It’s been two weeks since we left the pack—two weeks since my father left this world.
I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, staring out at the city lights scattered like jewels across the dark. They glitter and pulse, alive in a way the quiet, snow-blanketed nights of White Stone never were.
I’m definitely not in White Stone anymore.
There’s a beauty to this place. A different kind of beauty—restless, untamed, electric. I can see why he loved it here.
This is Cameron’s high-rise, all the way up in the clouds. The drop below makes my stomach sway, and my wolf paces inside me, tail low and uneasy. But I’ve learned to stand here without flinching.
It’s strange—grief feels like that too. The first time it knocks you off your feet, you can’t breathe. But if you stay long enough, you find a way to stand again.
Still... the ache hasn’t left. It just waits, curling in my ribs.
The view is not the only one wonderful thing about this place, the penthouse is ridiculous in its perfection—sleek furniture, warm lighting, ceilings so high it feels like the air is different up here. My cabin back home feels like a child’s treehouse in comparison. And the kitchen... gods. Marble counters, polished steel, enough room to cook a feast for an entire pack.
"How much longer are you going to stand there staring?"
Ronan’s voice cuts in from the living room, dry and amused.
I roll my eyes and step back from the window, making my way toward him. Sure enough, he’s draped across the couch like he was born there, scrolling through his phone without a care in the world.
I think back to what he’d said to Cameron when we first arrived:
"What’s yours is hers, hers is yours, and Lenora and I are a package deal. So congratulations, Mr. Anderson—you’ve got two more mouths to feed."
To my shock, Cameron had only shrugged, handed him a card, and walked away. Naturally, Ronan’s first move was to march into a dealership and buy himself the newest-model truck he could find, loaded with custom modifications.
"Aren’t you comfortable?" I ask, heading toward the kitchen.
He grins without looking up. "Why aren’t you comfortable? This, my dear, is your mate’s home. Which makes it your home. And your home..." He sinks deeper into the couch, stretching like a cat. "...is my home."
"I guess I’m still getting accustomed to the change in environment," I admit, stepping into the kitchen.
Damn, this place is a beauty. Smooth marble counters, a fridge that could feed a small village, an oven that gleams like it came straight from a showroom. From the spotless surfaces and perfect arrangement, I can tell it’s never been used before I arrived—so yes, I’m the one who broke it in.
Cameron will be home in three hours. Plenty of time.
I start prepping dinner, working on instinct. Two whole chickens—seasoned generously, because subtlety is wasted on a wolf’s appetite—go into the glorious oven to slow-cook. The low heat will make the skin golden and crisp, the meat fall-off-the-bone tender.
By the time the first wave of savory scent begins to curl through the air, something in my chest loosens—like the city is finally letting me breathe.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and head to the master bedroom. It still smells faintly of him—clean soap, cedar, and that warm, grounding scent that makes my wolf relax instantly.
I trade Cameron’s shirt for something else. Something mine. Well, technically, something he bought for me. He didn’t have to fill the closet with new clothes, but he did, and I wear them for him.
And maybe—just maybe—I enjoy the way his gaze sharpens when I wear something particularly scandalous.
Ronan tends to vanish right about now, always with the same excuse—something about not wanting to be present for the "eye-fucking" that happens when Cameron and I are in the same room. I know damn well he’s heading for Simone’s apartment, four floors down.
Sure enough, he calls out, "I’m heading out!"
"Okay!!!" I shout back, already digging around for my phone.
Spend a couple of hours longer at Simone’s, I text him.
"I know what you’re planning," Ronan replies almost instantly.
You’re free to come and watch, I shoot back, lips twitching. Honestly, I wouldn’t care. Wolves have the worst self-control—especially when they’re mates—so in a pack you get accustomed to public sex. Privacy is more of a polite suggestion than a rule.
"A couple of hours it is," he sends back.
I snicker to myself and toss the phone onto the bed.
I love the mini dress, but this little skirt has my heart.
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
I dig through the closet until I find a fitted tank top to pair with it, then pull out the true enemy—heels. Not shoes. Torture devices.
I slip them on and immediately question every life choice that led me here. Why do women do this to themselves and then smile while calling it fashion?
They look incredible, sure... but comfortable? No. These things were engineered by someone who hated feet.
Still, sooner or later I’ll have to make a public appearance with my mate, and I’ll be damned if I wobble like a newborn deer and embarrass him. Cameron told me I didn’t have to—so obviously I’m going to anyway.
I stand. I wobble. My wolf growls at the imbalance. My outfit makes me feel like—what’s that human word? Hooker.
Perfect. That’s exactly the plan.
I take one step. Then another.
Still—not as bad as last week, when I could barely make it two steps before eating floor. Progress.
Satisfied with my little victory, I check the time. Cameron will be home soon. My wolf perks up at the thought, tail practically wagging.
I slip off the torture devices and breathe in sweet relief, padding barefoot back to the kitchen. The scent of slow-roasting chicken greets me like a reward.
Time to feed my mate.