Page 33 of The Honor of Being Hers
Ryan exhaled, slow and deep.“We gave her a reason to open up.We didn’t give her the security to know what would happen if someone weaponized her very nature against her.”
Tyler let that sit between them.
The pack wasn’t broken, but it was unbalanced.And if they wanted her to come back, truly come back, they couldn’t just offer her comfort.They had to offer her control over what happened next.
“I’ll speak to Rachel,” Tyler said, stepping back.“See if she’s been in contact.”
Ryan nodded once.
“She’s going to think she has to figure it out alone,” he said.“That’s the problem.”
“And we’re going to show her she doesn’t.”
17
The grove behind the west wing was too quiet.Ancient oak trees filtered the harsh afternoon light, casting dappled shadows across moss-covered ground that smelled of earth and decay.The stone bench was cold beneath her thighs, the dampness seeping through her jeans, but she welcomed the discomfort.Lauren sat low on the weathered granite, one knee drawn up, her fingers absently worrying the seam of her cashmere sleeve.The stitching was rough under her fingernail, and she picked at it methodically, needing something small to control when everything else felt impossibly large.
The stone was cold beneath her, keeping her in the present in a way that almost worked.Almost.
She’d turned her phone off an hour ago.Although it might have been longer.Time wasn’t moving properly.
The words from the leaked file had stopped replaying in front of her in perfect order, but they hadn’t left her.They floated just under her skin, fragments that burned when they brushed the surface.Unscheduled.Incomplete bond.Her identifiers.Her heat.Her body, dissected and diagrammed like a policy risk.
No one had called it abuse.No one had to.That wasn’t how institutional violence worked.It was always cleaner on paper.
Footsteps broke the silence.
Soft ones.No boots.No heavy stride.Lauren didn’t look up, not at first.Not until a familiar voice cut through the fog like a hand to the back of her neck.
“There you are.”
She blinked.
Justin.
Even in crisis, he looked impeccably put together—his dark hair perfectly styled, those sharp cheekbones she’d always envied catching the filtered sunlight.However, there was something softer in his usually fierce expression, a gentleness that spoke of shared understanding.
He wasn’t in a hurry.He didn’t seem angry or breathless or rattled.He wore a long, tan coat over dark jeans, the collar turned up against the cold, and he carried a thermal mug in one hand, as if this was just another campus coffee run.Steam curled from the lid, carrying the scent of cinnamon and something warm that made her throat tighten unexpectedly.
When he reached her, he didn’t sit right away.He just stood there, looking at her, his face unreadable in the way it got when he was working too hard not to make something worse.
“Rachel told me where you were,” he said, quietly now.“Or I wouldn’t have found you.You do know how to disappear when you want to.”
Lauren lowered her gaze.
Justin stepped closer, then sank onto the edge of the bench, his hip brushing her knee.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“They used my records,” she said finally.Her voice cracked once, but she didn’t stop.“My cycle data.Suppressants.All of it.They put it on an internal board for policy review.”
Justin didn’t move.
“They didn’t even redact it,” she whispered.“Didn’t blur out my initials.Just… presented it.Like I was a case study.”
She was shaking again.
Justin reached over and wrapped one hand around hers.Warm fingers with manicured nails, steady pressure that grounded her.His skin was soft from the expensive hand cream he always used—bergamot and vanilla—but his grip was firm, honest, anchoring her to something outside the spiral in her head.
