I test it, thinking deliberately about how Calder leaves his books everywhere, how Tyler sings out of tune without realizing, how Julian takes forever to make decisions about simple things.
I feel their amusement right back at me.
"We can still feel your affection," Julian points out. "It undermines the critique."
"That's cheating."
"That's pack," Calder corrects.
We eat together, touching constantly. Hands brushing, knees pressing, casual intimacy that's always been there but feels different now. More. Permanent.
"We really should call our families,” Julian says.
Right. The outside world. Other people. Reality beyond this apartment.
"Who first?" I ask.
"Your grandmother," Calder says firmly. "She should hear it from you directly."
He's right. Mira deserves to know we're officially, permanently pack.
I pull out my phone, dial. She answers on the second ring.
"Little one. I was just thinking about you."
"Hi, grandma." My voice is already thick. "I have news."
A pause. Then, with knowing warmth: "You're marked."
"How did you?—"
"I can hear the happiness in your voice." She sounds pleased. "You chose well, Elowen. When?"
"Last night.It was... perfect."
I don’t need to look at my pack to see their reaction to my words.
"I'm happy for you," Mira says simply. "For all of you. A pack is a gift. Cherish it, little one."
"I will, grandma."
After we hang up, we call the other families. Catherine and Thomas Vale, who sound delighted. Rebecca Cross, who cries and tells Julian to take care of me (and let me take care of him). Margaret and Robert Ashford, who are more formal but give us their blessing.
By the time we're done, it's nearly noon.
"Campus is going to be interesting," Tyler observes.
"Let them stare," I say. "I wouldn't change a single thing.”
That evening, walking back to my dorm to get fresh clothes, we cross the quad as the lamps flicker on one by one.
I’m wearing Calder’s sweatshirt, dark, soft, smelling like cedar and clean cotton. It hangs loose on me, the collar slipping low enough that one shoulder is exposed, the marks impossible to miss. Beneath it, his T-shirt brushes my skin. My long wool skirt moves around my legs in quiet folds.
Nothing ornate. Nothing designed to impress.
And yet I have never felt more powerful in my life.
The marks are visible.
