Page 45 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas
“What if I freeze up when people ask me about my work? What if I can’t articulate why these images matter to me?”
“Then you trust that the photographs speak for themselves. And you remember that your artistic vision doesn’t require anyone else’s permission to be valuable.”
The concept was both reassuring and terrifying. Sterling had always insisted that art required extensive explanation, that viewers needed to be guided toward appropriate interpretation. But my wildlife conservation images told clear stories aboutresilience and hope and the importance of protecting vulnerable creatures.
“Will you be there tomorrow night?” I asked, surprised by how much his answer mattered to me.
“If you want me there.”
“I want you there.” The admission came easily, without the second-guessing that had characterized most of my decisions about alpha involvement. “I want all three of you there, actually. Wes and Rhett and you. Is that weird?”
“It’s honest,” Elias said simply. “And honesty about what you want is something to be celebrated, not apologized for.”
When was the last time someone had encouraged me to be direct about my desires rather than diplomatic about conflicting needs?
“I want your support tomorrow night,” I continued, testing the feeling of stating desires without justification.
“I am so proud of what you’ve accomplished. And I believe your work has value that goes far beyond tomorrow night’s reception.” His voice carried conviction that made something warm spread through my chest. “I believe you’re reclaiming something that was taken from you, and I believe you’re strong enough to handle whatever recognition comes with that.”
He believed in my strength. I didn’t think anyone had ever thought that about me before. Not fragile, not in need of protection from my own ambitions, but capable of handling success and criticism and public attention on my own terms.
The tea had gone lukewarm while we talked, but I didn’t want to break the intimacy of the conversation by mentioning practical concerns. This was the first time since Sterling that I’d felt completely comfortable discussing my artistic insecurities with someone who understood both the creative and emotional aspects of what I was experiencing.
“Can I tell you something that might sound selfish?” I asked.
“Nothing you say tonight is going to sound selfish.”
“I want tomorrow night to go well not just for the conservation center or the community recognition, but for me. I want to remember what it feels like to have people appreciate my work because it moved them or made them think differently about something important.” I paused, gathering courage for complete honesty. “I want to feel proud of what I create instead of apologetic about taking up space with artistic vision.”
“That doesn’t sound selfish. That sounds like artistic integrity.”
“Sterling would have said it was ego-driven. That real artists created for service to others, not personal satisfaction.”
“Sterling was wrong about a lot of things,” Elias said, his voice carrying an edge I rarely heard from him. “But he was especially wrong about what motivates authentic artistic work.”
The protective anger in his tone, the way he dismissed Sterling’s opinions without dismissing my need to process them, made me feel defended in ways I hadn’t experienced before. This wasn’t someone trying to convince me that my past hadn’t mattered, but someone acknowledging that my past had been wrong while supporting my present healing.
“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,” I admitted. “For you to decide that my artistic recovery is taking too long or requiring too much emotional labor or interfering with more practical concerns.”
“The only timeline that matters for your healing is the one that feels right to you.” Elias leaned forward, his attention completely focused on my words. “Your artistic recovery isn’t a project with deadlines or efficiency requirements. It’s a process that deserves patience and celebration at every stage.”
Patience and celebration. Not management or improvement, but recognition that healing happened in its own time and in its own way.
The amber lighting in his apothecary made everything feel warm and intimate, like we were existing in a space separate from the outside world’s expectations and pressures. His bourbon and cedar scent had intensified during our conversation, carrying notes that made my skin feel warmer, more sensitive to the atmosphere between us.
“Elias,” I said softly, testing his name in this new context.
“Yes?”
“I think I’m developing feelings that go beyond gratitude for your professional support.”
The admission hung between us, honest and vulnerable and terrifying. I watched his expression shift from careful attention to something warmer and more personal, like he’d been hoping I would say exactly that.
“I think I’ve been developing those same feelings since the first time you let me help with your suppressant adjustment,” he replied quietly. “Since you trusted me enough to be vulnerable about your wellness needs.”
Since I trusted him. Not since he’d proven himself worthy, but since I’d shown enough courage to accept assistance when I needed it.
“What does that mean for tomorrow night? For whatever this is becoming between us?”
