71. Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-One
M y heart beats a little faster as Finn's fingers hover over the cloth. There's something intensely personal about this moment— someone creating something specifically for me, pouring their skill and time into an object intended for no one else. I can't remember the last time anyone made something for me, and certainly not with the level of craftsmanship I've seen in everything else in this workshop. I nod again, encouraging him to continue, suddenly as eager as I am nervous to see what lies beneath.
Finn gently lifts the cloth, revealing what lies beneath with deliberate care. Against the dark fabric rests a pendant on a slender leather cord. The pendant itself is small— no larger than a quarter— but what it lacks in size it makes up for in detail. Carved from wood that's been stained to a rich amber hue, it depicts a stylized tree with intricate branches spreading outward in an asymmetrical but perfectly balanced pattern. The roots mirror the branches below, creating a sense of reflection and continuity.
"It's walnut," Finn says softly, lifting the piece so I can see how the grain of the wood has been incorporated into the design, the natural lines flowing through the carved branches like life itself. "I chose it for its strength and depth of color. It darkens beautifully with age and handling."
The craftsmanship is extraordinary. Looking closer, I can see how each tiny branch has been carved with precision, the negative spaces between them as intentional as the wood itself. The tree isn't perfectly symmetrical or idealized— there are slight irregularities that make it feel alive, as if caught in a moment of growth. The edges have been polished to a satiny smoothness that invites touch.
"Finn," I breathe, not quite trusting my voice with more. My finger reaches out almost of its own accord, tracing the outline of the tree. The wood is warm against my skin, as if it retains some essence of the life it once held.
"The back is carved too," he says, turning it over to reveal a simple spiral pattern on the reverse side, its flowing line moving from the outer edge inward in a continuous journey. "For balance. And because some things aren't meant to be immediately visible to everyone."
Something about the way he says this— the quiet significance in his voice— makes me look up from the pendant to his face. His expression is open, vulnerable in a way that catches at something deep inside me. This isn't just a gift; it's a message, though I'm not entirely sure I understand all it's meant to convey.
"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever been given," I tell him, and it's true. Not just because of the evident skill in its creation, but because of the thought behind it— the hours of careful work dedicated to making something he hoped I would love.
Finn's face softens, relief and pleasure mingling in his expression. "I started carving it after our first meeting at the market. Something about you... I couldn't get the image out of my head. A tree that bends but doesn't break, with roots as complex as its branches." He looks down at the pendant, then back to me. "Strong enough to stand alone, but part of something larger too."
The description hits so close to how I've felt— how I've tried to be— that for a moment I can't speak. I've spent years cultivating independence, teaching myself to need no one, to expect nothing. And yet here is this man who saw something else in me from the beginning— not just solitary strength, but potential for connection.
"I don't know what to say," I admit finally. "Thank you seems inadequate."
"You don't need to say anything." His voice is gentle, without expectation. "Just wanted you to have it. Whether you wear it or keep it in a drawer somewhere, it's yours." But we both know it's more than that. The pendant represents something neither of us is quite ready to name— a recognition, an offering, a possibility.
"I love it," I say simply, because it's true and because sometimes the simplest truths are the most important. "Truly. It's perfect."
Finn's smile deepens, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners. "Would you like to wear it?" he asks, lifting the leather cord. "I made the cord adjustable so you can decide how it sits."
I nod, my throat suddenly tight with emotion I hadn't anticipated. "Yes. Please."
He moves behind me, his tall frame casting a slight shadow over my shoulders. I feel the brush of his fingers against my neck as he brings the cord around, the leather cool against my skin. There's a subtle scent that I recognize as distinctly his— woodsy and clean, with notes of the oils he uses on his projects. His breath stirs the fine hairs at my nape as he concentrates on adjusting the clasp.
"Is this length good?" he asks, his voice low and close to my ear. The pendant rests just below the hollow of my throat, the wood warm against my skin.
"Perfect," I manage, hyper aware of his proximity, of the careful movements of his hands near my neck— one of the most vulnerable parts of any Omega. There's a trust implied in allowing him this close, this access, that goes beyond the simple act of helping with a necklace.
His fingers brush my skin as he secures the clasp, and I feel that touch like a current running through me— not static electricity but something more vital, more alive. For a moment after the clasp is secured, his hands linger, resting lightly on my shoulders. Not demanding, not presuming, just present. I lean back slightly, almost imperceptibly, into that touch.
"There," he says softly, his breath warm against my hair. "It suits you." He moves around to face me, his eyes immediately dropping to the pendant resting against my skin. His expression shifts, something complex passing through his gaze— satisfaction mixed with a deeper emotion I'm not sure how to name.
"What do you think?" he asks, gesturing toward a small mirror hanging on a nearby post— presumably for checking the symmetry of various projects.
I move to the mirror, looking at my reflection. The pendant sits perfectly against my skin, the rich wood tone complementing my coloring. But it's more than just aesthetics— there's something about seeing this handcrafted piece on me, made by someone who has come to matter to me, that creates a sense of belonging I rarely experience. Like I'm carrying a physical manifestation of connection.
"It's beautiful," I say, reaching up to touch it gently with my fingertips. "I can't believe you made this for me."
When I turn back to Finn, there's moisture gathering in my eyes— an emotional response I hadn't expected and can't entirely control. It's not just about the necklace itself, beautiful as it is. It's about what it represents— being seen, being known, being valued enough that someone would create something specifically for me. After years of careful invisibility, of keeping everyone at a safe distance, the gift feels revolutionary in its simple acknowledgment of my existence, my worth.
Finn sees the emotion in my eyes and takes a step closer, his own gaze softening. "Hey," he says gently, "it's just a little piece of wood. Nothing to get misty-eyed about." But his tone belies the casual words, acknowledging the deeper meaning we both recognize.
"It's not, though," I reply, my voice steadier than I expected. "It's not just wood. It's time, thought and skill. It's..." I search for the right word. "It's seeing ."
He nods, understanding exactly what I mean. "Yes," he says simply. "It is."
We stand there in the warm light of his workshop, surrounded by the evidence of his creativity and care, connected by this small carved token now resting against my skin. The moment feels significant, a turning point I couldn't have anticipated when I first agreed to see his workspace.
Finn's smile widens as he studies me wearing his creation. "I hoped it would look right on you," he says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Some pieces, you know while you're making them that they're meant for a specific person. This one always felt like it was waiting for you."
The sentiment is so perfectly aligned with how the pendant feels against my skin— like it belongs there, like it was always meant to find its way to me— that I'm momentarily speechless again.
"Thank you," I say finally, the words simple but heartfelt. "Not just for the necklace, but for..." I gesture vaguely, encompassing the workshop, the house above us, everything that's happened since I first encountered him and Elias. "For making space. For seeing me."
Finn's expression grows serious, though the warmth remains. "You're easy to see, Lydia. Once you stop trying so hard to be invisible."
The gentle truth of it disarms me. I have been trying, haven't I? Not just with my scent blockers and careful distance, but with everything— keeping parts of myself hidden, protected, unseen. The realization brings both vulnerability and relief. Maybe I don't have to try so hard anymore. Maybe here, with these people, I can begin to be seen.
I look up at him, this tall, thoughtful man with his skilled hands and perceptive eyes, and feel something shift inside me— like a door opening to a room I've kept locked for years. The feeling is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
The pendant rests against my skin, wood warmed by my body heat until it feels like a part of me— a tangible reminder that connections can be beautiful, that being seen doesn't always lead to harm. I touch it again, feeling its smooth contours under my fingertips, and make a silent promise to myself not to hide it away, to wear this symbol of new beginnings.
Finn's smile widens as he takes in the sight of me wearing his creation, his eyes darkening slightly in a way that sends a flutter through my stomach. He steps closer, his height making me tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. There's something different in his expression now— a focus, an intensity that wasn't there before. His hand comes up slowly, giving me plenty of time to move away if I wanted to, and traces the outline of the pendant where it rests against my skin. The touch is gentle but deliberate, his fingertip just barely making contact with my collarbone in a way that sends tiny shivers across my skin.
"Lydia," he says, my name sounding different in his voice now— weighted with something unspoken. "May I kiss you?"
The question hangs between us, simple and direct. No pressure, no assumption— just an honest request. I've spent so long avoiding these moments, these vulnerabilities, that my first instinct is to retreat, to deflect, to protect myself from the potential complications. But here, in the warm light of his workshop, surrounded by the evidence of his care and creativity, that instinct feels distant, less urgent.
I nod, my voice finding itself just enough to add, "Yes."
His smile softens, reaching his eyes in a way that makes them crinkle at the corners. He moves with that deliberate grace of his, one hand coming up to cup my cheek while the other rests lightly at my waist. The contact is gentle but grounding, anchoring me to the moment as he leans down.
His lips meet mine with surprising softness— a question more than a claim. The kiss is light, almost reverent, and I find myself leaning into it, my body responding before my mind has fully caught up. His hand is warm against my face, callused fingers slightly rough against my skin in a way that only heightens the sensation.
For a moment, we stay like that— connected but careful, then something shifts, a subtle change in pressure, in intent. My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt. His heartbeat is strong and slightly elevated, matching the quickened pace of my own.
The kiss deepens, his lips moving more confidently against mine as I respond. There's a gentle insistence to it now, an exploration that makes heat pool low in my abdomen. His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair in a way that makes me gasp softly against his mouth.
He takes advantage of that small opening, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips in a silent request that I grant without hesitation. The taste of him is intoxicating— warm and slightly sweet, with hints of the tea. When his tongue meets mine, a shiver runs down my spine, electric and insistent. I'm barely aware of moving until I feel my back press against his workbench, the solid wood providing support as my knees threaten to weaken. Finn breaks the kiss just long enough to study my face, his eyes dark with desire but still watchful, still careful.
"Is this okay?" he asks, voice rough in a way that sends another wave of heat through me.
"More than okay," I breathe, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice.
His smile turns almost predatory then, a flash of teeth that awakens something primal in me. Without warning, he lifts me— his hands spanning my waist with ease— and sets me on the edge of the workbench. The move is fluid and controlled, demonstrating a strength that makes my Omega instincts purr with approval.
The new position puts us at eye level, eliminating the height difference between us. Finn steps between my knees, his hands coming to rest on either side of my hips. There's a moment of suspended animation where we just look at each other, both a little surprised at the intensity that's developed so quickly between us. Then he's kissing me again, deeper this time, with an intent that leaves no room for uncertainty. My hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath his shirt as he leans into me. The pendant he made rests between us, a small point of connection in addition to our lips and hands and increasingly heated skin.
His fingers move to the hem of my shirt, hesitating there in silent question. I nod almost imperceptibly, and he slips his hands underneath, palms flat against the small of my back. The direct skin contact sends a jolt through me, his hands impossibly warm and slightly rough against my softer skin. A small sound escapes me— half sigh, half moan— and I feel him smile against my lips before he trails kisses along my jawline and down to my neck. When his mouth finds the sensitive spot just below my ear, my head falls back instinctively, giving him better access. The vulnerability of the position— exposing my throat to an almost-stranger— should frighten me, but instead it feels right, feels safe in a way I can't entirely explain.
His touch grows bolder, hands sliding up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra. Even that slight contact is enough to make me arch toward him, seeking more. One of his hands leaves my skin long enough to tangle in my hair, gently but firmly tilting my head to give him better access to my neck.
When his teeth graze lightly over my pulse point, a full-bodied shudder runs through me. My scent blooms in response— the subtle notes of my Omega nature becoming stronger, sweeter, filling the space between us with unmistakable arousal. I should be panicking, should be reaching for the blockers I religiously apply, but I can't bring myself to care— not when his mouth is doing such exquisite things to my neck, not when his hands are mapping my skin like he's memorizing every curve.
"You smell incredible," he murmurs against my throat, his voice a low rumble that I feel as much as hear. "Like everything I've ever wanted."
The words send a fresh wave of heat through me, settling low and insistent between my thighs. I pull him closer, suddenly desperate for more contact, more friction, more of him. My legs wrap around his waist, drawing him against me until there's no mistaking his arousal pressed hard against the apex of my thighs.
The position aligns us perfectly, and when he rocks slightly against me, even through our clothes, the friction sends sparks of pleasure radiating outward. I gasp his name, my fingers clutching at his shoulders hard enough that I might be leaving marks. The thought only intensifies the heat building inside me.
His hand moves to cup my breast through my shirt, thumb brushing over the hardened peak in a way that makes me moan softly. I'm lost in sensation— the heat of his mouth on my neck, the pressure of his body between my thighs, the skilled movements of his hands— when a deliberate throat-clearing sound cuts through the haze of desire.
We freeze simultaneously, Finn's body going tense against mine. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifts his head from my neck, though he doesn't immediately step away from me. I follow his gaze to the bottom of the stairs.
Elias stands there, one shoulder propped against the wall in a posture that would seem casual if not for the intensity in his eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest, but there's nothing closed-off or defensive about his stance— just a patient stillness that somehow commands attention more effectively than any interruption could have.
How long he's been watching us, I have no idea. Heat floods my face, but it's not entirely from embarrassment. There's something in his gaze— dark and hungry and seemingly untroubled by what he's witnessed— that keeps the fire in my veins burning rather than being doused by his presence.
"Don't let me interrupt," he says, his voice lower than usual, rough around the edges. "But if you're interested, I thought we might move to the living room. For that movie." There's a brief pause, weighted with significance. "Or whatever else might appeal."
The suggestion hangs in the air between the three of us, laden with implications that make my breath catch. Finn hasn't moved away from me, his body still a solid warmth between my thighs, though his hands have stilled their exploration. I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against mine, evidence that his composure isn't as complete as he might want to appear.
"What do you think, Lydia?" Finn asks, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. "Your call. Always your call."
The reassurance— that I have a choice, that my comfort is the priority— helps ground me in the moment. I look from Finn to Elias, taking in the heat in both their gazes, the obvious desire neither is trying to hide. There's no jealousy there, no competition— just patient waiting for my decision.
This is so far from anything I ever expected, from any experience I've had before. Traditional packs with their rigid structures and expectations never prepared me for this— for being given genuine choice, for having my consent treated as paramount, for the easy way these two men seem to share space and affection without possessiveness.
Elias holds my gaze, his expression softening slightly as he reads the uncertainty in my face. "No pressure," he says, the gentle understanding in his voice making something inside me uncoil. "Movie's just a movie, if that's what you want. Or you can continue exactly what you were doing. Or anything in between."
The options stretch before me, none of them wrong, all of them potentially right in different ways. I take a deep breath, trying to quiet the frantic beating of my heart long enough to hear what I truly want.
"A movie sounds good," I manage to say, my voice coming out huskier than intended. The heat in my cheeks could power a small city, but beneath the embarrassment is something else— a strange blend of disappointment and relief. My body is still humming with the aftershocks of Finn's touch, my lips tender from his kisses, but there's comfort in the interruption too— a chance to catch my breath, to process whatever is happening between us before it overtakes me completely.
Finn's hands move to my waist, gently helping me down from the workbench. He doesn't step away immediately, his body a wall of warmth that I find myself reluctant to leave. My legs feel slightly unsteady, and I place a hand on his chest to balance myself— a practical gesture that somehow feels intimate in the charged atmosphere.
"Steady there," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear. When I glance up, his expression holds no regret— only a warm amusement and something deeper, more patient. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the casual tenderness of the gesture making my breath catch.
I step back slightly, creating enough space between us to clear my head. My hand rises unconsciously to the pendant around my neck, fingers tracing its carved edges. The wood has warmed to my body temperature, as if it's become part of me already.
Elias pushes off from the wall where he's been leaning, approaching us with that unhurried grace of his. Unlike many who might have made the moment awkward with their presence, he manages to ease into our space as if he's always been part of it. There's no tension in his shoulders, no judgment in his expression— only a warm attentiveness that somehow makes my embarrassment begin to fade.
"That's beautiful," he says, his gaze dropping to the pendant. "Finn's work?"
I nod, my hand still resting on the carved tree.
"I made it especially for her," Finn supplies, his voice carrying a hint of pride that makes my cheeks warm again, but pleasantly this time.
Elias steps closer, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken again. "May I?" he asks, hand hovering near the pendant.
When I nod, he steps into my space— not crowding, but close enough that I can smell him, that distinctive blend of fresh bread and something uniquely Elias. His fingers brush against the wood, but they also graze my skin in a touch so light it might be accidental, except for the way his eyes darken slightly at the contact.
"It suits you," he says softly. Then, without warning, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is brief but far from chaste— a firm pressure, a hint of heat, and then he's pulling back, leaving me blinking up at him in surprise. Unlike Finn's gradual approach, Elias's move is surprising yet somehow not shocking— as if it's the most natural progression in the world from admiring a necklace to sharing a kiss.
"Sorry," he says, though his expression doesn't look sorry at all. "I've been wanting to do that all day. Seeing you with Finn just made it harder to resist."
The casual admission steals my breath. I've gone from avoiding even the slightest physical contact with others to being kissed by two different men in the span of minutes. What's more surprising is how right it feels— how natural, how unforced.
"There's no need to be embarrassed, you know," Elias continues, correctly reading the flush that's spreading across my face and down my neck. "Not here, not with us." His smile turns slightly wicked. "Besides, eventually we'll all walk in on each other. It's the nature of pack life— especially with this particular arrangement."
The implication in his words— that what just happened with Finn isn't an isolated incident, that there's an "arrangement" that includes all of us— sends a fresh wave of heat through me that has nothing to do with embarrassment. The possibilities implicit in his casual statement are dizzying.
My blush deepens to what must be an alarming shade, and Elias laughs softly— not at me, but with a genuine delight that somehow makes it impossible to feel mocked or judged.
"You're adorable when you blush," he says, reaching out to take my hand. His palm is warm against mine, fingers interlacing with casual intimacy. "Come on. I made snickerdoodles, and they're best when they're still warm from the oven."
The mundane offer of cookies after such charged moments should feel jarring, but instead it grounds me— a reminder that whatever is developing between us includes everyday comforts alongside more intense connections.
Elias leads me toward the stairs, his thumb brushing absently over the back of my hand in a way that sends small currents of pleasure up my arm. I glance back to see Finn following, his expression a blend of satisfaction and amusement as he watches us.
"Don't mind me," he says, catching my eye with a grin. "Just enjoying the view." The comment could be taken as purely physical appreciation, but there's something more genuine beneath the teasing— a pleasure in seeing Elias and me together that speaks to dynamics more complex than simple attraction.
As we ascend the stairs, I'm acutely aware of being between them— Elias leading me by the hand, Finn following close behind. It's a physical arrangement that somehow represents the emotional territory we're navigating— connected, responsive to each other, finding our places in relation to one another.
The workshop door closes behind us, but the subtle scent of woodshavings clings to Finn, following us down the hallway. Elias's hand remains clasped with mine, his grip neither possessive nor tentative— just present, connected. The casual physical contact feels simultaneously novel and familiar, as if my body is remembering something my mind had forgotten.
"What kind of movie are you in the mood for?" Elias asks as we enter the living room. The space feels different now— the same furniture, the same afternoon light slanting through the windows, but altered somehow by what's passed between us. My sketchbook still rests on the couch where I left it, the pencil marking my place as if hours haven't passed since I was working on the season cards.
"I'm not picky," I reply, suddenly realizing I haven't watched anything purely for enjoyment in longer than I can remember. "Something not too heavy, maybe?"
"Comedy it is," Finn declares, dropping onto the couch and patting the space beside him invitingly. "I vote for that indie one about the failed cooking show. The one with the hedgehog."
"Perfect," Elias agrees, releasing my hand to head toward the kitchen. "I'll grab the cookies and make some fresh tea. Get comfortable." I settle onto the couch beside Finn, leaving space for Elias on my other side. Finn's arm drapes casually along the back of the couch, not quite touching me but available if I choose to lean into him. The pendant rests warm against my skin, a tangible reminder of connections forming.
"You okay?" Finn asks quietly, his expression more serious now that Elias is momentarily out of earshot. "With all of this?" His gesture encompasses the space between us, the house, the situation we find ourselves in.
"I think I am," I say finally, surprising myself with the truth of it. "It's all happening faster than I expected, but..."
"But it doesn't feel wrong," Finn supplies when I trail off.
I nod, grateful for his understanding. "Exactly. It feels like..." I search for the right words. "Like finding a place that was waiting for me, even though I didn't know I was looking for it."
His smile softens, those laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "That's how it felt for me too, when I found this pack. When I found Elias." He glances toward the kitchen, where we can hear the clink of mugs being arranged on a tray. "Some connections just make sense, even when they don't follow the expected patterns."
The simple wisdom of his statement settles something inside me. Traditional pack structures never made sense to me— the rigid hierarchies, the limited roles for Omegas, the lack of real choice. But this— this organic, evolving connection between three people who see and accept each other— perhaps this can make sense.
Elias returns, balancing a tray loaded with a plate of golden-brown cookies, a steaming teapot, and three mugs that don't match but somehow look right together. He sets it on the coffee table and fits himself into the space I've left for him, his thigh pressing warmly against mine.
"Alright, movie night officially begins," he announces, passing out mugs of tea that smell of spices and citrus. "Fair warning: I'm a commentator. Finn will pretend to be annoyed, but he secretly loves my running commentary."
"I do not," Finn objects automatically, reaching for a cookie with his free hand. "I tolerate it because your baking makes up for your inability to watch a movie in silence." Their familiar bickering continues as Elias finds the remote and queues up the film. I sip my tea, watching them with a growing sense of comfort. The pendant rests against my skin, Finn's arm has settled slightly closer behind me, and Elias's knee bumps gently against mine as he adjusts his position. As the movie begins to play, I find myself relaxing, the tension of the past weeks— of the past years, really— slowly unwinding.
Not hiding. Not running. Just being. And for now, that feels like enough.