Page 92 of Lavender and Honey

"Lydia," she says, my name falling from her lips like something distasteful she must expel. "So this is where you've been hiding."

The sound of her voice—cool, controlled, with that undercurrent of judgment I know so well—breaks the spell of shock that had gripped me. My phone buzzes on the counter, another message from the group chat. A stark reminder of the life I've built, the connections I've forged, so different from the cold constraints of my childhood home.

"Mother," I manage, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "What are you doing here?" Her eyes sweep over my shop, taking in the displays of paints and canvases, the artwork on the walls, the creative disorder that speaks of a life lived on my own terms.Her lip curls slightly, that familiar expression of disapproval that once had the power to devastate me.

"Really, Lydia," she says, ignoring my question as she steps further into the shop. "Of all the places you could have run to, you chose this... quaint little town? To sell paint to hobbyists and waste your breeding on common customers?"

My phone buzzes again, insistent, but I can't look away from the woman who gave me life and then tried to dictate every aspect of it. The woman I thought—hoped—I'd never see again.

"What are you doing here?" I repeat, my voice stronger this time, though my heart pounds so hard I'm certain she must hear it.

She sighs, the sound perfected over years to convey maximum disappointment with minimal effort. "We need to talk, Lydia. About your future. About the mistakes you've made." She glances pointedly at my neck, where no scent blocker masks my natural lavender fragrance. "About the ones you continue to make."

The bell above the door seems to echo in my mind, a warning chime that came too late. My past has found me, walked right into the life I've carefully constructed, threatening to tear down everything I've built.

Everything I've come to love.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Ilooked at the woman who was my mother, looking me over, eyes flashing with disgust and another unknown emotion. I tighten my grip on the counter, knuckles whitening with the effort to remain composed.

"How did you find me?" I ask, the question emerging more breathless than I intend.

My mother's perfectly arched eyebrow rises a fraction. "Did you really think we wouldn't? Your father has connections, Lydia. It was simply a matter of time."

A matter of time. As if my discovery was inevitable, my independence merely a temporary inconvenience to be corrected. The thought sends a chill down my spine despite the warm morning sun filtering through the windows.

"I made my position clear." I say, though I know it's not what she wants to hear.

"Yes, your little... tantrum."She waves a dismissive hand, the diamond on her ring finger catching the light. "Very dramatic. Very unnecessary."

Tantrum. The word reduces my desperate bid for freedom, for self-determination, to a child's petulance. It's so perfectly, infuriatingly like her that I almost laugh, the sound trapped somewhere in my chest beside my frantically beating heart.

"I'm not coming back," I say, the words emerging with surprising firmness. "I have a life here now."

"A life?" She glances around my shop again, her gaze lingering on a display of watercolors with unveiled contempt. "You call this a life? Playing shopkeeper in some backwater town? Really, Lydia, I raised you for better things than this."

No, I think but don't say. You raised me to be a bargaining chip. A valuable Omega to be traded for pack alliances and social advancement. But the words stick in my throat, held back by years of conditioning to keep such thoughts to myself. She moves further into the shop, her heels clicking against the wooden floor with metronomic precision. Each step feels like an invasion, a desecration of the sanctuary I've built for myself. She picks up a paintbrush, holding it between her fingers like something faintly distasteful.

"You know," she says, setting the brush down with exaggerated care, "I almost admire your commitment to this... rebellion. But it's gone on long enough."

"It's not a rebellion," I say quietly. "It's my life. The one I chose."

She laughs, a sharp, brittle sound entirely devoid of humor. "Oh, Lydia. Such dramatic declarations. You always did have a flair for the theatrical, despite our best efforts to cure you of it."

My fingers itch to grab my phone, to call... who? Avery is hours away. And the others—Elias, Lucian, Finn, Soren—they don'tknow everything. I had told them small bits and pieces…and they don’t deserve to have drama like this in their lives.

"Why now?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady. "It's been a year. Why come looking for me now?"

My mother's expression shifts, a subtle tightening around her eyes that I recognize as calculation. She's deciding how much to reveal, how to frame whatever she's about to say for maximum impact.

"The Greene pack has been very patient," she says finally, watching me closely for my reaction. "Very understanding about your... temporary lapse in judgment. They're still interested in formalizing the alliance."

The Greene pack. The name hits me like a physical blow, conjuring memories of a sitting room filled with oppressive silence, of cold eyes appraising me like livestock at auction, of a hand reaching for me with proprietorial confidence. I'd sooner die than go back to that.

"Not interested," I say, the words clipped and final.

"Don't be hasty, Lydia." My mother's tone shifts to something almost reasonable, which immediately puts me on guard. "Alpha Greene has been remarkably forgiving. Most Alphas would take your rejection as a personal insult, but he sees it as... spiritedness. A challenge, rather than a dealbreaker."

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