Page 101 of Lavender and Honey

Chapter Sixty-One

The words "pack a bag" float in the air between us like abandoned balloons, colorful yet somehow hollow. Lucian's voice seems to come from somewhere far away, though he stands right in front of me. I stare at him, trying to process the simple instruction that feels impossibly complex. My mother is here until Sunday. My mother knows where I live. My mother wants to take me back. The thoughts circle like vultures, picking at the remains of my hard-won peace.

"Lydia." Lucian's voice breaks through the fog. His hand hovers near mine, not quite touching—always asking permission in his way. "You shouldn't stay here, not while she's in town. Pack enough for a week. Just to be safe." I nod, a puppet with loose strings. My body moves while my mind remains stuck in that terrible moment in my shop, my mother's voice slicing through everything I've built.

"Where am I going?" I ask, though I think I already know the answer.

"Home," Lucian says simply. "With us."

Home. Such a small word for such an enormous concept. I haven't had a real home since I fled my parents' house—just places I exist, spaces I fill with art supplies and quiet determination. But the way Lucian says it—like it's already decided, like there's a place for me within their pack that's been waiting all along—makes something in my chest crack open.

I move toward my bedroom, my steps mechanical. Open the closet. Select clothes. Fold them with precision my mother would approve of. The thought makes my hands freeze mid-motion, a shirt clutched between rigid fingers.

"Would you like help?" Lucian asks from the doorway, his tall frame filling the space without invading it.

"I don't know what to bring," I admit, embarrassed by how small my voice sounds. "I've never... I don't usually stay over. Anywhere."

Something softens in his steel-gray eyes. Not pity—I couldn't bear pity right now—but understanding. "Just the basics. Comfortable clothes. Whatever you'd need for work. Toiletries. We have everything else.

I nod again and return to the task, pulling open drawers with hands that don't quite feel like my own. Underwear, socks, a second pair of jeans. My movements have the jerky quality of a wind-up toy running down. Each item I select seems to blur at the edges, the colors muting as if viewed through frosted glass.mAs I reach for my toothbrush in the bathroom, my mother's voice echoes in my head: "A respectable Omega doesn't flaunt her scent in public like some common stray."

The small bottle of scent blockers sits on the counter, untouched for days now. I pick it up, turning it over in my palm, feeling its weight like a judgment. Should I pack it? Return to hiding? Would it be safer?

"You don't need that," Lucian says quietly, appearing in the doorway. He's careful not to touch me, but his presence fills the small space, grounding me. "Unless you want it."

I set the bottle down with a decisive click. "I don't want it."

Something flashes in his eyes—approval, maybe, or pride. He nods once, a gesture so small yet laden with meaning.

"Do you have a bag?" he asks, practical as always.

"In the closet," I reply, pointing vaguely toward the hall. While he retrieves it, I gather my toiletries with the same detached efficiency. Toothbrush, hairbrush, shampoo. The motions feel rehearsed, as if I'm an actress playing the role of someone packing to escape. Because that's what this is, isn't it? Another escape. Another retreat. Just like a year ago when I fled in the night, leaving behind the life that had been planned for me.

"This isn't the same," Lucian says, as if reading my thoughts. He returns with my duffel bag, setting it on the bed. "You're not running away. You're moving toward something."

I look up at him, studying the strong lines of his face, the steady certainty in his eyes. "How do you always know what I'm thinking?"

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I pay attention." Those three words shouldn't warm me from the inside out, not when I've spent a year making myself invisible, unreadable. But they do, kindling something in my chest that feels dangerously like hope.

We finish packing in silence, my hands moving automatically while my mind drifts. I add my sketchbook and a few pencils almost as an afterthought. Then Lucian zips the bag closed with a finality that makes my breath catch.

"Ready?" he asks, hoisting the duffel over his shoulder as if my entire portable life weighs nothing.

"I should lock up," I say, casting about for my keys. "And the shop—I need to put a sign up—"

"We'll take care of the shop," Lucian assures me, his voice steady. "Your keys?" I find them on the kitchen counter and hold them out. Our fingers brush as he takes them, and the brief contact sends a jolt through me, as if his touch has momentarily rewired my fragmented consciousness.

He locks my apartment door behind us, then guides me to his car with a hand that doesn't quite touch the small of my back. The afternoon sun seems too bright, the air too sharp in my lungs. Everything has the hyper-real quality of a fever dream as Lucian opens the passenger door for me. I slide in, buckling my seatbelt on autopilot. The leather seat cradles me, still warm from the sun. Lucian stows my bag in the back before settling behind the wheel, his movements efficient and purposeful.

"She can't make you go back," he says as we pull away from the curb. It's not a question, but I answer anyway.

"I know." But my voice lacks conviction. My mother has always had a way of making the impossible seem inevitable, of bending reality to her will through sheer determination.

"Lydia," Lucian says, his voice lower now, edged with something territorial. "You belong with us. Not with them."

The statement hangs in the air between us, bold and unapologetic. I should feel trapped by his certainty, boxed in by another person trying to decide my fate. But instead, I feel something closer to relief—like a drowning swimmer who's finally found something solid to cling to.

"She told me I was naive," I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. "That I've been playing pretend, living in a fantasy that reality will eventually shatter." I stare out the window, watching the familiar streets of Haven's Rest slide past. "What if she's right?"

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