Page 102 of Lavender and Honey

Lucian's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening momentarily before he consciously relaxes them. "Do you believe that? That what you've built here isn't real?"

I think of my store, the customers who've become friends, the quiet joy I take in helping others discover their creativity. I think of Elias's warm smile at the market, Finn's steady presence beside me under the stars, Soren's infectious laughter as we danced. I think of Lucian himself, driving me to safety without a moment's hesitation.

"No," I say finally. "It's real."

"Then hold onto that," he says, glancing at me briefly before returning his attention to the road. "Your mother doesn't get to dictate your life Lydia. Not anymore."

We fall into silence as the car carries us toward the outskirts of town where their house—their pack home—sits nestled among trees. The world outside the window begins to blur, not from tears this time, but from exhaustion. The emotional toll of the day settles over me like a heavy blanket, making my limbs feel leaden and my thoughts sluggish.

As we turn onto the gravel drive that leads to their house, Lucian breaks the silence. "The others know you're coming. Elias has been...concerned."

I picture Elias, his usual warm demeanor clouded with worry, perhaps pacing the kitchen or stress-baking as he waits for news. A pang of guilt pierces the numbness that's enveloped me.

"I'm sorry I disappeared," I murmur. "I didn't mean to worry everyone."

"Don't apologize," Lucian says, his voice gentle but firm. "None of this is your fault." The house comes into view, a sprawling farmhouse with a wide porch and windows that glow with warm light against the approaching evening. It looks like something from a storybook—inviting, safe. Waiting.

Lucian parks near the front steps and turns to me, his expression serious. "You are safe here, Lydia. No one is going to make you do anything you don't want to do."

I nod, grateful beyond words for the simple reassurance. As Lucian retrieves my bag from the back seat, I stare at the house, trying to quiet the anxiety fluttering in my chest. This is happening. I'm staying with them—not just for an evening or a meal, but for days. Sleeping under their roof, sharing their space, becoming part of their daily rhythms.

It should terrify me, this sudden immersion into pack life after so long on my own. Instead, as Lucian leads me up the porch steps, I feel something like the first faint glimmer of sunrise after the longest night of the year—tentative, fragile, but unmistakably hopeful.

Chapter Sixty-Two

The threshold of their home feels like an invisible barrier, a membrane between my solitary existence and the intertwined lives of their pack. I hesitate beside Lucian, my feet suddenly leaden, unwilling to take that final step. The scents of their home wash over me –It's overwhelming and comforting all at once, like diving into deep water not knowing if I'll sink or swim.

"It's alright," Lucian murmurs, his voice close to my ear. "You're welcome here. More than welcome."

I take a deep breath and step inside, crossing that invisible line. The foyer is warm and inviting – hardwood floors gleaming with a soft polish, walls painted in soothing earth tones. There are no formal portraits or stiff furniture like in my parents' home, just comfortable, lived-in space that speaks of shared lives and easy companionship.

My gaze lands on Elias, who stands in the doorway to the living room. His hazel eyes widen as they lock with mine, reliefand concern battling across his expressive face. He's wearing a flour-dusted apron over a soft-looking henley, his chestnut hair slightly mussed, as if he's been running his hands through it with worry. There's a smudge of something – probably more flour – across one cheekbone, giving him a charmingly disheveled appearance.

"Lydia," he breathes, and the single word carries volumes of emotion. He moves toward me with the fluid grace I've come to associate with him, stopping just short of embracing me. His eyes scan my face, cataloging every detail, lingering on the puffiness around my eyes and the pallor of my cheeks. I feel transparent under his gaze, all my careful defenses laid bare.

Behind him, I see Finn and Soren hovering uncertainly. Finn stands tall and steady, his green eyes watchful, hands clasped in front of him as if to keep them from reaching out before I'm ready. Soren leans against the wall, uncharacteristically still, his purple eyes lacking their usual mischievous spark. The concern etched across both their faces makes my throat tighten.

"She's exhausted," Lucian says, his hand coming to rest lightly on my shoulder. The weight is anchoring rather than confining. "Her mother found her at the shop this morning."

I watch understanding dawn on all three faces, their expressions shifting from worry to something harder, more protective. Elias's reaction is the most visceral – his scent sharpening with a protective instinct I've never experienced from an Omega before. He looks at me again, this time with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

"You must be overwhelmed," he says softly, as if speaking to a frightened animal. "Come with me." He holds out his hand, palm up – an invitation, not a command. I place my fingers in his, marveling at how warm his skin feels against mine. The simple contact sends a jolt through me, like static electricity but gentler, a current of connection that grounds me to the present moment.

Elias's fingers close around mine with careful pressure. "I'm taking her to the nest," he says to the others, his voice quiet but certain. It's not a question, not a request for permission, yet I see Lucian nod in acknowledgment.

"We'll bring up some tea," Finn offers, his deep voice a soothing rumble.

"And maybe something stronger," Soren adds, a ghost of his usual smile flitting across his face. "Looks like she could use it."

Under different circumstances, I might have bristled at them talking about me as if I weren't present. But right now, the way they're taking charge, making decisions, coordinating care – it feels like a weight lifted from my shoulders. For someone who's prided herself on independence for so long, the relief of not having to be strong for a few hours is unexpectedly powerful.

Elias leads me through the living room, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand. The motion is hypnotic, soothing. I follow him like a sleepwalker, my feet moving of their own accord. Elias guides me up with gentle patience, slowing when my feet drag with exhaustion. The stairs creak beneath our weight, a homey sound that speaks of age and history and lives well-lived.

"The nest is upstairs," Elias explains, his voice a soft current beside me. "It's where we sleep, where we feel safest. Where you slept before."

I remember that night, how I'd joined them in their pack nest, surrounded by their warmth and scents, feeling protected in a way I hadn't experienced since childhood. Elias leads me down a hallway lined with framed photographs – candid shots of the four of them in various combinations, laughing, working, simply being together. The visual evidence of their shared life, their connectedness, brings a lump to my throat. Will there be space for me in these frames someday? Do I want there to be?

Elias releases my hand to slip off his flour-dusted apron, hanging it on a hook by the door. Then he turns back to me, his expression a mixture of concern and something deeper, more tender.

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