Page 150 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

I liked her so much.

“This is Sienna,” I said.

Presley looked at Sienna and smiled. “Bodyguard?”

“Yes,” Sienna said.

“Brilliant. Do you like tea?”

Sienna blinked.

Presley stepped aside. “I’m northern, love. Security is important, but nobody does it properly without tea.”

Sienna looked at me.

I shrugged. “She’s your problem now.”

Presley beamed. “Excellent. I love being a problem.”

Inside, the house smelled like polish, flowers, coffee, and children who had recently been eating something sticky. Somewhere upstairs, a small person shrieked with laughter. Another small person shouted in German. A woman answered in the same language, brisk and affectionate.

Presley glanced toward the ceiling. “Fritz’s mother. She’s staying for a week and has decided my children are underfed, under-layered, and culturally deprived because they can’t all make strudel from memory.”

“Can they?”

“One of them tried to put raisins in a toy train yesterday, so we have ground to cover.”

I laughed.

Presley led me through the house and out into the garden. It wasn’t enormous by country standards, but for London it felt like a miracle. Box hedges framed a path that led to a small cottage tucked at the back of the garden, painted soft peach with cream trim and a tiny porch.

I stopped. “That’s offensively charming.”

Presley looked at it and smiled. “My pack built it for me when we first met. I’ve just had it repainted.”

“Your pack built you a cottage?”

“Well, technically they paid people with better skills and more tools to build it, but the sentiment remains.”

“That’s very...” I searched for the right word.

“Overwhelming?”

“I was going to say, suspicious, like when you receive flowers for no reason at all.”

Presley laughed, bright and unembarrassed. “Oh, it was absolutely suspicious. Three rich alphas building an omega a tiny cottage in the garden? I was convinced I’d wandered into either a fairy tale, a business write-off, or an elaborate plan to hide me.”

“Which was it?”

“All, probably.”

The cottage door opened into one warm room with a small sofa, a writing desk, bookshelves, a kettle, blankets, and a window seat overlooking the garden. It wasn’t a child’s playhouse. It wasn’t decorative.

It was a place made for a woman to belong to herself.

My throat tightened before I could stop it.

Presley noticed, because of course she did.