The entry hall opens to a large living room. The couch is angled so that it faces a wall of windows. Graham walks over and looks out beyond the river. “That’s our house,” he points. “It’s hard to see in the dark, but if you can find the pink Victorian—”
Lark hurries to his side, eager to look out upon the scene. “I see it. Is that yours?” She turns to him, eager for his response.
He places a hand on her cheek. “No, my beauty. We live in the one to the right. It’s harder to see in the dim light, but ours is green with charcoal trim.”
She turns back toward the window. “I know the one. Cammie and I picked out our favorites. Yours is in the top two.”
I chuckle. “Which one beat ours?”
“At best, it’s tied,” she says diplomatically.
Graham goes completely quiet, which is how I know he’s delighted.
Then she points. “The white one. Cammie says it looks like a wedding cake.”
We live in a large Victorian home on a historic street that faces the river. It’s been redone on the inside to blend the historic architecture with modern features, but we chose to retain the original lines and maintain the historic accuracy of the exterior.
I take her hand in mine and point to our home. “See the round window on the third floor?” She scoots in close, allowing me to place my other arm around her. “That’s the omega suite. The nest faces the back. But your everyday space looks out on the water.”
She blinks up at me. “Mine?” Her voice is unexpectedly small when she says it.
I pull her close. “Only yours.”
We stay in that position for a while before Graham clears his throat. “Tomorrow, I’d like to show you your room.”
She stiffens in my arms, and he notices.
“You don’t want to see our pack house?” Hurt creeps into his voice.
My mate isn’t all fire and heat. She can be sweet when it matters. She slips from my arms and falls into Graham’s waiting grasp. “I want it. But Saint—”
I lean into her. “You let me worry about Saint. Deep down I know he wantsthis. He’s just—”
“He’s depressed,” she says softly.
Graham and I share a look. “He told you?”
She shakes her head. “Not in those words. He told me his mom passed. I remember how it feels. Your brain doesn’t work right for a while.”
“Oh, my sweet girl,” Graham breathes, pulling her tight.
I'm torn between pain for my omega's loss and something that feels uncomfortably close to hope. Saint hasn't talked about his mother to anyone. Not even us. But he talked to her.
Maybe that means something. As pack alpha, I have to believe it does.
I need to find a way to help Saint and our omega work this out.
“Are you hungry?” she asks. “I don’t keep much in the house since it’s just me, but I could order something.”
Like hell my omega’s paying for the food. I take my phone from my back pocket. “I’ll order.”
I catch Graham's eye. He's already pulling up the best late-night options in her neighborhood on his phone, glasses pushed up, thumbs moving fast.
"What do you like?" I ask her.
I file away every single thing she says.
Lark
