A Seat at the Table
Lyra
"—and that," Mack says next to me, jabbing his fork across the card table at Owen, "is how I got myself banned from a Cracker Barrel in three separate counties."
Owen is laughing hard on the other side of the table, one hand flat on the table, his shoulders shaking. "How have I never heard this story?" the beta asks.
I giggle along with him at the end of the little table, my cheeks aching from smiling. I can't remember the last time my face hurt like this.
Dinner at my parents’ house was always silent, forks scraping on fine china while my mother tracked every bite I took. Here it's all noise and elbows, and laughing and talking.
I twirl the last bite onto my fork, eat it, then lay my fork and knife across my plate, parallel, angled to four o'clock. The way I was taught before I could even read.
Mack and Owen keep talking, but across the table, Adrian is watching me with a soft smile tugging at his mouth. His blue-gray eyes move over my face while I eat, almost like he’s admiring a precious painting.
I glance at him and our eyes meet. There’s a moment where his smile grows, warm and a little shy, before he drops his gaze back to his plate.
Heat prickles up my neck, and my thoughts skid straight to the photographs tucked inside my nest.
I’ve taken them out almost every day while everyone is at work for the last week, touching myself while I imagine what it must feel like to be part of their pack.
I come while I stare at Nico’s back arched over Owen.
Owen’s mouth on Mack. And Adrian looking at all of them the way he keeps looking at me right now.
"Why do you do that?" Nico’s voice pulls me from my shameful thoughts. He’s looking right at me, those dark eyes dropping to my plate.
"Do what?" I ask.
"Line your fork and knife up like that when you're done. Why?"
"Oh." I let out a breathy laugh as I stare down at my plate.
Shit. Why do I keep doing this?
It’s not like my mother’s going to come over and inspect it.
I can’t help but feel a little ridiculous as I open my mouth to explain, bracing for how prissy I’m about to sound.
"It's called finished position." I fold my hands in my lap, going prim on instinct.
"You lay them at four o'clock when you've completed your meal.
It signals the staff that they can clear your plate.
Cross them like an X and it means you're only pausing and they should leave it.
" I hear myself and want to sink through the floor.
"It's a whole silent language," I mumble, realizing that everyone is staring at me. "For plates."
"Hey, I get it." Owen leans in with a warm smile. "Old habits are hard to kill. I was dead broke in college, and I still hoard every sauce packet we get."
On my other side, Nico lets out a soft laugh as he nods. "We've got a whole drawer of them," the alpha says with a fond smile. "I have to toss them every few months to make sure no one eats expired ketchup."
Owen smiles as he reaches and lays his hand on top of Nico's where it rests on the table.
I watch as Owen’s fingers curl around Nico's knuckles, his gold band catching the light. A small stupid longing aches inside at the sight of them touching. I want that so badly.
Trying like hell not to let anything show on my face, I curl my fingers against my palm and make myself look down at my lap.
"Hey, darlin'." Mack tips his head down, until I have no choice but to look up and find him. His blond hair has fallen around his face, and he smiles when our eyes meet.
This close, with his head bent toward mine, I get the full force of just how handsome he is, the strong line of his jaw under all that gold-brown scruff, the crooked slant of a nose that's clearly been broken at least once, and those green eyes all soft and warm when he shifts into sincere-mode.
"It's not a big deal," he says softly. "In fact, I like all the little things you do.
" He glances at my plate, then back up at my face.
"You say please and thank you to a man for passing the salt. And you always cross your ankles when you sit, tucking them to the side like you’re posing for a portrait.
Hell, even the way you drape your napkin across your lap is elegant.
" His smile shifts, cocking higher on side.
"It's nice having a proper lady around here for once.
" He tips his chin at the other three. "It's refreshing after living with these cavemen for so long. "
"Really?" Nico says with a pointed look, "I have literally seen you eat a hot dog in the shower."
Mack points at him without missing a beat. "It’s efficient," he says simply. "Eat and clean, all at the same time."
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, loud and unladylike and completely real, the kind my mother would have called common. I clap a hand over my mouth, but it's too late, it's already out, shaking my shoulders, and Mack looks so pleased with himself you'd think he'd won something.
"Doesn’t the bread get all soggy?" I ask, trying to hide how disgusting it sounds.
"Oh, no," Adrian snorts as he jumps into the conversation. "He skips the bread and eats them cold, right out of the package."
Mack turns to me, smiling wide without an ounce of shame. "The shower warms them up a bit." He winks. "Just like momma used to make."
"You are the single most uncivilized person I have ever met in my life." Owen snorts. "Lyra has better manners barefoot in borrowed clothes than you have on your best day."
"Damn right she does." Mack beams at me, entirely missing that he's been insulted. "She's classing up the whole operation."
"Well, I'm glad my useless education is finally paying off," I tease Mack. "This is exactly the elevated society my parents spent a fortune preparing me for."
That makes Owen let out a bark of a laugh. "I’m sure Aldric and Lavinia would be very proud."
"Lavinia?" Nico repeats my mother’s name slowly, one brow climbing.
"Aldric and Lavinia?" He lets out a quick laugh.
"Aldric I knew about, the man's on the news enough.
But Lavinia?" He shakes his head. "Rich people.
Do any of you get named something a regular person could shout across a parking lot? "
"Absolutely not." I wave both hands in front of me, warding the very idea off.
"It's a whole thing. You get the family name and then something the ancestors would approve of, the older and more unpronounceable the better.
" I let the pause stretch, because I've never told any of them this and I want to watch it land.
"Take mine, for instance. Lyra's just what everyone calls me. My actual first name is Artemis."
Owen's mouth falls open.
"Artemis." He stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Your name is Artemis? A whole year I've known you, and you let me go around calling you Lyra?"
"Yes," I laugh. "Lyra's my middle name. Artemis Lyra Van Houten.
" I do a little seated bow, as much of a flourish as I can manage on a folding chair.
"Goddess of the hunt, at your service. They picked it before I presented, back when they were sure I'd be an alpha worthy of a name like that.
" I keep my voice light, but there's an edge under it I don't quite smooth away. "Didn't really pan out."
Next to me, Nico’s dark eyes fix on my face, staring at me like he feels the sad truth that my parents didn't think an omega deserved a strong name.
The second I had my first heat, I was no longer a Goddess-in-waiting.
Instead, I was Lyra, the omega that destroyed a century of pure-alpha descendants.
My mother has never forgiven me.
"Artemis." Nico shakes his head slowly, as he leans in toward me. "No. That's not right for you."
I go still.
He plants one forearm on the table and shifts his weight forward, and the table seems to tip toward him. His scent rolls over me with the movement, dark amber and worn leather, and my next breath goes shallow without my permission.
"Artemis is too cold. A statue in a garden nobody's allowed to touch." His dark eyes stay locked on mine, moving over my face while his hand reaches for mine.
I hold my breath as his thumb traces the top of my hand.
"Lyra is perfect." His voice drops lower, rougher. "It’s sweet and bright. Perfect for you."
And I suddenly don’t know how to breathe.
Those damn photos pop into my head, lewd and raw.
All I can see is Nico buried deep in Owen from behind, that broad back curved over his beta, the thick base of his cock already starting to swell where they're locked together.
My thighs press together under the table, and I have to fight the urge to run straight for my nest and hide.
I open my mouth to say thank you, but the words get stuck along the way.
Demand he rut you. The words flash in my mind. Rut me, fuck me, claim me. Now!
"I, uh, yah. Thank you," I finally force the words out, then I drop my eyes to the table, praying no one notices the heat warming my cheeks.
But I can feel all of them looking at me.
Adrian's gone quiet across the table. Mack's stopped chewing. Even without lifting my head, I know Nico hasn't looked away once, his hand still warm over mine, his thumb resting against my pulse where it's beating like a damn drumline.
Then Owen's phone rings, and the table seems to shift.
"Oh," Owen’s voice goes tight. "It’s the director."
I glance up just in time to see Owen share a careful look with Nico.
"I’ve gotta take this." Owen slips out of his chair, then down the hall.
The next second, Nico pulls his hand back as he starts talking to Mack about some concrete that was poured wrong and they were forced to spend all week ripping it out. While I start clearing the table with Adrian.
This has become our ritual every night.
I pick up all the plates while Adrian grabs the glasses and silverware.
The alpha goes straight for the sink, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel up to his elbows. I step up next to him, inhaling that lovely scent as he leans down to open the dishwasher.
Pine, clean rain, and pure alpha.