The Silverpine Estate smelled like cedar and rain and something else I couldn't name—warmth, maybe. The kind that came from bodies moving through rooms together, not from fireplaces.
I stood in the foyer with my single bag, feeling suddenly underdressed. The space was enormous—stone arches, windows that let in too much light, pack members moving past with the easy confidence of people who belonged. I didn't.
Declan appeared at the top of the stairs. He'd changed since dawn—dark shirt, no jacket, hair still damp like he'd just come from a run. His eyes found mine immediately.
"Your rooms are ready," he said. "But my mother insists you join us for the pack feast first."
"Now?"
"Now."
I followed him through hallways that felt lived-in rather than formal. There were scuff marks on the floors. A child's drawing pinned to a bulletin board. Voices coming from somewhere deeper in the house—laughter, actual laughter, the kind that didn't stop when an Alpha entered the room.
We turned a corner and walked into chaos.
The dining hall was packed. Long tables, maybe fifty wolves, all talking at once. The Lycan Queen stood at the center of it with her sleeves rolled up and flour on her hands, directing two younger she-wolves toward a massive roast that smelled like rosemary and garlic. She looked up when we entered.
"Leighton!" She smiled—wide, genuine, the kind of smile that didn't wait for permission. "Come here, dear. Ignore the mess. We're informal on feast nights."
Informal. The Lycan Queen. I blinked.
Declan's hand touched the small of my back—brief, steadying—and I moved forward on instinct. The Queen wiped her hands on a towel and pulled me into a hug before I could process what was happening. She smelled like bread and honey and something floral I couldn't place.
"Welcome home," she said quietly, just for me.
My throat closed. I nodded because I couldn't speak.
She pulled back and studied my face with the kind of attention that saw too much. Then she smiled again. "You'll sit with us. Family table. Declan, show her."
The family table was smaller, set apart from the pack seating but still in the same room. The Lycan King was already seated—tall, silver-haired, radiating authority without moving. He looked up when we approached.
His eyes locked on mine. Held.
I felt it—the weight of his attention, deliberate and searching, like he was trying to place something he couldn't quite reach. Not hostile. Not suspicious. Just—looking. My wolf stirred behind my ribs, restless in a way she hadn't been since the rejection.
Declan pulled out the chair beside him. I sat. The King's gaze followed me down.
"Leighton Ashford," he said. His voice was deep, measured. "Welcome to Silverpine."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
He nodded once. Slowly. Then his eyes drifted to my neck—to the hollow mark where Drake's bond had been—and something flickered across his face. Recognition, maybe. Or memory. He didn't comment.
The Queen arrived with platters. Rowan appeared from somewhere with wine. Pack members filled the other tables, and the noise level rose to something that should have been overwhelming but wasn't. It was—alive. Comfortable. The kind of chaos that came from people who trusted each other.
I'd never seen anything like it.
At the Blood Crescent packhouse, meals were formal. Silent. You spoke when spoken to. You didn't laugh. You certainly didn't reach across the table to steal bread from someone else's plate, which is exactly what one of the younger Lycans did to Rowan, who swatted his hand away without looking up from his conversation.
Declan poured wine into my glass. "They grow on you," he said quietly.
I almost smiled. "Do they?"
"Eventually."
The Queen sat across from me and started passing dishes. Roast. Potatoes. Greens that smelled like garlic and lemon. She served me first—before the King, before Declan—and when I looked up in surprise, she just winked.
"Eat," she said. "You look like you've been running on coffee and spite for a week."
I had been. I picked up my fork.
The food was good. Better than good. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I started eating and couldn't stop. The Queen watched with visible satisfaction.
The Lycan King spoke quietly to Declan about border patrols. Rowan joined in. The conversation flowed around me without demanding I participate, which was—strange. Kind. At Leland's table, silence was scrutinized. Here, it was just allowed.
I glanced at Declan. He was listening to Rowan, nodding occasionally, his profile calm in the candlelight. Cedar and rain. I'd been smelling it all day, and my wolf kept leaning toward it in a way I didn't know how to stop.
He turned his head. Caught me looking.
I looked away. Fast.
Across the table, the Lycan King's eyes were on me again. Still searching. Still quiet. This time, when I met his gaze, he tilted his head slightly—just a fraction—and I had the strangest feeling that he was waiting for something. A confirmation. A scent. A memory that hadn't surfaced yet.
I didn't know what to give him.
The Queen reached over and squeezed my hand. "Ignore him," she said lightly. "He does that. Stares at people like he's trying to read their bloodline."
The King's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "I'm simply observing."
"You're unnerving our guest."
"Am I?" He looked at me directly.
I met his eyes. "No, Your Majesty."
He studied me a moment longer. Then nodded. "Good."
The feast continued. Laughter. Conversation. Warmth that wrapped around the room like a living thing. I sat at the family table and ate food the Lycan Queen had made with her own hands, and no one asked me to justify my presence.
For the first time in six years, I had a seat I hadn't had to fight for.
When the meal ended and wolves started clearing plates, Declan stood. "I'll show you to your rooms."
I followed him up the stairs, away from the noise. The hallway was quieter. Darker. He stopped at a door near the end and pushed it open.
The suite was—unexpected. Large windows overlooking the forest. A fireplace. Furniture that looked comfortable rather than formal. My bag was already on the bed.
"If you need anything," Declan said, "I'm three doors down."
I turned. He was standing in the doorway, backlit by the hall light, his expression unreadable.
"Thank you," I said.
He nodded. Started to leave. Stopped.
"Leighton."
I waited.
"You're safe here," he said quietly. "I need you to know that."
Something in my chest cracked. Just a little. I nodded because I didn't trust my voice.
He left. The door closed.
I stood alone in the suite, listening to the distant sound of the pack below, and my wolf stirred again—not howling, not desperate. Just—present. For the first time since the rejection, she felt like she might stay.
