Page 70 of Lavender and Honey

I want to deny it—I don't feel brave, not when I've spent so long hiding—but the sincerity in his gaze stops the words in my throat. Instead, I ask, "What makes you say that?"

"This," he says simply, giving me a gentle spin before drawing me back to him. "Letting yourself try new things. Opening up. It takes courage to be vulnerable, especially when you've been hurt before."

My step falters at his words. How does he know? Have the others told him about my past, about why I left my family's pack? Or is it simply written in the careful way I move through the world, in the barriers I've constructed around myself?

Soren's hand tightens at my waist, steadying me. "Sorry," he says, genuine concern flashing across his face. "I didn't mean to overstep."

"You didn't," I assure him, finding my rhythm again. "It's just... unexpected, being seen like that." Being seen at all, I almost add, but keep the thought to myself. The song draws to a close, and I'm surprised by the pang of disappointment I feel as Soren's hand slips from my waist. We've been dancing for what must be hours, yet I feel like I could continue for hours more, lost in the simple pleasure of moving together.

"You've got quite the stamina," Soren remarks, noticing my reluctance to leave the floor. "But I think we both could use a break and something to drink."

Now that he mentions it, I realize how thirsty I am, how my legs tremble slightly from exertion. "You're right," I concede, letting him lead me away from the dance floor. "Though I'm still in shock that I'm enjoying this so much."

"Sometimes the things we enjoy most are the ones we never expected to try," Soren says, his hand finding the small of my back as he guides me through the crowd. The touch is light but purposeful, both protective and possessive in a way that sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.

We make our way to the bar, where Soren orders waters for both of us. As I take a grateful sip, he leans against the counter, studying me with that penetrating gaze of his. "So, what's the verdict on line dancing? Better than ballroom?"

I laugh, the sound startlingly free and unguarded. "Definitely. Though I'm not sure my feet agree." I shift my weight, feeling the beginnings of what will surely be impressive blisters tomorrow.

"All good things come with a price," Soren says with mock solemnity before breaking into a grin. "But the night's still young, and there's more fun to be had." He nods toward the far corner of the venue, where several pool tables stand, some occupied, others free.

"Pool?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Another hidden talent of yours?"

Soren's grin turns mischievous. "I dabble. What about you, Lavender girl? Ever wielded a pool cue?"

I think back to the small game room at my college, where I'd occasionally watch others play during my rare social outings. "I've played a few times," I admit. "Though I'm certainly no shark."

"Perfect," Soren says, downing the rest of his water and offering me his hand once more. "I promise to go easy on you. At first."

The challenge in his eyes sparks something in me—a playfulness I'd almost forgotten I possessed. "Don't make promises you'll regret," I counter, surprising myself with the boldness in my tone. "I'm a quick learner."

Soren's laugh is rich and genuine as he leads me toward the pool tables. "I'm counting on it, Lavender girl. I'm counting on it."As we cross the room, I'm struck by how different I feel compared to just hours ago. The woman who nervously climbed onto Soren's motorcycle, who tensed at the prospect of dancing with strangers, who flinched at the thought of being touched—she seems like a distant memory. In her place is someone new, or perhaps someone who was there all along, buried beneath layers of fear and caution.

Someone who, for perhaps the first time in her adult life, is truly living in the moment.The realization both terrifies and thrills me. And as Soren's thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand, sending sparks of awareness up my arm, I find I'm eager to discover what other surprises this night—and this man—might hold.

Chapter Forty-Three

The pool table glows under hanging lamps, the green felt a vivid island in the dimmer light of this corner. Soren hands me a cue stick, his fingers lingering against mine during the transfer. The weight of it is foreign yet familiar, like a paintbrush from someone else's collection. He moves around the table with the fluid grace of someone in their element, arranging the colorful balls in their triangle prison, each click as they settle against each other oddly satisfying. His eyes flash amusement as he looks up at me, rolling the white cue ball between his palms like he's warming it to life.

"Rules are simple," he says, placing the cue ball on the table. "You're either stripes or solids, depending on what you sink first. Get all your balls in, then the eight ball. Sink the eight ball early or scratch on the eight, you lose automatically."

I nod, memories of college game rooms surfacing. "I remember the basics. Though it's been years since I've played."

Soren grins, chalk dust rising in a small blue cloud as he preps his cue. "Like riding a bike, I bet. Ladies first?" He gestures toward the table with a flourish that makes me smile despite my nervousness.

"You might regret that," I warn, though I'm not at all confident in my abilities. Positioning myself at the end of the table, I lean over, trying to remember the proper stance for breaking. The cue feels awkward in my hands, too long and unwieldy. I take an experimental stroke, missing the cue ball entirely on my first attempt.

Heat rises to my cheeks as Soren fails to suppress a chuckle. "Sorry," I mumble, readjusting my position.

"Here," he says, stepping closer. "May I?" He waits for my nod before moving behind me, his body a warm presence at my back. "Loosen your grip a bit," he instructs, his hands ghosting over mine to demonstrate. "You're not strangling a snake, you're guiding the cue."

His proximity sends my heart into a gallop, but I focus on his instructions, forcing my white-knuckled grip to relax. "Like this?"

"Better," he approves, his breath warm against my ear. "Now, keep your bridge hand steady—that's the one on the table—and use your back hand to control the force."

I try again, and this time the cue slides smoothly between my fingers, connecting with the white ball with a satisfying crack. The balls scatter across the table, bouncing off cushions, but none drop into the pockets.

"Not bad," Soren says, stepping back to give me space. "Nice and controlled. My turn now." He moves around the table, eyeing the layout with a strategist's gaze. "So," he continues casually as he lines up his shot, "tell me something I don't know about you, Lydia."

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