Page 68 of Lavender and Honey

Soren squeezes my hand before releasing it. "Trust me, it's easier to do than explain. And no one cares if you mess up. That's half the fun."

The music starts, a bouncy tune with a steady beat, and suddenly everyone around me is moving. I freeze for a moment, overwhelmed, but then Soren catches my eye and nods encouragingly. Taking a deep breath, I try to mimic his movements—right foot out, left foot out, right foot out with a touch of the toe, then the same pattern with the left foot, followed by a quarter turn.

My first attempt is disastrous. I step right when everyone else steps left, nearly colliding with the woman beside me. "Sorry," I mumble, my face burning with embarrassment.

"No worries, honey," she says cheerfully, not missing a beat as she continues the dance. "We all start somewhere."

Soren, to his credit, doesn't laugh at my fumbling. Instead, he slows his movements slightly, exaggerating each step so I can follow. "Right," he says, stepping out with his right foot. "Left." Another step. "Right-touch." He steps and taps his toe. "Now left, right, left-touch, and turn!"

I follow his lead, my movements stiff and self-conscious. I'm acutely aware of my body in a way I haven't been in years—the way my hips shift with each step, the swing of my arms as I turn, the stretch of unused muscles as I attempt to keep up.

"Stop thinking so hard," Soren says after a few repetitions, his voice light with amusement. "Feel the music. Let it move you."

"Easy for you to say," I mutter, narrowly avoiding stepping on his foot as we turn. "You actually know what you're doing."

"So did you, once," he counters, surprising me. "You knew all the steps to those fancy ballroom dances, right? This is simpler. Right, left, right-touch, left, right, left-touch, turn." The pattern does seem to be sinking in, my body gradually picking up the rhythm. By the third repetition, I'm still a beat behind everyone else, but I'm at least stepping in the right direction. By the fifth, I'm almost in sync.

"There you go!" Soren exclaims, his face splitting into a wide grin that makes my heart stutter. "You're getting it!" His praise warms me from the inside, and I find myself smiling in return, a real smile that reaches all the way to my eyes. The music wraps around us, the steady beat like a second heartbeat guiding my feet.

As the song progresses, I become less fixated on the steps and more aware of the communal energy of the dance floor. Around me, people of all ages move in unison, their faces bright with enjoyment. There's something almost primal about it, this shared movement, this collective joy.The song ends to a round of applause and whoops from the dancers. I clap along, slightly breathless and surprisingly exhilarated.

"That was... actually fun," I admit, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Told you," Soren says, his purple eyes dancing with delight. "Ready for the next one?"

The next song is faster, the steps more complex, but something has shifted inside me. The tight knot of anxiety that usually sits in my chest has loosened, replaced by a bubbling excitement I haven't felt in years—maybe ever. I stumble through the new pattern, laughing at my mistakes instead of cringing, accepting Soren's gentle corrections with grace I didn't know I possessed.

Song after song plays, and I lose count of how many dances we've done. My cheeks hurt from smiling, my legs ache pleasantly from exertion, and I've never felt more alive. Soren stays by my side the whole time, his presence both anchor and sail, keeping me grounded while encouraging me to fly.When a slow song finally comes on, couples filter onto the floor, holding each other close. Soren and I step back, letting them have the space. I'm suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look—hair sticking to my neck, cheeks flushed, probably smelling of exertion despite my blockers.

"You're a natural, you know," Soren says as we make our way back to the bar for more drinks. "Once you stopped overthinking it."

I duck my head, both pleased and embarrassed by the compliment. "I'm pretty sure I stepped on at least three people's toes."

"And yet you survived," he teases, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture catches me off guard, and I feel my pulse jump beneath my skin. "Seriously, though, you were great. How does it feel to break the ballroom rules?"

I consider his question as the bartender slides fresh sodas toward us. How does it feel? Liberating, I realize. Exhilarating. As if I've shed a layer of skin I didn't know was too tight until it was gone.

"It feels good," I say simply, meeting his gaze. "Thank you for bringing me here."

Something in Soren's expression softens, a vulnerability I've never seen in him before flickering across his features. "Thank you for trusting me enough to come," he replies, his voice unusually solemn. Then, as if catching himself being too serious, he winks. "The night's still young, Lavender girl. Think you're up for another round after we catch our breath?"

I take a long drink of my soda, enjoying the sweet fizz against my tongue and the pleasant ache in my legs that speaks of effort well spent. "Absolutely," I answer, surprising myself with my enthusiasm. "Just try and stop me."

And as Soren's face lights up with that playful grin I'm coming to adore, I realize I'm having the most fun I've had in years. These four men have made me come out of my shell more than I have ever done. It was thrilling..and scary at the same time…but I knew it was worth it if I got to spend time like this with all of them.

Chapter Forty-Two

The next song begins with a fiddle's cry, high and lonesome before settling into a rhythm that pulses through the floorboards beneath my feet. Around us, dancers pair up, and Soren extends his hand to me with a questioning tilt of his head. No words needed—I place my palm against his, our skin warm where it meets, and something electric shivers up my arm. This is different from the line dances, where we moved in parallel, separate but synchronized. Now his fingers curl around mine, gently tugging me closer, and the space between us—the careful bubble I maintain around myself—begins to dissolve.

"This is a two-step," Soren explains, his voice just loud enough to carry over the music. "Simple, just follow my lead."

I hesitate, old memories surfacing of stern ballroom instructors drilling into me the proper form, the precise distance to be maintained, the submissive posture expected of an Omega partner. But the gleam in Soren's purple eyes holds no expectations, no demands—just invitation.

"I might step on your toes," I warn, even as I let him guide me into position, his right hand settling lightly at my waist, respectful of boundaries I'm suddenly not sure I want to maintain.

"I've got sturdy boots," he replies with a wink, and then we're moving.

It's different from ballroom dancing—less rigid, more forgiving. Soren leads with confident movements, but there's no stiffness in his frame, no performative precision. Just the steady one-two, one-two rhythm as we move in a circular pattern around the floor.

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