Tonight, I would rest. Because my pack was here. Because Aster was in my arms. Because together, we could face anything.
Even Easton.
Even this.
The last thought I had before sleep claimed me was simple and certain:
He'd pushed too far. And one way or another, it was going to end.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ASTER
The bell above Marley's door chimed as I slipped inside, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease the moment the familiar scents of fabric and thread wrapped around me. Lavender sachets hung from the ceiling beams, mixing with the earthy smell of raw cotton and the faint metallic tang of scissors and needles. Bolts of fabric lined the walls in a rainbow of colors — deep burgundies, forest greens, soft creams, and bright yellows that reminded me of Kol's smile.
Sawyer had walked me into town, his solid presence at my side until we reached Main Street. He'd kissed my forehead, told me to stay inside until he came back, and disappeared to run errands at the feed store. Two hours of freedom, carefully negotiated. Two hours to work on the secret project I'd been planning for weeks.
"You're late." Marley's voice drifted from the back room, gruff but not unkind, followed by the steady rhythm of her sewing machine. "I was starting to think you'd gotten distracted by some Alpha or another."
"Just one." I made my way through the cramped aisles, past displays of buttons and ribbons and pre-cut fabric squares. "Sawyer walked me in. He's very thorough about the whole protection thing."
"As he should be." Marley appeared in the doorway to her workroom, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical bun, her sharp brown eyes assessing me with the same critical gaze she used on uneven seams. She wore a faded apron covered in thread snippets and pin cushions, her weathered hands already reaching for the project I'd left here last week. "That Easton business has everyone on edge. Trent's been sleeping with his shotgun by the bed."
I followed her into the back, settling onto the worn stool that had become mine over the past few months. The workroom was smaller than the shop front, crowded with half-finished projects and fabric scraps and the ancient Singer machine that Marley swore would outlive us all. Afternoon light streamed through the single window, catching dust motes that danced in the air like tiny stars.
"How's it coming?" I nodded toward the leather piece in her hands — rich brown, supple and soft, with the beginnings of a tooled pattern along one edge.
"Your stitching's gotten better." She turned the leather over, examining my work with a critical eye, her calloused fingers tracing the lines I'd painstakingly carved. "Still a little uneven here, but nothing that'll show once it's assembled. You've got good instincts."
Pride warmed my chest at the praise. Marley didn't give compliments lightly.
"Can I work on it today?" I asked, already reaching for my supply bag — the one I kept hidden in the back of her storage closet, away from curious Alpha eyes. "I want to finish the border before I start on the interior pockets."
"It's your project." She settled into her own chair, pulling a half-finished quilt into her lap, her needle already moving in quick, precise strokes. "Just remember what I taught you about the beveling. Too deep and you'll cut right through."
I pulled the leather toward me, running my fingers over the surface. Reid's journal cover. The first of four gifts I'd been secretly working on for months, each one designed specifically for the Alpha it would belong to. The tooling pattern was antlers — subtle, woven into a border of oak leaves and acorns. Reid's symbol, I'd decided. Strong and branching, reaching upward, providing shelter. I'd spent hours sketching designs before settling on this one, and even more hours learning the techniques to bring it to life.
"You've got that look again." Marley's voice cut through my concentration, and I looked up to find her watching me with knowing eyes, her needle paused mid-stitch. "The soft one. Like you're thinking about something that makes you happy and terrified all at once."
I felt heat rise to my cheeks but didn't look away. "I was thinking about him. Reid. About all of them."
"Mmm." She resumed her stitching, but I could tell she was listening, her attention split between the quilt and me. "And what were you thinking, exactly?"
I turned back to the leather, picking up the swivel knife, testing its weight in my hand. "About how different everything is now. How different I am."
"Different how?" Her voice was casual, but I'd learned to recognize the careful attention beneath her gruff exterior. Marley asked questions like she was checking seams — probing for weak spots, looking for places that needed reinforcement.
"Before I came here..." I started carving, letting the familiar motion steady my thoughts. "I didn't let myself want things. Notreally. It was safer that way. If you don't hope for anything, you can't be disappointed when it doesn't happen."
"That's a sad way to live." There was no judgment in her voice, just observation. "Practical, maybe. But sad."
"It kept me alive." The knife moved smoothly through the leather, following the lines I'd traced earlier. "When you're on your own, when you never know where your next meal is coming from or where you'll sleep tomorrow night, hope feels like a luxury you can't afford. Dreaming about the future seems pointless when you're not sure you'll have one."
Marley was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the whisper of thread through fabric and the soft scrape of my knife.
"And now?" She finally asked, her voice gentler than I'd ever heard it.
I paused, looking up from my work, staring at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. "Now I dream all the time. I catch myself imagining futures I never thought I'd have. Waking up in the pack room with all of them around me, every morning for the rest of my life. Holidays with people who actually want me there. Growing old surrounded by people who love me."
