Page 91 of Mane Rival in Store

The bell chimed behind her.

Silence.

Then, from the back office, Dekel’s voice carrying with the pitch-perfect comedic timing of a man who had been listening through the wall:

“Did everyone catch that? Because that was the lion equivalent of a twenty-one-gun salute.”

Lark’s hand flew to her mouth. The laugh broke through her fingers—bright, disbelieving. A lion fight and a legal battle and a Pride elder’s approval in the same week, and she was still standing in a comic book store with her mate’s arm around her shoulders and her heart so full it hurt.

Rune pulled her tighter against his side. His lips found her temple. Pressed. Held.

“Acceptable,” he murmured against her hair.

“Acceptable.” She turned her face into his chest. “I’ve never been more flattered in my life.”

“She likes you.”

“She called me ACCEPTABLE. That is not ‘like.’ That is ‘grudging tolerance elevated to formal acknowledgment through gritted Scandinavian teeth.’”

“For Yara, that IS like.”

“Your pride’s emotional vocabulary needs a software update.”

His laugh vibrated through her. The one that started in his chest and traveled through his ribs and made his hair lift at the temples. She cataloged it—Triggered by mate’s commentary on Pride culture. The taxonomy was growing. She intended to fill volumes.

The late-afternoon sun slanted through the display windows. The shared archway between the stores framed two worlds—his golden gallery light, her purple neon—meeting in the middle. The music queue played on. Her playlist. His. Theirs.

His phone buzzed. Then hers. Then both again.

Aspen: Yara left the store. She got in her car. She sat in her car for FOUR MINUTES without starting it. I was watching from the coffee shop across the street. She’s processing. I think she might actually LIKE Lark. This is unprecedented. I’m documenting it for the Pride archives.

Oliver: Sis. I need a debrief. I need it NOW. Did Fallon cry? Did his lawyers cry? Did ANYONE cry? I’ve been waiting three years for this moment and I refuse to experience it through text messages.

Breezy: The contractor needs a modification permit for the archway. I’ve submitted the application. The city requires a structural engineer’s report. Dekel has suggested listing the reason for modification as “ventilation” again. I have declined. The listed reason is “retail integration—shared commercial concept.” Professional. Accurate. Boring. Unlike literally everything else about this situation.

Sybil: I’m bringing champagne to the store tonight. Oliver is bringing cake. Don’t argue. You’ve earned it. Both of you.

Lark typed a response to the group chat with one hand, her other arm around Rune’s waist. His thumb traced circles on her shoulder—the right one, the mark, the warmth that hummed between them like a frequency only they could hear.

Lark: Champagne approved. Cake approved. Oliver is not approved to give a speech. He WILL try. Intercept him.

Oliver: TOO LATE. SPEECH IS WRITTEN. IT’S TWELVE PAGES.

Lark: Rune, tell him no.

Rune: Oliver. No speech. The store cannot accommodate the property damage your sister’s reaction would cause.

Oliver: …did the lion man just make a joke?

Lark: He’s been doing that lately. I’m a good influence.

Oliver: I’m framing this text.

Dekel, separately, to Breezy:

Dekel: The permit justification was inspired work. “Retail integration.” You’re wasted on logistics.

Breezy: This is not news to me.