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There was a time when I would have told you I could never, ever love this alpha.
But right now? I think I really could.
Especially when he turns his dark eyes back on me, saying so many things without words.
This is personal, I realize.
A real, true piece of Smith. No polish or shine or pretense or power. This forlorn place, with its beautiful story of love that’s been lost to the tides of time—this is the sort of thing he carries around with him. Hidden under all his expensive suits. Inside his heart.
“Why did you bring me here?” I whisper, needing to hear him say it. “What did you want me to see?”
He releases another breath, glancing fondly at the charming little house. “That alpha? I hated him. And it took me months to figure out that I was jealous of this lonely, angry, old widower. Because he had a real partner. Someone he made decisions with. Like another half. And the more I planned to tear down everything they built together, the more I realized what I really wanted.
“It wasn’t the property or the money or any of that shit. It was his life. A pack. A partner. A mate.”
I remember wondering why a man like Smith had ever submitted an application to Forever Matched in the first place. He seemed so solitary—what would he want with an omega?
This.
He wanted a connection. A partner.
“You wanted me to see you,” I realize out loud, whispering.
He cups his hands around my face, strumming his thumb over my lower lip. “I wanted you to see me. And when I tried to think of a place that felt like me, this was it.”
I glance over at the house, feeling its magic soak into my center with every pull of salty ocean air. When I look back up at Smith, for the very first time, it isn’t hard to tell him the truth.
“I love it.”
chapter
fifty-three
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Our Uber driver is a beta guy a little younger than us. He glances up in the rearview mirror when he hears Cassian’s question and quickly looks away when he catches my packmate’s scowl.
I stare out at the bleak gray evening in whatever godforsaken corner of Minnesota we’re currently driving through. Or maybe it’s Michigan. Hard for me to remember when we’ve been on the road for nine days and all the hotel rooms look the same.
This is ironic. A few months ago, any interest in my well-being from Cassian would have been a welcome change of pace. Now, though, I don’t know if I want us to talk.
Nausea coils in my middle while I clutch a stack of unreadable paperwork in my left fist. Every time I try to look at it, the letters rearrange themselves into symbols I don’t recognize.
I don’t know what it says.
But I know what it means. And so does Cass. He read the damn thing—in ten seconds, of course—right over my shoulder, the same moment Coach sheepishly handed it to me.
I didn’t get much from the fight that came after that. Except that Cass is upset, and Coach feels shitty about what’s happening. Though not enough to stop it, apparently.
“Can’t believe this,” Cass mutters, letting his head bounce against the seat behind us before jamming his fingers into his hair.
It’s still sweaty. Neither of us showered after this last game because Coach approached me with these stupid papers as soon as we came off the ice.
He didn’t need to. When they pulled me out to put Gunnar in, sometime during the middle of the third period, I already knew what was happening.
The press has been on about it for months. I stupidly believed it was all clickbait bullshit. Maybe I should have paid closer attention. Or worked out harder. Or watched my penalties more.
Either way, the writing is on the wall here.
