Chapter 4 Harlan
Harlan
Logan’s brother knows luxury.
The boutique resort on Lake Michigan is understated, but elegant—rustic bones dressed in money.
Fine linens. Handcrafted wood detailing.
Everything polished to a sheen that whispers wealth without ever needing to say it.
It blends into the lakeside landscape like it’s been here a century instead of a month.
Bunting and garland drape from every railing and beam, woven from fresh pine.
The whole place smells like a winter forest—sharp and clean, undercut with the warmth of cinnamon and clove candles flickering in every corner.
Twinkle lights wrap the banisters, casting a soft golden glow.
It’s the kind of atmosphere meant to feel like home. It just makes me restless.
The presidential pack suite carries the same quiet opulence. I sit in a leather armchair, scotch in hand, pretending my focus is on the restaurant plans. But it’s not. My mind keeps circling back to the business and the damage done. The omega clause hangs over everything like smoke we can’t clear.
The door opens, and Logan steps in. His white-blond hair is slicked back, his tall, lean frame slightly hunched. I sigh through my nose. He usually carries himself like a man who owns every room he enters. Not tonight. The sight doesn’t erase my anger, but it softens the edges.
“Did you have a nice dinner with your brother’s pack?” I ask.
Logan’s steel-blue eyes flick toward me, wary, tired. My hand tightens on the arm of the chair. I want to reach up and thread my fingers into his hair. Pull until his head tilts back, a reminder of where he belongs. But not now. Not when I’m still this angry.
“It was fine,” he says. “Their omega seemed nice. Intense, but nice.” He hesitates, and I brace for it. "Cole knows. About the clause in the inheritance.”
I drag a hand over my face, tamping down the irritation that threatens to boil over. If Cole knows, others might too. We can’t afford that kind of exposure.
The suite door opens again, and Evander breezes in. His blue-black hair is streaked with violet, red coat swinging around him like a banner. He’s impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.
“What’s got Daddy looking so glum?” he teases, and the casual drop of that name pulls heat low in my gut. My scent spikes before I can reel it in. Evander smirks when he catches it. His own scent, mulled wine, rises to meet me and fuck—
“Logan’s stepbrother knows,” I say flatly.
Evander’s smile falters. For all his brightness, the risk of losing what we’ve built cuts through him too.
“Where are Kai and Wyatt?” Logan asks.
“They went downstairs to assess the site. We need to meet them there.” I set my glass down and stand.
Logan nods and heads for the door. Evander stops him with a light touch to his hand, a brief kiss to his lips—always too open, too forgiving. My chest tightens at the sight. I envy that ease, the way he can love without hesitation.
Evander slips out ahead of us, coat flashing like a spark.
Logan meets my eyes as I pass. There’s a flicker of something there—pleading, regret. Maybe both. His caramel praline scent is burnt. I rest my palm on the back of his neck, firm and grounding. His breath catches. His eyes close. For a moment, I let him feel it, the steadiness, the claim.
Then I let go.
“Let’s go,” I say, and lead the way out. I’m not like Evander. Logan’s going to have to earn back what he broke—if he can.