Mine.
Every single one is mine. And they think I’m perfect.
My omega hums in agreement.
Silas clears his throat, stepping back and reaching for something on the bar. “Drink before we go?” he asks, holding up a chilled bottle of champagne.
He smiles when I nod. The cork pops with a sharp crack. Graham hands out glasses and Silas pours a little in each.
Silas lifts his glass. “To Graham,” he says. “Tonight’s his special night.”
Graham shakes his head immediately. “No,” he says. “To all of us.” His gaze finds mine, then flicks to Saint, and finally to Silas. “Tonight,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, “tonight we officially form our pack.”
Heat blooms in my chest.
“Happiest day of my life,” Saint says, his glass raised high.
My eyes sting and I will myself not to cry. Cammie would kill me.
“To us,” I say with a wobbling voice.
Graham
The Rolls is a terrible car for someone my height. Objectively, it’s probably one of the nicest cars in existence. I know this. My knees do not care.
“I still think I should be in the back,” I mutter, shifting my legs for the third time.
“No,” Lark replies immediately from behind me.
I glance at her over my shoulder. She’s sitting directly behind me, one leg crossed over the other, Saint relaxed at her side. The deep red of her dress catches the soft interior lighting, turning it into something darker. She’s distracting, even when I can’t see her.
“You’re up front because it’s the only place you fit,” she continues, completely unbothered. “And because you need to get out first.”
“Those are two separate arguments,” I point out. “One of which is logistical and the other of which is debatable.”
“Neither is debatable.”
I huff out a quiet breath. She’s right about the legroom. The back seat would be a disaster. But that’s not the point.
“I still would have preferred to sit with you,” I say. “It’s my big night.”
“I know,” she says. “But you’re the guest of honor. The press will be waiting for you. You step out first, they get their shots, and then you help me out.”
She leans forward just a little, her voice dropping into something more conspiratorial. “And I look incredible in this dress. You’ll want to be the one handing me out.”
I smile despite myself. “Yes,” I say. “I’d hate to waste that.”
Saint chuckles quietly beside her. “He’s been fidgeting since we left the house,” he mutters.
“I am not fidgeting,” I say.
“You are absolutely fidgeting,” Lark counters.
I don’t argue that. Because I am. Not about the press. Not even about the gala. About her. And what comes after.
Plus, that dress should be illegal.
The deep red makes her skin glow. And the fabric skims every curve of her body. I don’t know which I want more: to show her off, or to rip it down the seam and see every inch of skin that lies beneath it.
