“Hey!”
He grins, crumbs already clinging to his lips. The way I want to kiss thatchocolate away…
My cheeks heat, and I elbow him in the ribs. “Jerk.”
In exchange, he opens his Christmas tin and offers me a cinnamon apple tart. He gives me a private smile as I chew, then asks over his shoulder, “Hey, Mom. Have you ever made homemade ice cream?”
“No, can’t say I have. Why?”
He shrugs. “Tobias mentioned it once. Thought it might be fun.”
She slants her head, thinking. “I don’t see why not. I’ll have to look into it.” She wanders off.
My heart stutters. He remembers that? Our very first conversation, weeks ago now.
Something inside me eases. Rowen has always seen me—not the nightmares, not the mark, not the fear I try to swallow down. Rowen seesme.The real me. And that feels like the best gift I’ve been given in a long time.
The morning drifts on in slow, gentle pieces. Jericho helps Evan fix a crooked curtain rod. Sage and Forest disappear into the study to talk in low voices. Snow continues to fall outside, thick enough to blur the world, and the house settles into that soft winter quiet—a blend of low laughter, the occasional clink of dishes, and someone humming in the kitchen.
By afternoon, the pack is sated from a delicious early dinner and warmth. Grant starts a puzzle at the table. Neal goes outside to shovel the deck for the umpteenth time. The smells of sugar and woodsmoke.
Despite the guilt of last night, I still have to say this is genuinely the best Christmas I’ve ever had.
Jasmine returns from upstairs, hands tucked into her sweater sleeves and hair thrown up into a loose ponytail. Her expression is shy, excited—like she’s been waiting for this moment.
“Toby? Would you come with me, please? You too, Rowen.”
We follow her upstairs and down the hall to the last door on the right.
Rowen slows when she reaches for the knob. “Mom… are you serious?” His voice is thick with disbelief and awe.
She beams. “Absolutely. I’ve been working on it for a few days now.”
She opens the door, and at first, it looks like a tiny spare room. But when I step inside, my breath catches.
It’s a gallery.
Soft light spills across the wooden floor, illuminating black and white photographs pinned to the walls. There are hundreds of them of all sizes—the pack, wolves running, people I don’t recognize but feel like I should. Nearly every inch of the walls is covered.
On top of the pinned photographs are larger, professionally framed photos. Mostly of Jasmine, Rowen, and Ivy.
Below a large framed photo of Jasmine is a handwritten caption: “The love of my life.”
My throat tightens.
I stop in front of a picture of a small boy caked in mud. His dark brown hair is wild, and he’s missing a front tooth.
“Is this you?” I ask, glancing back at Rowen.
Rowen laughs. “Oh yeah. I forgot that one was in here.”
I gesture to the girl beside him in the next photo. “And is that Taren?”
His smile falters. “No. That’s Sasha. Our pack sister.”
My heart aches at the pain in his voice.
“The one who died,” I say, quieter.
