I roll him flat on his back. His hands clutch at the back of my neck, pulling me closer. He moans into my mouth when my erection presses against his.
“Kai! Get your ass out here—we’re gonna be late for that meeting!” Evander’s voice cuts through the moment, bright and obnoxious.
The kiss breaks. Kai throws his head back with a groan.
I chuckle and press a few lingering kisses to his throat. “Later,” I promise.
He kisses me once more, light and fleeting, before I finally roll away.
Rose
The morning is supremely awkward—no one talks. Last night feels like it nudged my omega just a little bit closer to consciousness. She feels closer to the surface than ever. Eventually the pack heads out to meet with Cole about running the restaurant at Bee Haven, and I throw myself into work. A few small marketing campaigns for businesses around the peninsula keep me busy enough to pretend the silence doesn’t bother me.
One of the guys checks in every hour or so, taking shifts like bodyguards.
The thing is, there’s still a steady trickle of people milling through town. Anytime I run out to my car for something or answer the door for a food delivery, I spot at least one person on the sidewalk taking pictures. Harlan keeps assuring me that once the press gets enough of their “shots,” the frenzy will fade. I believe him for the most part. But after years of hiding, being seen still makes my pulse spike.
Near the end of the day, my phone buzzes.
Harlan:
I saw some banners in town about a tree-lighting ceremony. I think that would be a good place for a public courting date. Give the photographers something so they’ll go home.
Me:
Yeah, I heard about that. The whole town will be there. If you thought my friends were bad…
Evander:
Let’s give ’em a show.
Logan:
You always want to put on a show, Evander.
Harlan:
We’ll go out at seven.
And that’s that. Harlan has spoken.
Flying reindeer take up residence in my stomach. I know the courting is fake, but the thought of walking through town with these alphas still feels like averybig deal.
I throw open my closet.
When I ran away, I brought nothing. None of the expensive dresses or tailored coats from my old life. What I have now is a collection of yoga pants, oversized sweaters, scarves, blouse tops, and a couple of skirts.
I dig to the back. There’s one dress—black, simple, and bought with bonus money from a few extra side jobs. I wore it to Sunny’s grandmother’s funeral. Way too formal for a town tree-lighting ceremony.
So, I grab my best jeans and a silver off-the-shoulder sparkly sweater instead.
Is it fancy like a million-dollar pack might expect? No. Is it comfortable andme? Yes.
I should know how to do this. I was raised in this world of appearances and performance—but honestly, I think I’ve blocked it out on purpose. The idea of being that thin, miserable, repressed girl again makes my stomach twist.
I’ll never go back. Not in body, not in spirit.
I look in the mirror, and it’s just me. And that has to be enough.
