"Did you know?" I ask. "Everything they were doing? The whole plan?"
He shakes his head. "I knew they were trying to help an omega out of a bad situation. The details—" He pauses. "Theywanted me focused on my own work. On Arden's sessions. I didn't need the whole picture." He's quiet. "I learned more as time went on. But it wasn't until Arden brought me something of yours that I understood what I was to you. What you were to me."
He says it the same way he says everything else. Direct but sparse, like it's just a fact he's reporting.
But his eyes say the rest of it.
Arden's words from the car are still with me. Him refusing to give the blanket back. Him laying with it at night even after the scent faded.
This enormous, scarred but gentle alpha found something in my scent that made him hold on to a faded piece of fabric rather than give it back.
I look at him.
He looks back.
And I realize what Arden said in the car was right. About the shared architecture, the shared brokenness that somehow makes his scent speak to mine in a language I don't have words for.
He never tried to manage me. Never moved pieces around me. Never ran an operation. He was just here, in this house, healing slowly, holding a piece of my nest at night.
"What happens now?" I ask.
Rhys looks at Arden. Arden looks at me.
"That depends on you," Arden says.
"Do you want to come back with me?" I ask Rhys directly.
He holds my gaze.
"Yes," he says.
Simple. Certain. Like he decided a long time ago and has just been waiting to be asked.
"Okay," I say.
Rhys nods once and almost smiles again.
I'm starting to think I'm going to spend a lot of time trying to get that almost-smile to become a real one.
I think I'm okay with that.
Chapter 11
Ragon
The registry forms sit on my desk, half-finished.
Black ink on white paper. Official seals. Boxes waiting to be checked. Signatures required in three places.
I can't make myself pick up the pen.
But the decision is made. Marie goes back to the registry tomorrow. The paperwork just needs to be completed. It's a simple thing, signing a form, I've done it a hundred times, and my hand won't move.
I lean back in my chair and run my hand over my face.
Everything is fucked.
My pack is falling apart. I'm telling myself I let it happen but that's not honest. I caused it. I know I caused it. I know that like you know something in your body before your mind finishes the sentence.
