Page 117 of Lavender and Honey

Pack connection. The phrase hangs in the air between us, laden with implications I'm still learning to navigate. Not ownership, not control, but mutual support and shared resources. A network of strengths to counter individual vulnerabilities.

"I'm still getting used to the idea," I admit, meeting his gaze despite the heat I can feel radiating from my cheeks. "That this... arrangement... comes with benefits beyond the obvious."

"The obvious?" Lucian echoes, one eyebrow lifting in a gesture that somehow manages to be both elegant and slightly wicked.

My blush deepens. "You know what I mean. Safety. Companionship."

"Ah," he says, his voice dropping slightly, that hint of wickedness deepening. "Yes, those are certainly... part of the package." Elias makes a sound suspiciously like a snort, quickly covered by a cough. I glance at him, catching the gleam of mischief in his hazel eyes as he watches the exchange between Lucian and me.

"You're impossible," I mutter, not sure which of them I'm addressing—perhaps both. "I'm trying to have a serious conversation about legal implications, and you're..."

"Teasing you?" Lucian suggests, his expression softening into something that makes my heartbeat stutter. "Forgive me. Professional hazard—finding levity in tense situations."

"Is that what they teach in law school?" I ask, my own lips twitching despite my embarrassment.

"No," he says, his smile growing more pronounced. "That particular skill I developed on my own. Much like your talent for art."

The casual compliment catches me off guard, as does the realization that he's paid enough attention to consider my artistic abilities a "talent" rather than just a hobby or profession. Before I can formulate a response, Elias reaches out, his hand coming to rest lightly on mine.

"Lucian's being modest," he says, his voice warm with pride. "He's actually one of the most respected Omega rights attorneys in the region. There's a reason traditional packs like the Greenes know his name."

I look back at Lucian, seeing him through new eyes—not just as an intimidating Alpha presence or the leader of this unusual pack, but as a formidable ally in the very arena where I'm most vulnerable. A lawyer specializing in cases like mine, should it come to that. A professional advocate for that society often silences. The knowledge settles around me like a protective cloak, both reassuring and slightly overwhelming. How different might my life have been if someone like Lucian had been there when I first decided to leave my parents' pack? If I'd had legal counsel instead of just desperation and Avery's unwavering friendship?

"Thank you," I say finally, the words encompassing more than just his current help with my mother's unwelcome visit. "For using your... skills... to help Omegas like me."

Something flickers in Lucian's eyes—a flash of emotion too complex to name. "You're welcome," he says simply. "Though in your case, Lydia, it's not just professional interest that motivates me."

The implication hangs in the air between us, neither of us willing to address it directly, but both acutely aware of its presence. Elias squeezes my hand gently, a silent confirmation of Lucian's words. I drop my gaze to our joined fingers, oddly comforted by this tangible connection.

I have a lawyer on my side now. An Alpha lawyer who specializes in Omega rights, who has connections throughout the town and beyond, and who seems determined to use every resource at his disposal to protect me. The realization is both daunting and strangely exhilarating. With this knowledge, I feel something like hope taking root alongside my fear.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

The pencil moves across the page almost without my conscious direction, gray lines emerging to form the curve of a spring flower. My fingers feel both clumsy and desperate, like they've been waiting for this release of my emotions that I have been bottling up. The living room couch cushions have molded to my body in the past hour, sunlight spilling through the windows in pools of gold that shift imperceptibly as the afternoon wears on.

I adjust my position, tucking one leg beneath me and balancing the sketchbook more comfortably against my knee. The house is quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the soft scratch of graphite against paper. From somewhere in the kitchen, I can hear Elias humming, the melody interspersed with the clatter of pots and pans. The sound wraps around me like a blanket, familiar now in ways I wouldn't have expected a month ago.

The themed season cards for the gift boxes were my idea, something to make our products stand out at the market. Four cards: spring, summer, autumn, winter. Each with its own personality, its own story to tell. I'm working on spring now—delicate flowers pushing through half-melted snow, a ribbon of green winding through the composition.

"Winter thaws," I murmur to myself, giving voice to the card's unwritten message. "Life returns." My pencil traces the outline of a snowdrop, its white bell drooping with elegant vulnerability. I switch to a softer pencil to deepen the shadows beneath it, creating the illusion of depth. For the gift boxes, I want each card to feel special, handcrafted. I plan to sketch them all first, getting the compositions right, then finish them with watercolor washes and fine ink lines for definition. The thought of seeing them completed, tucked into our wooden gift boxes alongside Elias's creations makes me smile. My contribution. My place.

I set down my pencil and stretch my fingers, feeling the slight cramping that comes from holding a drawing tool too tightly. I look down at my drawing again. I had moved onto the spring scene and it is coming together, the composition balanced but not rigid. I've left space for the watercolors to bloom and spread, for the ink to add definition where needed. I've learned to leave room for the unexpected, for the materials to speak for themselves.

I take a deep breath, picking up the pencil again when I hear footsteps approaching from the hallway. The sound doesn't make me tense. That's new. My fingers continue their dance across the paper, adding a curl of vine here, the suggestion of a leaf there. I'm relaxing more with each passing minute, the creative flow washing away the lingering unease that's been my constant companion for so long.

For the first time in years, I feel truly at home. Not just physically safe, but emotionally anchored. I smile to myself,adding one last detail to my drawing before looking up to see who's entering the room.

Finn appears in the doorway. He stands for a moment, hands dusted with fine sawdust that catches the afternoon light, his eyes finding mine across the room with the precision of someone who's been aware of my presence in the house all along. His expression softens, lips curving into a smile that creates fine lines at the corners of his eyes.

"Mind if I join you?" he asks, already moving toward me with that deliberate grace of his, each step placed with the same careful intention he brings to his woodworking.

I shift slightly on the couch, making space beside me. "It's your living room."

"Our living room," he corrects gently, lowering himself onto the cushion next to me. He smells of pine and cedar, the scents clinging to his clothes and skin like a second presence. His blonde hair is pulled back in its customary knot, though several strands have escaped to frame his face. He doesn't tuck them away, seemingly unconcerned with such small imperfections.

"What are you working on?" His gaze drops to my sketchbook, but he doesn't reach for it or try to look too closely—respecting the private space between artist and creation.

"Season cards for the gift boxes," I explain, angling the book slightly so he can see the spring design. "I had talked to Elias before about them….I am giving it a try. I thought they would make it more personal. "

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