Chapter 23 #2
Another five minutes pass. The ice in our glasses clinks as it melts. Outside, wind rushes through the pines, and the constant shushing underscores the piano notes. Mixie jumps onto the couch, circling three times before settling beside Leif’s thigh, her black fur stark next to his gray slacks.
His hand moves to stroke her, fingers threading through silky fur. The repetitive motion seems to help more than the whiskey, each pass of his hand across Mixie’s back loosening another knot of tension in his body.
Slowly, Leif leans toward me, the space between us shrinking millimeter by millimeter until our shoulders touch. Sometimes, I think of him like a wary cat, slow to trust, so I wait for him to come to me on his own terms.
The contact sends a current of awareness through me, but I keep my movements casual, not wanting to startle him. “You can lie down if you want. You look exhausted.”
For a heartbeat, he stiffens again, but deeper exhaustion wins out.
With careful movements, he shifts position, lowering his head to rest in my lap.
Mixie adjusts without complaint, relocating to curl at his stomach.
Leif’s body forms a question mark on the couch, legs tucked up, one arm cradled to his chest while the other drapes over Mixie.
My fingers find their way into his hair, carding through the mauve strands with gentle pressure.
The silky texture snags on my callused fingertips, the contrast reminding me of all the ways we differ yet fit together.
His breath catches at the first contact and releases in a long exhale that carries away another fraction of his tension.
Jared turns a page, the paper rustling. At the sound, Leif jolts as if startled before his lashes begin to drift down. The weight of his head grows heavier in my lap as his muscles surrender to gravity and trust.
Across the room, Jared lifts his head from his book, meeting my eyes over the top of Leif’s head. In the brief exchange, I read a mirror of my own concern.
What is happening to Leif when he’s not here? How much is he giving away to keep everyone else satisfied?
A protective instinct thrums beneath my breastbone, and I begin to purr, soothing my Omega.
Leif’s breathing deepens, each exhale carrying the scent of cedar and honey-whiskey.
His eyelids flutter, fighting the pull of sleep even as his body succumbs to it.
My fingers continue their slow path through his hair, fingernails scratching his scalp lightly, drawing a sound of pleasure from his throat.
Leif relaxes in sleep, the vertical line between his brows smoothing out, the tight corners of his mouth relaxing. His deep pink lashes cast feathered shadows on his cheeks in the firelight, and the subtle flutter beneath his eyelids suggests dreams have found him already.
The pattern has become clear over the two months, though I’ve pretended not to notice.
Leif disappears for days at a time, swallowed by the demands of Pinecrest Academy and its endless requirements.
When he returns, a tight guardedness clings to him, anxiety weaving through his cedar scent like rot in healthy wood.
Sometimes he arrives at the cottage with shoulders hunched forward, as if waiting for an attack. Other times, he cancels plans with text messages about unexpected meetings and documentation reviews.
Three nights ago, he called past midnight, just to hear the sound of my voice. When I offered to come to him, he refused, insisting he needed to prepare for an early morning session with the school board.
I haven’t pushed him to explain, haven’t demanded the details of what happens in the hours he spends at Pinecrest Academy. The shadows under his eyes tell enough of the story. The way his phone chimes with emails at all hours fills in more blanks.
Jared sets his book aside, the leather cover thumping softly as it meets the side table. He rises from his chair with the fluid grace that still surprises people who judge him by his height alone.
Crossing to the fireplace, he adds another log to the dying flames, sparks rising in a brief flurry. The fresh wood catches, crackling as resin pockets heat and burst.
“Think he’s eaten anything besides that soup today?” Jared asks, low enough to avoid disturbing our sleeping Omega.
I consider the question, recalling how quickly Leif consumed his portion. “Probably not.”
Jared nods, unsurprised by my assessment. He returns to his chair but leaves the book unopened on his lap. Firelight flickers over him as he takes us in, concern lingering in the line of his mouth.
“Should we get him into bed?”
My palm rests on Leif’s shoulder, tracking the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “Let him sleep for a bit. He needs it.”
Jared’s leg begins to bounce with agitation before he stills it. “He’s running himself ragged with all these extra commitments at Pinecrest Academy. He’ll work himself sick at this rate.”
“I know.” My Alpha instincts resist the reality that Leif’s job demands more than he can safely give.
The clock moves past ten, inching toward ten-thirty. Leif doesn’t stir, his body surrendering to the sleep debt he’s accumulated over days or weeks of overwork. His silenced phone flashes within the pocket of his knit sweater, each notification ignored.
“He fits with us,” Jared says, breaking the contemplative silence. “The three of us. It works.”
The simple truth of his statement settles within me, alongside the worry.
Leif does fit with us. His quiet intelligence balances Jared’s exuberance, and his thoughtfulness complements my practicality.
Somewhere along the way, his presence stopped being a question.
The cedar-and-linen notes of his pheromones belong among the salt air and crushed clover that Jared and I create together.
Yet as he sleeps, exhaustion evident in every line of his body, I wonder what wanting him to stay asks him to forfeit. Every hour here is an hour away from work. Every night in my bed shortens his sleep with early morning drives back to town.
Is my desire for his presence demanding a sacrifice he can’t sustain? Am I becoming another person asking for pieces of him until nothing remains?
Leif shifts in his sleep, turning toward my stomach, seeking comfort. His breathing catches before it settles again, the rhythm of deep sleep resuming.
My hand stills on his head, conscious now of the possibility that even this touch asks something of him.
“We could talk to Blake,” Jared suggests, reading the direction of my thoughts. “See if there’s a way to reduce Leif’s workload without compromising Quinn’s situation.”
The suggestion carries merit, but fear sweeps through me at the thought of interfering in Leif’s life. “He’d hate that. He’s very independent.”
“Independence is crushing him,” Jared counters, leaning forward in his chair. “And we’re letting it happen.”
The accusation lands like a slap, though I know Jared includes himself in the indictment. We’ve watched Leif’s spiral into overwork with mounting concern while respecting boundaries that perhaps should have been challenged.
As if sensing the tension in the room, Mixie’s purr intensifies. Her small body vibrates beside Leif’s side, a living heating pad determined to provide comfort. In sleep, Leif’s hand moves to rest on her fur, fingers curling into the black softness with unconscious affection.
My focus settles on him as he sleeps, and I’m torn between the warmth of having him here, in our home, trusting enough to surrender to sleep, and the cold fear of losing him if we overstep.
A knot of emotion twists in my gut. Pride in his dedication, fear for his well-being, love for his gentle spirit, and rage at what demands are placed upon him.
And beneath it all, the question I try to ignore.
How long before he breaks under the pressure?