"That's not weird." He squeezes back. "That's called hope. It's what happens when you finally have something worth looking forward to."
Hope.
The word echoes in my skull.
Hope.
I've spent so long avoiding that feeling—treating it like poison, like a trap, like something that would only hurt me when it inevitably shattered.
But maybe I was wrong.
Maybe hope isn't the enemy.
Maybe hope is just the first step toward having something worth fighting for.
The pack house comes into view—a structure I'm beginning to recognize, beginning to associate with safety and belonging and the particular kind of chaos that comes from being claimed by four men who are just as broken as I am.
Home.
The word surfaces unbidden.
Dangerous.
Precious.
But I don't push it away.
Just let it settle into my chest next to the ember of hope, next to the warmth of Sage's hand in mine, next to the unfamiliar sensation of actually looking forward to what comes next.
For the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—I'm not just surviving.
I'm not just enduring.
I'm not just waiting for the next bad thing to happen.
It's the first time I've been excited.
CHAPTER 22
Confessions And Cotton Candy
~SERAPHINE~
"So we're playing house for six more days?"
The question comes out casual—deliberately so, wrapped in the kind of flippancy I've learned to deploy when things feel too real, too heavy, too much like something that might actually matter.
I look at each of them in turn.
Kai at the head of the table, cutting into his steak with surgical precision, every motion controlled and deliberate. His dark gold eyes are fixed on his plate, but I can tell he's listening—cataloguing every word, every inflection, every piece of information that might be useful later.
Sage to my left, close enough that our elbows occasionally brush when he reaches for something. His plate is already half-empty—apparently near-death experiences make you hungry, or maybe he's just always been a fast eater. His green-gold eyes flick to me whenever I speak, tracking my expressions like he's still learning to read me in person instead of just through letters.
Jett across from me, eating with the same mechanical efficiency he seems to apply to everything. His storm-grey gaze is distant, unfocused, but I've learned that doesn't mean he's not paying attention. If anything, the opposite—Jett seems to absorb more when he's not actively looking.
And Blaze beside him, golden hair catching the candlelight —actual candles, because apparently this pack house hascandleson the dining table like some kind of olden period drama— grinning at something only he finds funny.
They're all here.
