He runs a hand through his hair. The purr continues. He seems to have accepted that it's happening and is now simply existing alongside it with as much dignity as the situation allows.
He opens his arms.
I look at him. Cock my head. "I thought you wanted to maintain your distance. Until the flag is resolved."
He holds my gaze.
"Fuck the flag," he says. "I want to hold my omega."
I go to him, crawl into his lap and his arms come around me. The purr vibrates through his chest and mine, deep and warm and completely new. One hand strokes my hair—slow, steady, the same way he does everything, with that methodical care that means everything to me now.
I close my eyes.
"Hopeful," I say.
"Yeah," he says. "Hopeful."
The woods go golden in front of us, the light fades slowly toward dark. Inside the cabin I can hear the sounds of people waking up, Finn's voice, something falling, Malcolm's low curse, the ordinary music of a household coming back to itself.
My pack.
I let myself have it without flinching.
All of it. Every complicated, imperfect, hard-won piece of it.
Mine.
Chapter 33
Vee
Alex tells them.
He doesn't make a speech out of it. He just comes in from the porch behind me, looks at the three of them scattered around the living room, and says, "Vee's decided to stay. She's chosen the pack."
Then he sits down like that's a normal sentence.
For about two seconds nobody moves.
Then Finn makes a sound that is technically a word but functions more as an exclamation point, and he's off the couch and across the room before I've fully processed what's happening. His arms are around me and he lifts me completely off the floor, spinning once, his glasses going crooked against my temple.
"Finn—"
"Sorry, sorry—" He sets me down, straightens his glasses, and his whole face splits into a grin. "Sorry. I just—okay. Okay." He takes a breath. "We're keeping her."
"We're keeping her," Malcolm confirms from behind him.
I turn.
Malcolm is standing in the middle of the room with an expression I haven't seen on him before. It’s not the smirk or the armor. It’s bigger than all of those. The only thing you can call it is joy, plain and uncomplicated.
He crosses to me in two steps and picks me up with his hands around my waist. He buries his face in my neck and inhales, a growl/purr escaping his lips.
"Malcolm—" I'm laughing, hands on his shoulders.
"Nope." He sets me down and kisses me. Quick and warm and completely unceremonious. "We're keeping you. That's happening."
"I made the decision," I say. "I didn't get acquired."
