Page 29 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas
“Willa,” I said. “I work at Pine & Pages.”
“Oh, you’re the one Kit’s been talking about! She said you might be interested in joining our little group.”
“I’m not really artistic,” I said automatically, the lie coming easily after years of practice.
Margie raised an eyebrow. “Honey, if you’re breathing, you’re artistic. Some people just haven’t found their medium yet.” She gestured toward the room with her tea cup. “See that omega over there working on the landscape? She spent forty years convinced she couldn’t draw a straight line. Now look at her.”
I followed her gaze to where a middle-aged omega was working on what looked like a stunning watercolor of the mountain view from town. Her concentration was absolute, her movements confident and sure.
“What changed?” I asked, despite myself.
“She gave herself permission to be bad at it,” Margie said simply. “Turns out, once you stop worrying about being perfect, you can actually start enjoying the process.”
Permission to be bad at it. The concept was foreign to me. In Sterling’s world, everything I created had to meet his standards, serve his purposes, reflect well on his pack. There had been no room for experimentation or mistakes or the simple joy of making something just because I wanted to.
“What about you?” I asked Margie, nodding toward the canvas she’d been working on. “What’s your medium?”
“Abstract painting,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Drives my alpha husband crazy because he keeps trying to figure out whateverything ‘means.’ But that’s the beauty of it. Sometimes art doesn’t mean anything except ‘this felt good to create.’”
Art that felt good to create. The phrase hit me like a revelation. When was the last time I’d made something just because it brought me joy? When had I last held a camera because I loved the way light looked through a lens, not because someone else expected me to document their vision of perfection?
“Willa?” Kit appeared beside me, her voice gentle. “How are you doing? I know this can be overwhelming the first time.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly. “Everyone seems so… free.”
“That’s the point,” Kit said. “This is our space. No judgments, no expectations, no pressure to create anything for anyone else’s approval.” She paused, studying my face. “Elias told me you mentioned having some photography background?”
My chest tightened instantly. “I used to take pictures. A long time ago.”
“What kind of pictures did you take?”
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with more weight than Kit could possibly understand. What kind of pictures had I taken? The kinds that mattered. The kinds that documented species on the brink of extinction, habitat restoration projects that could save entire ecosystems, migration patterns that scientists needed to understand climate change impacts. The kinds that Sterling had convinced me were selfish indulgence instead of real contribution.
“Wildlife photography,” I said carefully. “Professional. I used to document endangered species, conservation efforts, research projects.”
Kit’s eyebrows rose with genuine interest. “That sounds incredible. And important.”
“It was,” I said, then caught myself. “I mean, I thought it was. I traveled all over, worked with research teams, spent monthsin remote locations capturing images that scientists could use to support protection efforts.”
“What happened to make you stop?”
The directness of her question surprised me, but there was no judgment in her voice, just curiosity and understanding.
“My ex-alpha decided my work was too unpredictable, too time-consuming,” I said quietly. “He wanted me to focus on more ‘practical’ photography. Pack portraits, corporate events, things that had guaranteed income and kept me close to home.”
“Pack portraits,” Kit repeated, and I could hear the distaste in her voice.
“Sterling had very specific ideas about what constitutedusefulomega creativity. He said wildlife photography was self-indulgent, that I was playing at being artistic instead of creating something that actually served our pack’s needs.”
Kit was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was warm with understanding. “My ex-alpha used to critique everything I made. Nothing was ever good enough, creative enough, useful enough. By the time I left him, I was afraid to so much as doodle in the margins of a book.”
“How did you get past it?” The question came out more desperate than I’d intended.
“Slowly,” Kit said. “And with help from people who understood that healing from creative suppression takes time.” She gestured around the room. “Places like this helped. People who celebrated process over product, who understood that sometimes you need to make terrible art for a while before you remember how to make beautiful art.”
“I brought a camera with me when I moved here,” I admitted quietly. “I haven’t touched it since I arrived.”
“But you brought it,” Kit pointed out. “That tells me part of you isn’t ready to give up on photography entirely.”
