Page 98 of Lavender and Honey

My consciousness ebbs and flows like a tide, pulling me under into fitful sleep before pushing me back to the surface of awareness. Each time I drift toward wakefulness, the memory of my mother's words washes over me anew, and I curl tighter into myself on the couch, willing oblivion to claim me again. My eyes feel swollen and gritty, my throat raw from crying. The afternoon light filtering through my blinds shifts and dims as hours pass unheeded, marking time in shadows that creep across my floor while I remain suspended in a limbo between sleeping and waking, between past and present, between the Omega I was raised to be and the woman I'm trying to become.

My phone buzzes again somewhere near my hip, the vibration muffled by the blanket I've pulled over myself. I fumble for it with leaden fingers, squinting at the screen through puffy eyes. The group chat has exploded with messages, their concernevolving into something more urgent as the hours have passed with no word from me.

Lucian: It's been three hours. This isn't like her.

Elias: Maybe her phone died?

Soren: Or maybe she's just busy? But she usually says if she can't talk...

Finn: I drove by the shop. It's closed. Her car isn't there.

Lucian: I'm going to her apartment. This doesn't feel right.

A dull ache spreads through my chest at their worry, at the care evident in their messages. But I can't face them now, can't explain why I've disappeared, can't risk them agreeing with my mother that I've been foolish to think I could build a life on my own terms. With fumbling fingers, I silence the phone and toss it to the other end of the couch, turning my face into the cushions to block out the fading daylight.

Sleep reclaims me, deeper this time, dragging me down into disjointed dreams where my mother's cold voice mingles with memories that twist and distort as my subconscious works to process the day's events. In my dream, I'm back in my parents' formal sitting room, the one reserved for important visitors and pack negotiations.

The furniture is arranged with mathematical precision, each piece chosen for status rather than comfort. Alpha Greene sits in my father's chair, his bulky frame seeming to expand until it fills the entire room. His face shifts between human features and something more wolflike, his teeth too sharp when he smiles.

"She'll make excellent pups," he says to my father, though his eyes—cold and assessing—remain fixed on me. "Strong bloodlines on both sides."

I try to speak, to object, but no sound emerges. I'm wearing a dress I recognize from my childhood—pale blue with a white collar, designed to emphasize my delicate Omega frame while hiding any hint of developing curves. The fabric constricts around me like a straightjacket, tightening with each breath until I can barely inhale.

"She's always been a bit headstrong," my mother's voice floats from somewhere behind me, though I can't turn my head to see her. "But nothing a proper Alpha can't manage."

Alpha Greene's grin widens, his teeth gleaming unnaturally white. "I enjoy a challenge."

The scene shifts, dissolves, reforms. I'm in my art store, but the walls are closing in, the shelves emptying of their colorful supplies until only blank canvases remain, their emptiness an accusation. My mother stands by the door, her expression triumphant.

"See?" she says, gesturing to the barren shelves. "It was never real. Just a child's fantasy."

The bell above the door jingles, and Elias walks in, his warm scent preceding him like a promise. Relief floods me—he'll understand, he'll defend my choices, he'll show my mother that this life I've built has value. But when he sees her, he stops, his expression uncertain.

"Mrs. Silvercrest," he says, offering a formal bow of his head. "I didn't realize you were in town."

My mother's smile is thin and satisfied. "Just collecting my daughter. It's time she returned to her proper place."

I try to protest, to tell Elias not to listen to her, but my voice has vanished again. I reach for him, but the distance between us stretches impossibly, as if he's being pulled away by some invisible force.

"Perhaps you're right," Elias says, but his voice has changed, deepened, become Lucian's. "An Omega needs proper pack protection."

"No!" I finally manage to scream, the word tearing from my throat. "That's not true! I don't need—"

The sound of knocking integrates itself into my dream, becoming the pounding of my heart, the rhythm of my mother's heels on hardwood, the insistent drumbeat of social expectations. It grows louder, more distinct, until it begins to pull me from the clutches of the nightmare.

I surface slowly, disorientation clouding my mind as dream images reluctantly release their hold. The knocking continues, sharp and insistent, coming from the direction of my apartment door. For a moment, I think it might be my mother, come to continue our confrontation, and panic seizes me, freezing me in place on the couch.

Then I hear a voice calling my name, deep and resonant with concern.

"Lydia? Are you in there? Lydia!"

Lucian. Not my mother. The realization loosens the vise around my lungs, allowing me to draw a proper breath for what feels like the first time in hours. But with the relief comes a fresh wave of anxiety. What is he doing here? How can I possibly explain the state I'm in?

I push myself up to sitting, wincing as my stiff muscles protest the movement. My head throbs dully, punishment for hours of crying. The blanket falls away from my shoulders, revealing my rumpled clothes, the same ones I wore to the shop this morning—a lifetime ago, it seems. My hands rise automatically to my face, fingers tracing the puffy contours around my eyes, the dried salt tracks on my cheeks. I must look a wreck.

"Lydia?" Lucian calls again, his voice edged with something that might be fear. "If you're in there, please answer me. We're all worried about you."

The genuine concern in his voice tugs at something deep in my chest, a yearning for comfort that wars with my instinct to hide, to protect myself from further vulnerability. What will he think when he sees me like this? Will his opinion of me change? Will he agree with my mother that I need the protection of a traditional pack?

---