Page 113 of The Pack's Knotty Runaway
“To all of you,” he says, his voice carrying over the chatter. The yard goes quiet, faces turning toward him in the firelight. “My father always said that you don’t ask for help when you’re the owner, that the orchard is your responsibility alone. He waswrong. I was wrong. Apple Blossom is still standing tonight because of this community.”
He pops the cork.
“Bram Miller,” Maggie says, holding up a heavy glass tumbler. “Sit down and pour the whiskey. Nobody asked for a speech.”
Hal laughs, banging his hand on the table. Bram shakes his head, a small, rare smile breaking across his face as he fills Maggie’s glass.
“Don’t you touch that,” Maggie adds, slanting a look at Reed, who’s trying to steal a biscuit from her plate.
Reed snorts, and takes it anyway.
The bankruptcy’s threat is pretty much gone with the two-million-dollar contract safe, and through the bond, I can feel my alphas’ relief after years of hardships.
Then, a warm hand slides over the back of my neck, the heat of it grounding. Ash slips onto the bench beside me, his scent settling over my shoulders.
“Still calculating the yield?” he murmurs, his thumb tracing my jaw.
“I’m allowed,” I say, grinning. “I’m the VP of fruit, remember?”
He laughs, a low, quiet sound against my temple.
Bram sits on my other side, his thigh pressing warm against mine, his big hand immediately finding my wrist under the table. Across the wood, Reed is leaning back, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his eyes bright as he watches the older folks start to clear the space between the fire pits.
Someone starts playing an accordion and a fiddle joins in.
“Luna,” Reed says, his chin tipping toward the grass. “A dance.”
“I’m horrible at it,” I say.
“Good,” he grins, sliding out from the table. “I’m worse.”
He pulls me up by the hands, the firelight hot on my face as he spins me. It’s chaotic, entirely out of step, Reed laughing as he nearly trips and Bram catches us both by the elbows.
Then Ash is there, taking my hand, his steps smooth and steady, guiding me under the yellow lights. The townspeople are cheering, Maggie clapping along with the fiddle rhythm. When Ash spins me out a few moments later, I land right against Bram’s wide chest as he steps off the bench to join us.
I look at the three of them. Bram’s warm face; Reed’s bright, teasing eyes; Ash’s slow grin. I press my face back into Bram’s shoulder, my hand sliding into Ash’s pocket, Reed’s fingers still warm on my wrist.
I used to wonder how they stood it. How anyone could pour their whole life into something, knowing that doing everything right didn’t guarantee you wouldn’t lose it all. But watching the townspeople cheer under the lights, and feeling the solid weight of my alphas holding onto me, I finally get it. Risk feels like a small price to pay when you’ve found what you’re willing to fight for.
And with Ash, Bram, and Reed beside me, I know I have.
Epilogue
December 1??
Inside Maren’s bakery, thick steam from the cocoa machine rolls against the front glass, blurring the Lakeview street outside into a smudge of falling snow. The Closed sign is already flipped to the street, but Maren insisted we join her after hours to celebrate “the day the orchard finally secures its two-million-dollar contract”.
Maren, who pulled a massive wooden table into the center of the shop just for the occasion, slides a white ceramic plate onto the wood. It holds four cardamom knots, the sugar crust still glistening and warm from the oven.
“You’ve been staring at the window for ten minutes, Luna,” she says, dusting flour off her apron. She has dark circles underher eyes, but her grin is wide. “Should I assume the alphas are boring?”
“They’re worse than boring,” I say, smiling and reaching for a knot. “They’re domestic. Reed spent twenty minutes in the hardware aisle arguing about brass screws earlier.”
“They were zinc,” Reed grunts, his fingers already hooking the largest pastry. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his forearms carrying the faint white dust of dry plaster from the unit next to mine. They bought the space last month, and he’s spent the last three days knocking down the dividing wall to expand our apartment. “Zinc doesn’t strip in seventy-year-old oak. Ash wanted brass because he likes shiny things.”
“Brass looks better on the brackets,” Ash says. He’s leaning back, his legs tangled with mine under the table, his thumb tracing a slow circle over my knee. “Aesthetics matter, Reed. Even in a hallway cupboard.”
Maren chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron as she backs toward the prep kitchen. “Keep going exactly like you are, I’ll be right back. Forgot the cocoa.”
