"Over the years? Close to two hundred thousand dollars."
Dalvin went still against me.
"I built my business from nothing after my mother cut me off," I continued. "Lived in a studio above a rented workshop for three years. Every commission that came in, I set aside a portion for the search. Finding you was all that mattered."
"Two hundred thousand dollars." He pushed himself up on one elbow, staring at me. "Why?"
The question was absurd. The answer was obvious. But Dalvin was looking at me with genuine confusion, with the bewilderment of someone who had never been valued, who had learned to see himself through Vernon's eyes as worthless, disposable, a burden to be managed rather than a person to be loved.
I reached up and cupped his face in my hand, my thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone.
"Because you were everything," I said simply. "Because losing you was like losing a limb. Because I spent over a decade walking around with a piece of myself missing, and no amount of success or money or comfort could fill that hole."
He closed his eyes. Tears slipped from beneath his lashes and tracked down his cheeks, warm against my fingers.
"I thought you forgot me," he whispered. "I convinced myself you'd moved on, found someone else, built a life that didn't include me. It was the only way I could survive. Believing that what we had wasn't real."
"It was real. It was the most real thing I've ever felt."
He lowered himself back against my chest, and I held him while the tears came, while years of grief and loneliness found their release. We lay together in the aftermath, hollowed out and lighter for it.
On the second morning, I told him about the house.
"It's in the mountains," I said. We were sitting at the breakfast table, Dalvin working through another stack of pancakes while I nursed a cup of coffee. "About an hour from my forge. Four bedrooms, three baths. A workshop in the back where I do smaller projects. More space than any one person needs."
"Why so big?"
"I told myself it was an investment. Property values, resale potential, practical considerations." I set down my coffee cup and met his eyes. "The truth is, I built it for a family I didn't have yet. I kept thinking that someday, somehow, I would find you. And when I did, I wanted to have a home ready."
Dalvin's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "You built a house for me."
"For us. For whatever life we might build together." I hesitated, then pressed forward. "There's a room that faces the sunrise. Good light all day. I thought it might work as an art studio, if you ever wanted to paint again."
The fork clattered against the plate. Dalvin's eyes went bright with unshed tears.
"I haven't painted in eight years," he said. "Vernon considered it a waste of time."
"Vernon was a fool. I've seen the sketches you did at Ashworth. You had talent. Real talent." I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine. "The room is there when you're ready. No pressure. No expectations. Just space for you to be whoever you want to be."
He turned his hand over beneath mine, lacing our fingers together.
"There's a room for Eli too," I said quietly. "If you want. A proper child's room, with space for toys and books and whatever else he needs. I can have it furnished however you think is best. Or we can do it together, if you prefer. Whatever makes him most comfortable."
Dalvin was silent for a long moment.
"He's afraid of alphas," Dalvin said finally. "I told you that. But I need you to understand what that means. He doesn't just get nervous around alphas. He panics. Hides. Cries. Vernonmade sure of that. Made sure my son associated alpha scent with anger and pain and punishment."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Dalvin's eyes searched my face. "Because this isn't going to be easy. He might not warm up to you for months. He might never fully trust you. I need to know that you can handle that. That you won't resent him for being broken by the same man who broke me."
"I would never let Vernon near him," I said, and heard the edge in my own voice too late. Not protective. Possessive. Claiming ownership of a child I'd never met, a child who wasn't mine, because his father belonged to me now and I'd already drawn the circle of what was mine too wide.
Dalvin went still beside me. I felt it through the bond — a flicker of something cold. Recognition. He'd heard that tone before.
"I mean—" I started.
"I know what you meant." His voice was careful. Neutral. The voice of a man who had learned to manage alphas. "But Min-ho? Eli is mine. Not yours. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And if you can't hear the difference between protecting him and claiming him, we have a problem."
