65. Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Five
I surface from sleep gradually—the softness beneath me, unfamiliar yet comforting; a weight across my waist that feels like an anchor rather than a restraint; the mingled scents of honey and lavender that tell me I'm not alone, not in my own bed. My eyelids flutter against the gentle morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains, and memory returns in a rush that makes my breath catch—my mother, the shop, Lucian finding me, bringing me here. To their home. To their nest. For a moment, panic flares in my chest—But the arm draped across my waist tightens slightly, as if sensing my distress, and a gentle purr vibrates against my back. Elias.
I blink fully awake now, taking in the details of the nest that surrounds us. It's even more intricate than I realized in my exhausted state last night—a carefully constructed haven of soft blankets and pillows arranged with deliberate care. I spot items that must belong to each of them: a well-worn hoodie that smells of Finn's earthy pine scent, a silk scarf that carries Soren's spicy sandalwood notes, a cashmere throw that radiates Lucian's amber essence. And woven among them all, Elias's honey-warm presence, the foundation that ties everything together.
Something about seeing these personal items, freely shared and intermingled, makes my throat tighten. In my parents' pack, possessions were as rigidly separated as their hierarchical roles—my father's study off-limits to everyone else, my mother's vanity untouchable by all but her personal maid. This casual mingling of items, of scents, of lives speaks of a different kind of pack structure than anything I've known.
I shift slightly, testing the waters of wakefulness. My body feels heavy, weighted not just by Elias's arm but by the emotional exhaustion of yesterday. The thought of facing the day—of potentially encountering my mother again, of explaining my absence from the shop to curious customers, of navigating this new and terrifying vulnerability I've shown to Elias and his packmates—makes me want to burrow deeper into the nest and never emerge.
As if reading my thoughts, Elias's purr deepens, the vibration spreading from his chest to mine where our bodies touch. His breath is warm against the nape of my neck, stirring the fine hairs there in a way that sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," he murmurs, his voice rough with the remnants of sleep yet somehow still musical. "How are you feeling?"
Such a simple question, yet it catches me off-guard. How am I feeling? The answer is too complex, too tangled to put into words. Instead, I deflect. "What time is it?"
Elias shifts behind me, his movement careful as he reaches for something beyond my line of sight. "Just past nine," he says, settling back into place. "You slept for almost twelve hours."
Twelve hours. I can't remember the last time I slept so long without interruption. Even in the relative safety of my apartment, I tend to wake frequently, hypervigilant even in sleep. The realization that I slept so deeply here, surrounded by the scents of virtual strangers—though they don't feel like strangers anymore—is both comforting and slightly alarming.
"I should get up," I say, though I make no move to leave the warm cocoon of the nest. "I need to check on the shop, make sure everything—"
"Shh," Elias interrupts, his finger lightly touching my lips in a gesture that should feel presumptuous but somehow doesn't. "Remember what Lucian said? The others are taking care of everything practical. The shop, your customers, all of it. Your only job right now is to rest."
"I'm not used to this," I admit, my voice small in the quiet room. "Having others handle things for me. Being... taken care of."
Elias makes a soft sound, somewhere between sympathy and understanding. "I know. But that doesn't mean you don't deserve it."
His words strike at something deep inside me, some long-buried belief that I am, in fact, undeserving of such care. It's easier to deflect again. "Don't you have work to do? Market preparations or...?"
I feel his smile against my hair before I see it—a subtle change in the pressure of his face pressed against the crown of my head. "Nothing that can't wait. I cleared my schedule."
"For me?" The question slips out before I can stop it, laden with an incredulity I can't quite mask. Elias shifts again, this time moving far enough away that I feel the loss of his warmth like a physical ache. But it's only so he can gently turn me to face him, his hands careful on my shoulders as if I might break. When our eyes meet, the tenderness in his gaze nearly undoes me.
"Yes, for you," he says simply. "Did you think we'd bring you here and then just... go about our normal routines? Leave you to fend for yourself in a strange house?" Put like that, it does sound ridiculous. But it's hard to articulate the lifetime of expectations that led me to assume exactly that—that any kindness would be limited, conditional, ultimately self-serving. I settle for a small shrug, uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze.
Elias's expression softens further, if that's even possible. "We can stay here all day if that's what you want," he says, a teasing note entering his voice as he gestures to the nest surrounding us. "I've got nowhere to be but right here."
The gentle teasing breaks through some of the tension, and I find myself smiling despite everything. "Nowhere at all? What about food? I seem to recall someone mentioning you're the cook of this operation."
He grins, the expression lighting up his entire face. "Well, we might have to emerge for sustenance eventually. But even then—" He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "—I happen to know where all the best snacks are hidden. Perks of being the one who buys the groceries."
A laugh escapes me—small and slightly rusty, but genuine. "I bet Soren loves that."
"Soren has his own stash, don't worry. We've learned to maintain separate treat supplies after The Great Cookie Incident of Last Year."
"The Great Cookie Incident?" I repeat, curiosity momentarily overshadowing my worries.
Elias's eyes dance with mischief. "Let's just say it involved my special double chocolate chip cookies, Soren's mysteriously expanding appetite, and Lucian's very strict rationing system that somehow failed spectacularly. Finn still finds chocolate chips in odd corners of the house."
The image of these four grown men squabbling over cookies like children pulls another laugh from me, this one stronger than the first. "I'd have paid to see that."
"Stick around long enough and you'll witness plenty of pack drama over desserts," Elias says, his tone light but his eyes serious as they hold mine. "We're not perfect, Lydia. We argue and tease and sometimes drive each other crazy. But we're real. This—" he gestures to the nest, to the space between us, "—is real."
The simple declaration catches me off-guard, answering a question I hadn't realized was still lurking beneath my surface thoughts. Is this real? Or am I setting myself up for another disappointment, another rejection, another reason to run? Elias's steady gaze offers no easy answers, only the quiet assurance that whatever happens, he'll be honest with me.
"Thank you," I whisper, unable to fully articulate what I'm thanking him for. For the comfort, for the honesty, for clearing his schedule to be with me? For all of it, perhaps.
He understands anyway, his smile warming. "You're welcome. Now, how about we start this day properly? We can stay right here if you want, or..." He lets the sentence hang, offering me the choice without pressure.
I consider for a moment, taking stock of my body, my emotions. The thought of facing the world still feels daunting, but the panic has receded to a manageable level. And there's a quiet warmth spreading through my chest at the realization that Elias has arranged his entire day around me, that he's willing to stay in this nest for as long as I need.
"Maybe just a little longer," I decide, settling back into the comfortable hollow my body has made in the nest. "If you really don't mind."
Elias's smile widens as he nestles beside me, his arm returning to its place around my waist. "I don't mind at all." His purr resumes, a soothing rumble that vibrates between us. "Take all the time you need, Lydia. We've got nowhere else to be."
Elias shakes his head, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "How about we move to the living room nest?" he suggests, stretching his arms above his head in a languid motion that reminds me of a contented cat. "It's a bit more open, and we could watch TV or read or... whatever you feel up to."
The suggestion hangs in the air between us, an offering with no strings attached. I study his face, looking for any hint of boredom or restlessness that might indicate he's tiring of our quiet cocoon. I find none, only the same patient warmth that's been there since I woke. His hazel eyes hold mine, neither demanding nor retreating, simply present in a way few people have ever been with me.
"That sounds nice," I admit, my voice still filled with exhaustion.
Elias hears it too, his expression softening further. "It is nice. And there's a Lydia-sized space in it, if you're interested." The offer is casual, but the implications ripple beneath the surface—this isn't just about today, about this moment. It's about a potential future, one where I might regularly occupy that space he's describing.
My heart gives a peculiar flutter at the thought, not entirely unpleasant but certainly unsettling. I tuck it away for later examination and focus on the immediate question at hand. Do I want to move to the living room nest? Part of me wants to stay right here, hidden away from the world in this safe, enclosed space where only Elias can see me. But another part, one I've been carefully nurturing since I fled my parents' house, craves more than just safety—it craves life, engagement, forward motion.
"Sure," I decide, pushing myself up to sit. "A change of scenery might be good."
Elias beams as if I've given him some precious gift rather than simply agreed to move to another room. "Excellent. Any preference for how we spend the morning? TV? Books? I could get my guitar if you'd like some music."
The image of Elias playing guitar for me, his fingers dancing over the strings as I listen, sends another of those strange flutters through my chest. I push it aside, focusing on the question. What do I want to do today? The idea of sitting still, of having nothing to occupy my hands or mind, makes me vaguely anxious. My thoughts will inevitably circle back to my mother, to the confrontation in my shop, to all the questions and fears I'm not ready to face.
"I think..." I hesitate, unsure how to articulate what I need without sounding demanding or ungrateful. "I just want to relax but also... keep my mind occupied? If that makes sense."
I rub the back of my neck, feeling awkward. "When I'm upset or stressed, I usually paint or work on the shop inventory—something to keep my hands busy and my thoughts... not on the problem." I grimace slightly. "I'm not very good at just sitting with difficult emotions."
Instead of the judgment I half-expect, Elias's expression fills with understanding. "I get that completely," he says, nodding. "Finn's the same way—he disappears to his workshop when he's processing something difficult. Comes out covered in sawdust but always in a better headspace." His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing in thought. "So something active but not too demanding. Something that gives your hands something to do while your mind can wander or rest as needed."
The way he immediately understands, immediately starts seeking a solution rather than questioning my coping mechanism, loosens another knot of tension I didn't realize I was carrying. I nod gratefully. "Exactly. But I don't expect you to have anything like that here. I can just read or watch TV, really. That's fine too."
Elias studies me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. I resist the urge to fidget under his gaze, to fill the silence with unnecessary words. Finally, his face brightens with what looks like inspiration.
"Actually," he says slowly, "I might have the perfect thing. How do you feel about plants?"
The question is so unexpected that I blink in surprise. "Plants? I... like them, I suppose? I have a few succulents in my apartment that have somehow survived my inattention."
Elias grins, clearly pleased with whatever idea has struck him. "We have a greenhouse out back," he explains, his hands gesturing animatedly as he speaks. "Nothing massive, but big enough for herbs and some vegetables, a few flowers. It needs some tending—deadheading, pruning, maybe repotting a few things that have outgrown their homes." His eyes meet mine, hopeful and bright. "It's peaceful work. Good for the hands and heart, Finn says. And the scents—rosemary, mint, lavender—" He pauses, a slight smirk playing at his lips at the mention of lavender, my own natural scent. "—they're grounding. Helps clear the head."
As he speaks, I can almost smell those herbs, can imagine the warm, humid air of a greenhouse, the feel of soil beneath my fingernails, the simple satisfaction of helping things grow. It sounds perfect—physical enough to keep my hands occupied, mindful enough to be absorbing, but not so complex that I can't do it in my current emotional state.
"That sounds... really nice, actually," I admit, a small smile forming on my lips. "I've always wanted to try gardening, but my apartment doesn't get enough sunlight for much beyond those hardy succulents."
Elias's answering smile is brilliant, lighting up his entire face. "Perfect! We can head out there after breakfast. Nothing complicated—I'll show you what needs doing, and you can help as much or as little as you feel up to." His enthusiasm is contagious, making the idea of facing the day suddenly seem less daunting. "The greenhouse is Finn's domain primarily, but he's been teaching me. It's where we grow a lot of the herbs and edible flowers I use in my breads and preserves."
The thought of being part of that cycle—helping tend the plants that will eventually become ingredients in Elias's creations—holds an unexpected appeal. It feels like participating in something larger than myself, something cyclical and nurturing.
"I'd like that," I say, my voice stronger now, more certain. "I might not be very good at it, but I'd like to try."
"You don't have to be good at it," Elias assures me, reaching out to squeeze my hand briefly. "That's not the point. It's just about being present, connecting with something living and growing." His eyes hold mine, earnest and warm. "Sometimes the best healing happens when we stop trying so hard and just let our hands do something simple and good."
There's wisdom in his words that resonates with something deep inside me. How long has it been since I've done something purely for the experience, without worrying about the outcome? Since I've allowed myself to be a beginner, to learn without pressure or expectations?
"The greenhouse it is, then," I decide, feeling a small spark of anticipation kindle in my chest—the first positive emotion I've felt since my mother appeared in my shop yesterday. It's tiny, fragile as a seedling, but it's there. And maybe, like the plants in Elias's greenhouse, it just needs a little care and patience to grow into something stronger.