Page 174 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“No.”

“Fergus?”

“Absolutely not. He’ll eat the evidence.”

Mac nodded. Sensible.

I stood and looked at the painting again.

The sky was unfinished, the door was still wrong, and the violet handprint sat at the bottom like a small, stubborn claim.

Maybe a painting didn’t need to be finished to be true, and maybe neither did I.

“I need to wash your sister’s hand,” I said.

Mila held it up proudly. “Kaka.”

“Yes, it is,” I said, my heart starting to beat too fast, “I think I need to go downstairs.”

Mac jumped up. “Should I tell them?”

“No.”

He paused. “No?”

I picked up Mila carefully, keeping her painted hand away from my sweater. “I think I should.”

Mac looked satisfied, as if I had finally reached the conclusion he and his superpowered sister had been politely herding me toward all along.

“Good,” he said.

Mila patted my cheek with her clean hand. “Ba,” she said.

“Yes,” I told her. “Exactly.”

I carried her to the bathroom, washed violet from her fingers, and tried not to think about the fact that Hudson and Lincoln were beneath my feet, waiting without forcing the door.

When I came back into the bedroom, the seven paintings looked different. They were still messy and honest, but they didn’t look like evidence of collapse anymore. They looked like proof I had been working my way back to myself.

I took a breath, smoothed my paint-stained sweater, and opened the bedroom door.

For the first time in days, I went to meet my alphas instead of running from them.

Chapter 29

Lincoln

Mac ran into the room yelling, “She’s coming.”

Mary came down the stairs with paint on her clothes and Mila on one hip.

I stood when I saw her, and so did Hudson.

We had been waiting in Maeve’s front sitting room for twenty-three minutes, which felt longer than the days before it because this time she was in the same house. She was close enough that I could smell her, close enough that every instinct I had wanted to go to her and every decent part of me knew better.

Maeve sat near the fire with one leg crossed over the other, watching us as if she would personally remove our tongues if we used them badly.

Artem had shown us in, given us tea neither of us touched, and then disappeared with the ominous politeness of a man who trusted his wife more than mercy.