Page 134 of Lavender and Honey

“Seriously,” Soren replies, completely unfazed. “The rest of us are going to look pretty stupid if you show up unprepared.”

I look at Elias, and he gives a helpless shrug, as if to say, “What did you expect?” The tension drains out of me, leaving only the warm glow of gratitude for these people, this life.

“Better get my jacket,” I say, but it doesn’t sound like an obligation. It sounds like hope.

Soren grins, a little wicked. “Better,” he agrees, and I think I see a glimpse of the life we might have after this. The life we’ll have if I’m brave enough to hold onto it.

He watches us, waiting, but there’s no pressure in it. Only patience, only kindness. I wonder how long it will take to feel like this is real, like I belong here.

“Come on,” he says after a minute. “Lucian’s setting up a table outside. No one wants your folks inside.”

I snort, and it’s not a ladylike sound, but I don’t care. They make me forget to care about those things. They make me remember the only things worth caring about.

We finish getting ready, Elias taking my hand again and squeezing it tight. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low enough for only me to hear.

I nod, because I think maybe I am. Maybe more than okay. Maybe better than I’ve been in a long time.

Soren’s already at the door, ushering us out, and the morning feels full of possibilities. Full of fear, too, but less so than before. More of the hope now, more of the courage.

“You sure about this?” Elias asks as we follow Soren down the hallway, and it’s not really a question. It’s a reminder that I can still change my mind, that I still have choices, “We can stay inside and you don’t have to be around them if you want to.”

I take a breath, feel the air in my lungs, and it doesn’t burn like panic. It fills me, fuels me.

“I’m sure,” I say, and it’s the truth. It’s the whole truth. They lead me to the front door, out into the light, out into whatever’s waiting for us, and I’m ready. I’m ready for all of it.

Chapter Seventy-Six

Lucian stands just a few yards away, his gaze darting as he contemplates the ideal spot for the battered table, a silent sentinel for what may come. I linger awkwardly on the gravel drive, my feet shuffling uncertainly as I wait and brace myself for the inevitable arrival. I feel it deep in my bones—an unsettling certainty, like birds instinctively sensing an oncoming storm or prey quivering beneath the shadow of a stalking predator. The very air seems saturated with the weight of their impending approach, and I picture them descending like a flock of vultures—circling ever tighter until they settle before me, hungry and shamelessly arrogant, poised to rip away pieces of me until I have nothing left. Lucian, with a final decisive gesture, sets the table where he believes it belongs, yet his restless pacing betrays the simmering frustration he struggles to conceal.

I ache for an end—a swift conclusion to this torment—but deep within, I know it will drag on interminably. They will not cease their relentless pursuit until they have seized what they crave,and that thought fills me with unparalleled dread. It pains me to recognize how little meaning I hold for them, how my existence is stripped of freedom, stripped of any genuine choice, leaving me reduced to a mere instrument in their dark designs.

The table stands unmoving, mirroring my own empty expectancy. Bathed in the melancholy of early evening gloom, its surface becomes mottled with dark spots from a gentle, persistent drizzle, as if lamenting its own neglect. I detest it with every fiber of my being and long, with bitter fury, to hurl it against the cold side of the house—imagining the shattered wood splintering into countless useless fragments. Yet I remain frozen, powerless to alter anything.

Nearby, Elias and Soren hover, their watchful eyes never straying from me. It’s as if they anticipate my collapse at any given moment, though they insist on warding it off with their relentless proximity. They cling so closely that even the raindrops seem to hesitate, failing to reach my damp hair. A part of me yearns for the rain—a cleansing deluge that might soak me entirely, dissolve my very existence, and carry me away like a forgotten whisper on the wind.

Then Soren meets my eyes. With a determined tenderness, he strides toward me, intent on mending the fragile threads of my unraveling resolve before they snap completely. His gentle, persistent smile cuts through the storm of anxiety swirling in my eyes, and he embarks on a series of light, reassuring banter—chatting about the garden, the unpredictable weather, and the promise of tomatoes that, he assures me, will be particularly bountiful this year. I find myself nodding, offering the right murmurs of agreement, all while my mind remains tethered to foreboding images of that table and the ominous events that might unfold around it.

And then there is Elias—ever genuine, his unwavering sincerity a quiet beacon amid the chaos. He casts glances thatsilently assure me he is never far away, his calm confidence anchoring him in a way I can scarcely comprehend. It is as if he has made peace with the situation, resigned to the notion that knowing the inevitable is far more harrowing than remaining ignorant.

I desperately wish to share his calm certainty, yet in the deepest recesses of my heart, I harbor a poisonous doubt. I know, with an almost visceral clarity, how disastrous this is bound to be. I understand their desire to triumph, the ferocity with which they will fight—every calculated move, every razor-sharp precision honed for the sole purpose of conquering me. To them, I am nothing more than a tool, a key to unlocking alliances and doors that mean far more to them than I ever could. I am little more than an asset—a disposable pawn. In truth, I feel I am nothing at all.

I look beyond Soren’s gentle small talk and Elias’s soft reassurances, toward the positions occupied by Finn and Lucian. They have positioned themselves just far enough away that my parents will spot them long before my eyes do. Finn stands like a monument—solid, unyielding, his very form stately even beside the vast emptiness. His shoulders remain unmoving, each breath measured, and his eyes are fixed on the horizon. I find myself wondering if the certainty he exudes is as unshakeable as it appears.

Beside him stands Lucian, who has finally silenced his anxious pacing. His fingers tap a staccato rhythm against his leg—as if privy to an inner melody—while he resembles an agitated dog on a short leash, his tension palpable even in this extended wait. I can sense his deep desire to fight—not for the thrill of combat, but because it is woven into the fibers of his being, just as Finn is born for the meticulous craft of woodwork or Elias for the art of making jam. It’s as if his very marrow, his very blood, pulses with the call to battle.

They both fix their gaze upon the gravel drive, steadfastly holding their ground in anticipation of my parents’ inevitable approach.The grinding rasp of tires over gravel made me snapt to attention. A shiver of dread courses through me; for an instant, I envision the heavens tearing open, a torrential downpour washing over me before my parents can even reach. Yet, it is only the car that disrupts the silence—its steady, deliberate advance cleaving the twilight in two and rendering every part of me painfully alert and achingly real.

Then, as abruptly as the rain began, it stops, leaving behind an atmosphere heavy, humid, the sky so dark and low it seems almost tangible. I watch the car’s progress, its hesitant roll over the final stretch, leaving me torn between the desire for it to halt on the spot or to continue an endless, agonizing journey. I yearn to vanish into the night, to dissolve into the damp shadows, yet I remain stubbornly present. The car door clicks open, and with it steps out the very two people whose presence I have come to dread—each a polished, refined antithesis of the flawed, vulnerable self I have become.

My father appears visibly uncomfortable, his unease palpable, while my mother embodies everything I anticipated—impatient, curt, and bristling with barely contained irritation, ready to confront anything but what lies before us. They exude a cold, metallic detachment—a sheen of disdain that no dark cloud or soft drizzle can tarnish. I nearly hate them for that effortless polish, their ability to remain unscathed and collected while the rest of us struggle, bleed, and fight just to survive.

They cast their discerning eyes over the modest house, the rain-damp drive, and the barren stretch of land they had traversed merely to arrive here. I chide myself silently for once thinking that they might be impressed by what lies before them—a ramshackle dwelling in the woods, nothing more than a haphazard collection of rotting lumber and meager packs—andyet they are drawn here solely because I exist in this forsaken place.

They look past me, through me, as if I were a mere shadow. In that moment, I find myself torn: do I crave their acknowledgment, or do I long for the blissful oblivion of being entirely ignored? The terror that grips me is twofold—the relentless possibility that they will never relent in their pursuit, and the equally paralyzing fear that I have already surrendered all hope.

Lucian and Finn step forward, their deliberate strides echoing with a silent menace. I watch as their eyes scan the scattered remnants of my belongings, tracking every movement like wolves circling a trespasser, ever ready to claim that which is not theirs.

I marvel silently at the transformation in Lucian—the way he molds himself into a pillar of strength and unwavering certainty, as if nothing can ever block his determined path. How I long to capture even a sliver of that steadfast assurance, to be as resolute as them all. And as my parents’ calculating, cold gazes take in our ragged assembly, they seem to see only the vast distance we have yet to traverse—a measure of our remaining inadequacy.

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