“Mine,” Elijah says quietly. “If you want.”
Tessa’s breath catches. “Are you sure?”
“Got plenty of room.” He pauses, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And wine. And a fireplace.”
She smiles—soft and real and perfect. “I’d like that.”
My phone buzzes as we’re standing to leave.
Dad:Heard you made quite a scene at the auction tonight.
Papa:Bea called us. Your mother’s already planning Sunday dinner.
Dad:We’re proud of you, son. She’s a good one.
Papa:Bring her. And the other two. We want to meet them properly.
Ben:I will.
Dad:And Ben? Good job.
I pocket my phone and look at my pack. Tessa’s holding Elijah’s hand. Milo’s throwing an arm around both of them. They’re all looking at me, waiting.
“Ready?” I ask.
Tessa smiles. “Ready.”
We walk out into the cold Montana night together. All four of us.
A pack.
Finally.
Chapter 26
Tessa
The drive to Elijah’s house takes twelve minutes.
I know because I count every single one of them, hyperaware of Ben’s hand on my knee, of Milo’s truck following behind us, of the way my heart is trying to beat out of my chest.
This is happening. This is actually happening.
Elijah’s house appears around the bend. Warm light spills from the windows, smoke curls from the chimney, the whole place glowing against the dark February night like something out of a dream.
I’ve been to his workshop dozens of times over the past few weeks. For centerpiece specs. For our date, when he lit candles and taught me to carve and talked more than I’d ever heard him talk. But his house is different. This is where he lives. Where he sleeps. Where he built extra bedrooms for a pack he wasn’t sure he’d ever have.
Tonight, I’m hoping to become that pack.
Ben pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. In the sudden silence, I can hear my own breathing. Too fast. Too shallow.
“Hey.” His voice is soft. “You okay?”
I look at him—really look. The dashboard light catches the angles of his face, the concern in his eyes. This man who’s been showing up for three years with muffins and terrible jokes. Who fixed my car a dozen times and never charged me. Who sat through town meetings he hated just to watch me wave my clipboard around.
“I’m terrified,” I admit.
“Good terrified or bad terrified?”
