With difference.
The house has its own smell now. Smoke and iron and citrus and vanilla—Ragon, Drake, Eli, Marie—threaded into wood and fabric.
Arden's scent doesn't try to overwrite it.
It slides in like paper under a door.
Clean. Neutral. A faint warmth beneath it, like sun on stone. Something that could be raging dominant alpha if it wanted to be, but isn't pushing.
I'm in the kitchen, rinsing a mixing bowl I don't need anymore because I've already cleaned it twice.
My hands pause under the water.
I hear voices in the hall.
Ragon's, low and tight. Arden's, mild and even.
"...my study. Door stays open. You keep it professional."
"I will. And I'll be alone with her, as requested."
A beat of silence—thick with territorial frustration.
Then, through his teeth: "Fine."
Footsteps move. A door opens.
I turn off the faucet and dry my hands slowly.
Two weeks ago, I would've been shaking.
Two weeks ago, I would've been nauseous.
Now I just feel steady.
Not calm.
Just turned down.
When I step into the hallway, I find Arden waiting near the study doorway—not blocking it, not leaning into it. He's holding a slim case and a clipboard.
"Verena," he says, and the way he says it is different. No possessive weight. No correction. Just my name.
"Arden."
His gaze flicks over me with quiet efficiency—the way I'm standing, the way my hands fold at my waist. Then he nods once.
"Are you still okay meeting today?"
It's such a simple question. It shouldn't feel like something I'm not used to.
"Yes."
He steps aside, letting me enter first. The door stays open, just like Ragon demanded, but Arden doesn't look back down the hall to check if Ragon is watching.
He doesn't need to.
I can feel it anyway—Ragon's presence somewhere out there. A lion behind a gate.
