I shake my head, a little overwhelmed now.
“That’s… a lot,” I say. “Production, packaging, distribution—” I scrub a hand over the back of my neck. “And money. Upfront, I mean.”
Money has never been something I’ve had the luxury of playing around with.
Silas doesn’t hesitate. “The pack has money,” he says simply.
I look at him. At all of them.
“That means pack money is your money,” Graham adds, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Lark reaches for me, her hand warm as it wraps around mine. “We want this for you,” she says. “Not just because it’s a good idea, but because it makes you happy.”
That hits harder than anything else. Because I know exactly what kind of guy I was three weeks ago. And I know what I almost missed.
Silas steps closer, solid and steady.
“Being pack isn’t just about being responsible for us. It’s about us being responsible for you, too.”
I swallow. Because that’s the part I’m still learning. Not the work. Not the responsibility. The rest of it. The part where I don’t have to do everything alone. The part where I accept that this is what packs do.
Lark squeezes my hand. “So,” she says, a little smile tugging at her mouth, “are we doing this?”
I look at her. At all of them. At the happiness and life I almost walked away from. “Yeah,” I say, my voice rough but certain. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a risk. Or like I’m taking something I haven’t earned. It feels like something I get to build.
With them.
Lark
The bathroom is quiet. Too quiet.
The soft hum of the vent, the faint drip of water somewhere in the pipes. None of it fills the space the way my alphas do. I’ve grown used to them. Their sounds. Someone’s always talking. Usually Graham. Silas’ soft snore when he’s really tired. Saint humming to himself.
It’s the first time I’ve been alone since Saturday afternoon, when Cammie left me standing in front of this same mirror, flushed and excited and so sure I knew what was coming.
I didn’t.
I run the brush through my damp hair, working out the last tangles before gathering it at the nape of my neck. The motion is slow, familiar. Something I do without thinking.
But it feels different, somehow. Like I’m waiting for someone to come up behind me. For warm hands to settle on my hips. For breath at my ear. For one of them, any of them, to close the space.
I used to love being alone. Craved it, even. Not that I don’t like people, but sometimes I just need time to myself. Quiet mornings. Long showers. Space to think, to breathe, to just be me.
Now it feels wrong. Not bad or suffocating. Just… incomplete.
My eyes lift to the mirror. And there they are. Three marks. Three bonds.
Silas’s is already fading at the edges. Nearly healed. I set the brush down slowly, my fingers lifting to trace it. The moment I do, something settles deep in my chest.
Strong. Certain. Unshakable.
Silas.
It’s the same feeling I’ve had since the moment he bit me. Like I didn’t know what it felt like to stand on solid ground before our bond. There’s no hesitation in it. No doubt. Silas’ love for me is just as unmovable as the mountain I always accuse him of being.
I swallow, my fingers lingering before drifting higher.
