I can’t help it. I join in too.
I pull Sierra close, one hand on her waist, and we move to the music. Fast at first, playful and energetic, then slowing as the song changes to something softer.
“This is perfect,” she murmurs, her head resting against my chest.
“It is,” I agree, and I’m not just talking about the dancing.
I’m talking about all of it. This day, this moment, this feeling of rightness that I’ve been chasing without knowing it.
The sun starts to sink lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and gold. We gather our things slowly, reluctant to let the day end. But we can’t stay on the beach forever.
As much as I might want to.
I watch as she laughs when Malik cracks a joke, and I can’t look away.
She laughs, and the sound fills the world with light.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Malik
The kitchen smells like garlic and herbs, and I’m in my element.
There’s something meditative about cooking. Measuring ingredients, the rhythm of chopping vegetables, the way flavors build and layer into something good. It’s problem-solving and creativity combined.
Plus, I’m making food for Sierra, which adds an entirely different dimension to the experience.
She’s curled up on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a throw blanket and looking thoroughly sun-tired in the best possible way. Her hair is still damp from the shower we all took after the beach, separately, much to my alpha’s disappointment, and she’s wearing soft clothes that make her look impossibly cozy.
The beach day was perfect. Better than perfect. Watching Sierra laugh and play? That was a gift I didn’t know I needed.
But now the sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold through the windows, and reality is creepingback in. Tomorrow the roads will be fully clear. Tomorrow we can leave.
Tomorrow this ends.
The thought makes my chest constrict, so I focus on the pasta instead. Sautéing garlic in olive oil, adding sun-dried tomatoes and fresh basil, the simple comfort food that feels right for tonight.
“Something smells amazing,” Sierra calls from the living room.
“Patience,” I call back. “Good things take time.”
“I’m not known for my patience.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I hear her laugh, and the sound settles something in me. She’s happy. Relaxed. After everything she’s been through this week, she deserves both of those things.
Dax appears in the kitchen doorway, his dark hair still wet from his own shower. “Need help?”
“You can set the table,” I say, gesturing toward the cabinet that has the plates.
He moves past me, and our shoulders brush, casual contact that sends a little spark through my system anyway. Rut might be fading, but my awareness of pack is more heightened than ever.
Especially Sierra.
I can smell her from here, that honeycomb and cherry syrup scent that’s become as familiar as my own.
