Page 71 of Lavender and Honey

The question catches me off guard. "Like what?"

He shrugs, the motion fluid and natural. "Anything. What's your favorite time of day? Do you talk to yourself when you paint? Secret talent for yodeling?"

I laugh at the last suggestion, the sound echoing in our little corner. "No yodeling, I'm afraid. Though I might clear a room if I tried."

Soren grins, then takes his shot, sinking a solid red ball into the corner pocket with practiced ease. "Solids it is," he declares, moving around the table for his next attempt. "So? What's something real?"

I watch him line up another shot, admiring the confident set of his shoulders, the focused intensity in his eyes as he calculates angles and force. "I do talk to myself when I paint," I admit softly. "Full conversations sometimes, as if the canvas can hear me."

Soren's eyes flick up to mine, something warm kindling in their purple depths. "I knew it," he says with satisfaction, then takes his shot, sinking another solid with ease. "What do you talk about?"

I shift, uncomfortable but somehow willing to share. "Everything. Nothing. Sometimes I explain my color choices to an imaginary critic. Other times I just... narrate what I'm feeling as I work."

Soren nods as if this makes perfect sense, circling the table for his third shot. "Art as therapy. I get that." This time, he misses, the cue ball glancing off his target and sending it spinning harmlessly against the cushion. "Your turn, Lavender girl."

I approach the table, studying the layout with fresh eyes. There's a striped ball positioned nicely near a pocket, and I carefully line up my shot. "What about you?" I ask, glancing up at him. "Any quirky habits I should know about?"

Soren leans against his cue, watching me with that intensely focused gaze that makes my skin tingle. "I sing in the shower," he offers. "Loudly and badly, much to the pack's dismay."

The image makes me smile as I take my shot, satisfaction blooming when the striped ball rolls smoothly into the pocket. "Stripes for me," I announce, a hint of triumph in my voice. "What do you sing?"

"Whatever's stuck in my head. Last week it was nothing but Taylor Swift. Lucian threatened to remove the hot water heater." He delivers this with such deadpan seriousness that I burst out laughing, nearly missing my next shot.

The ball still drops, however, and I move around the table with growing confidence. "So you're the troublemaker of the pack," I observe, lining up my third attempt. "Somehow I'm not surprised."

Soren places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "I prefer 'spirited' or 'free-thinking.' Troublemaker has such negative connotations."

My third shot misses, the cue ball skirting just past my target. "Your turn,'spirited'one."

Soren approaches the table with a predatory grace that's fascinating to watch. "Actually," he says, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful as he lines up his shot, "every pack needs someone who pushes boundaries. Questions things." The ball drops into the pocket with a satisfying thunk. "Otherwise, you end up with stagnation. Blind obedience."

There's something in his voice—a subtle undercurrent of old pain, perhaps, or firmly held conviction—that makes me suspect he's speaking from experience. "Is that how your pack works? Everyone having a different role to play?"

Soren nods, his focus seemingly on the game, though I can tell he's choosing his words carefully. "Balance," he says, sinking another ball. "Lucian leads, but he listens. He needs to. Each ofus brings something different to the table." He misses his next shot, straightening up with a slight frown. "Finn is our steady rock. Elias nurtures. I..." he hesitates, a shadow of something vulnerable crossing his features. "I challenge. I question. I make sure we don't get too comfortable in our ways."

The admission feels weighted, significant. "That can't be easy," I observe softly, stepping up for my turn. "Playing devil's advocate in your own home."

"It's not always fun," Soren agrees, watching as I sink a striped ball with more skill than I expected to have. "But it's necessary. Especially for a pack like ours."

"What do you mean, 'a pack like yours'?" I ask, genuinely curious. From what little I know, their dynamics seem unusual—three Alphas and an Omega, all equals in a world where such equality is rare.

Soren's expression turns thoughtful. "We're not traditional," he says, stating the obvious with a wry smile. "We don't follow the old rules about who can be with whom, or who leads based solely on designation. We built something different."

I miss my next shot, the cue ball rolling harmlessly past my target. "That sounds... challenging," I say, thinking of my own family's rigid adherence to tradition.

"It was. Still is sometimes." Soren takes his turn, his movements precise and controlled. "But worth it. We all found each other at different times, for different reasons. But the common thread was wanting something more than what conventional pack life offered." He sinks another ball, leaving him with just two solids and the eight ball. "What about you? Before you left your family's pack. What was that like?"

The question lands like a stone in still water, ripples of memory spreading outward. My fingers tighten around the cue. "Restrictive," I say finally, the word bitter on my tongue. "Every aspect of my life was planned according to what was'appropriate' for an Omega. My art was tolerated as a hobby, nothing more. And when I refused an arranged mating..." I trail off, the old hurt still raw despite the time that's passed.

Soren's eyes darken with understanding. "They gave you an ultimatum," he guesses, his voice soft but edged with something harder, protective even.

I nod, unable to meet his gaze. "The pack or my freedom. Not much of a choice, really."

"And yet, many would have chosen differently," Soren observes, no judgment in his tone, only a quiet respect that warms me from within. "It takes courage to walk away from everything you know."

I look up, caught by the intensity in his gaze. "It didn't feel like courage at the time," I admit. "It felt like survival."

"Sometimes they're the same thing," he says simply, then takes his shot, missing perhaps deliberately, though I can't be sure. "Your turn, Lavender girl."

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