Page 76 of Lavender and Honey

As closing time approaches, I carefully move the bouquet to a spot where it will catch the morning light tomorrow, my fingers lingering on the soft petals. Despite all my careful planning, all my deliberate isolation, these four men have somehow slipped past my defenses, each in their own way—Elias with his warmth and patience, Lucian with his quiet strength, Finn with his steady presence, and Soren with his infectious joy.

Monday looms before me, not with the dread I might have expected, but with a fluttering anticipation that feels dangerously like hope. As I lock up the shop and head home, I find myself looking up as Finn suggested, at the stars just beginning to emerge in the darkening sky. Each one a distant point of light, separate but together forming patterns and constellations that have guided travelers for millennia.

Perhaps that's what's happening here, I think. Not four separate men entering my life, but a constellation forming, each point of light creating something more meaningful together than they could apart. And somehow, surprisingly, there seems to be a place for me within that pattern—not erasing who I am, butadding my light to theirs. The thought should terrify me. A year ago, it would have. But tonight, walking beneath the emerging stars with the memory of wildflowers lingering in my mind, it simply feels like coming home.

Chapter Forty-Six

The small bottle of scent blocker sits on my bathroom counter like a sentinel, its familiar shape a reminder of the walls I've built around myself. I pick it up, feel its weight in my palm—heavier than its physical mass suggests—then set it back down, unopened. My reflection stares back at me, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination I barely recognize. Today, for the first time in over a year, I'm choosing to go without my armor.

My fingers hover over the bottle, muscle memory urging me to complete my daily ritual. Apply to pulse points, wait thirty seconds, repeat if necessary. A routine as ingrained as brushing my teeth or locking my door at night. Safety in repetition. Safety in invisibility.

But today is different.

I take a deep breath, watching my chest rise and fall. My lavender scent already fills the small bathroom, sweet and unmistakably Omega. I've grown so used to muting it thatsmelling myself this strongly feels like an intrusion, as if a stranger has entered my private space. But it's just me. Just the person I've been hiding all this time.

"You can do this," I whisper to my reflection. My hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, freshly washed and dried. I'm already dressed in a deep purple sweater that brings out the blue in my eyes and my favorite jeans—casual but carefully chosen. Everything is ready except for this final step, the one I always take without thinking.

Except today. Avery's voice echoes in my head, a phone conversation from yesterday still fresh in my mind.

"You're really considering it?" she had asked, surprise evident even through the phone line.

"I am," I'd admitted, the words themselves a small victory. "They've seen me at my most guarded, and they still want to know me. Maybe... maybe it's time to let them see a little more."

"I'm proud of you, Lydia," she'd said after a moment of stunned silence. "That's a big step."

Big step. The phrase hardly captures the chasm I'm preparing to leap across. Going without blockers means being truly seen, truly smelled. It means announcing my Omega status to anyone who comes near me. It means vulnerability.

I run my hands through my hair, letting my fingers linger on the tender spot where my scent gland pulses beneath the skin. For so long, I've covered it with chemicals, hiding not just from others but from myself. The doctors warned me that extended use could cause the irritation I've experienced, but the trade-off seemed worth it. Better a red, angry neck than exposing myself to the risk of unwanted attention.

But these men—my men?—have never made me feel at risk. If anything, they've shown me what safety can feel like when it doesn't come at the cost of isolation. I turn away from the mirror, leaving the scent blocker untouched on the counter. Myheart hammers against my ribs, a frantic percussion of fear and exhilaration. I wonder if this is how freed prisoners feel, stepping outside their cells for the first time—grateful for the open air but terrified by the vastness of possibility.

In my bedroom, I slip on my boots and grab my purse, checking its contents out of habit. Keys, wallet, phone. I hesitate, then reach into the bedside drawer and pull out a small vial of scent blocker. Just in case. I tuck it into the inner pocket of my purse, a safety net I hope not to use.

The drive to their house is a blur of overthinking. My hands grip the steering wheel too tightly, knuckles white against the black leather. Every few minutes, I catch myself holding my breath, as if I could somehow contain my scent within my lungs. Ridiculous, of course. By now, my lavender essence permeates the car, stronger than it's been in public since I moved to Haven's Rest.

I force myself to breathe, to focus on the road ahead rather than the circular path of my anxieties. The houses grow farther apart as I drive toward the outskirts of town where their pack home sits. It's a beautiful property, I've discovered on previous visits—a sprawling farmhouse with plenty of land around it, giving them both community and privacy.

As I turn onto their long driveway, gravel crunching beneath my tires, I consider turning back. One quick stop at a gas station bathroom, a hasty application of the blocker in my purse, and they would never know my intention. I could claim I forgot, or that I wasn't ready. They would understand. They always do. But understanding isn't what I want tonight. I want courage. I want connection. I want, for once, to be fully present in my own skin.

I park beside Finn's truck and cut the engine, sitting in silence for a moment as I gather my resolve. The house glows with warm light, and through the kitchen window, I can see movement—someone cooking, probably Elias. The sight calms me slightly.This is not some formal event; it's just dinner with people who care about me.

People who care about me. The thought still carries a hint of disbelief, but less than it once did.I step out of the car, the cool evening air kissing my heated cheeks. My scent billows around me, carried on the breeze—a silent announcement of my arrival that precedes my footsteps on the porch. I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate, my fist suspended in midair. Last chance to retreat.

But before I can decide, the door swings open.

Lucian stands in the doorway, tall and imposing yet somehow not threatening. For a split second, he looks as he always does—composed, steady, a hint of warmth in his steel-gray eyes. Then he inhales.The change is subtle but unmistakable. His pupils dilate slightly, his nostrils flare, and his posture shifts from casual to alert. I watch his throat bob as he swallows, his eyes never leaving mine. Time stretches between us, elastic and charged.

"Lydia," he says finally, my name carried on a breath that sounds almost like relief. A smile breaks across his face, soft and genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that makes my heart flutter. "You're here."

It's not what he says but what he doesn't say that tells me he's noticed. There's no mention of my scent, no acknowledgment of what must be obvious to him. Just a warm welcome, as if I've given him a precious gift he doesn't want to risk by drawing attention to it.

I realize I've been holding my breath and let it out slowly. "I'm here," I confirm, the simple statement carrying layers of meaning.

Lucian extends his hand, an invitation rather than a demand. "Come in," he says, his voice lower than usual, a rich timbre that wraps around me like velvet. "Everyone's waiting."I place myhand in his, a small act of trust that somehow feels momentous. His fingers close around mine, warm and steady, and I step over the threshold, leaving the safety of maybe behind.

Lucian's hand is warm around mine as he guides me into the entryway, his touch light but grounding. The door closes behind us with a soft click that feels somehow final, sealing me inside this space where my scent—my true self—is now free to mingle with theirs. The house smells of them, of pack, a complex harmony of their individual notes that speaks of shared lives and intimate connections. I breathe it in, letting it settle in my lungs alongside my own lavender essence that now joins the symphony.

"You look beautiful today," Lucian says, his voice pitched low as if sharing a secret. His eyes, intense even in the soft lighting of the hallway, sweep over me appreciatively. "That color suits you."

---