Page 99 of Lavender and Honey

The knocking comes again, more urgent this time.

"Lydia, I can smell you. I know you're in there. Please, just let me know you're okay."

Of course he can smell me. Even through the door, my distress would be obvious to an Alpha's sensitive nose, especially one as attuned to me as Lucian has become. There's no hiding from him, not when my scent betrays every emotion I'm feeling. I mentally curse my decision to stop using blockers, even as a smaller, more honest part of me acknowledges that his ability to detect my distress is precisely what's brought him to my door.

"I'm here," I call back, my voice emerging as a croak, rough and unfamiliar after hours of crying and sleep. "I'm okay."

There's a pause, then his relieved exhale is audible even through the door. "Can I come in? Please?"

I glance down at myself, taking inventory of my disheveled state. My sweater is wrinkled beyond salvation, my hair a tangled mess around my shoulders. My eyes feel swollen, and I'm certain my nose is red and irritated from hours of crying. The thought of Lucian—composed, dignified Lucian—seeing me this way sends a fresh wave of shame washing over me. But the alternative is sending him away, back to the others with news that while I'm physically okay, I refused to let him in, refused to explain my sudden disappearance. The worry that would causethem—Elias especially, with his tender heart—might be worse than letting Lucian see me at my lowest.

And a small, treacherous part of me yearns for comfort, for the solid reassurance of his presence, for the chance to unburden myself of the weight my mother's visit has placed on my shoulders.

I stand on shaky legs, smoothing my hands over my wrinkled clothes in a futile attempt to look somewhat presentable. My reflection in the decorative mirror near the door confirms my worst fears—I look exactly like someone who cried herself to sleep after an emotional confrontation. My eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, my cheeks blotchy, my hair a wild tangle that hasn't seen a brush since early this morning.

For a moment, I consider asking for a few minutes to make myself presentable. But what would be the point? Lucian would still smell the lingering scent of my distress, would still know I've been crying. Maybe it's time to stop hiding, to let someone see me as I truly am—messy emotions and all. With a resigned sigh, I move toward the door, each step feeling like a decision, a choice to be vulnerable rather than isolated. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the lock, the metal cool against my fingertips as I turn it. The deadbolt slides back with a decisive click that seems to echo in the quiet apartment.

I take a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for Lucian's reaction, then slowly pull the door open to face whatever comes next.

Chapter Sixty

The door swings open, and Lucian's expression transforms from worry to something fiercer, more primal, as he takes in my tear-swollen face and disheveled appearance. His eyes, usually cool and controlled, flash with an emotion that makes my heart stutter against my ribs. He looks like he wants to hunt down whatever has hurt me and tear it to pieces with his bare hands. His scent shifts, the usual amber notes sharpening with protective rage, and I take an instinctive step back, overwhelmed by the intensity radiating from him in almost visible waves.

"Lydia," he says, my name rough around the edges of his controlled voice. "What happened?"

The simple question, laden with genuine concern, threatens to undo me completely. I open my mouth to answer, but no words emerge, just a broken sound that might have been the beginning of an explanation or another sob—I'm not sure which. Lucian doesn't wait for me to find my voice. He steps across thethreshold, closing the door behind him with one hand while the other reaches for me, hesitating just short of contact.

"May I?" he asks, and there's something devastating about this powerful Alpha pausing to seek permission when every line of his body screams of the need to protect, to act. I nod, not trusting my voice, and that's all the invitation he needs. His hand lands gently on my shoulder, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of my sweater. The simple touch breaks something loose inside me, and I sway on my feet, exhaustion and emotion conspiring to rob me of balance.

Lucian's arm slides around my shoulders, steadying me. "You look ready to collapse," he murmurs, his voice pitched low and soothing despite the tension evident in the set of his jaw. "Let's sit down."

He guides me back to the couch, his movements carefully measured as if he's handling something impossibly fragile. Perhaps I am. I feel hollowed out, scraped raw by my mother's visit and the doubts it's awakened. The blanket I'd been wrapped in earlier lies in a crumpled heap on the cushions. Lucian reaches for it, unfolding it with a snap of his wrist before settling me onto the couch and tucking it around my legs. The careful attention, the gentle way he treats me without a hint of condescension, cracks open the dam I'd tried to build after hours of crying. Fresh tears well in my already swollen eyes, spilling over before I can stop them. I cover my face with my hands, embarrassed to be falling apart again, especially in front of Lucian, who always seems so composed, so in control.

"I'm sorry," I manage between hitched breaths. "I don't usually—I'm not normally—"

"Shh," Lucian interrupts, his weight settling beside me on the couch. "You have nothing to apologize for." His arm slides around my shoulders again, and the solid warmth of him beside me is both an anchor and a permission—to let go, tobe vulnerable, to accept comfort rather than struggling alone. I find myself leaning into him, my head dropping to rest against his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath my ear, a rhythmic counterpoint to my ragged breathing.

"Whatever this is," he says, his voice a low rumble I can feel as much as hear, "we'll face it together. You're not alone anymore, Lydia."

The simple truth of his words—I'm not alone—unleashes the tears I've been trying to hold back. They come in a torrent, soaking into the fabric of his shirt as I clutch at him, seeking an anchor in the storm of my emotions. I should be mortified, crying all over this composed, dignified Alpha. But Lucian doesn't seem to mind. His arms tighten around me, one large hand coming up to cradle the back of my head, fingers tangling gently in my disheveled hair.

"That's it," he murmurs, his breath warm against the crown of my head. "Let it out. I've got you." A sound emerges from his chest, starting so low I feel it before I hear it—a rumbling growl that isn't threatening but protective, soothing. It's an Alpha's instinctive response to an Omega in distress, a sound designed by nature to comfort, to reassure. The vibration of it resonates through me, and I find my breathing beginning to synchronize with its steady rhythm.

We sit like that for what could be minutes or hours, my tears gradually subsiding as Lucian's growl continues, a constant reassurance that I'm safe, that I'm protected. His hand moves in slow circles on my back, each pass a gentle affirmation of his presence.

"My mother found me," I whisper finally, the words muffled against his chest.

His hand stills for a fraction of a second before resuming its soothing pattern. "When?" he asks, his voice careful, controlled.

"This morning. At the shop." I swallow hard, the memory still raw. "She wants me to go back. To mate with the Alpha they arranged for me before I left."

The growl deepens, taking on a harder edge that speaks of territoriality, of possessiveness. Lucian's arm tightens around me fractionally, and when he speaks, there's a dangerous undertone to his words that would frighten me if I didn't know it wasn't directed at me.

"And what do you want, Lydia?"

The question catches me off guard. So simple, so direct, yet no one in my family had ever bothered to ask it. What do I want? Not what's expected of me, not what's proper for an Omega of my background, not what would benefit the family's standing. Just... what I want.

"I don't want to go back," I say, the words emerging stronger than I expected. "I don't want to be mated to an Alpha who sees me as breeding stock. I don't want to be hidden away in some traditional pack where my art is just a quaint hobby to be tolerated."

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