Page 89 of Mane Rival in Store

Rune’s hand stilled on Lark’s back.

“Erik. When he was young. Before the retirement. The photographs your mother keeps in the den—the ones from Oslo, when he was thirty, when the Pride was growing and he was building everything. That’s the face you’re wearing.” Dekel straightened. His easy expression was intact but his voice carried a weight that surprised all three of them. “I’ve been waiting to see that face since we were kids.”

The silence lasted three heartbeats. Rune’s throat worked. Lark’s hand found his where it rested on the counter and threaded her fingers through.

“Well.” Dekel clapped his hands once. “That’s enough sentiment for the decade. Breezy’s sending over the final incident documentation for the insurance carrier. I need your signature on three forms. And someone needs to explain to the landlord’s property manager why there’s a contractor widening a service door between two separately leased retail units without a modification permit, because I’ve run out of creative explanations and my next one involves the phrase ‘structural emergency.’”

“Tell them it’s ventilation,” Lark offered.

“I told them that last week.”

“Tell them it’s accessibility compliance.”

“I told them that yesterday.”

“Tell them the truth.”

“That a lion shifter and a villain entrepreneur fell in love and needed a bigger door?” Dekel raised an eyebrow. “I’ll workshop it.”

He disappeared into the back. The store settled into the late-afternoon quiet that Rune had once called sanctuary and now called something better—sanctuary with company. The classical music from his speakers had been replaced—not by Lark’s playlist, not entirely, but by a collaborative queue they’d built over the past week. His Chopin, followed by her Erykah Badu, followed by his Grieg, followed by her SZA. The music bled between the stores through the open archway, a sound that belonged to both of them.

His phone buzzed.

Aspen: Pappa saw the news about the legal filing. He says—and I’m translating from Norwegian farmer— “The girl has spine. Tell her she’s welcome at the farm anytime. Bring the lipstick.”

Rune showed Lark the screen. She read it. Her face did the thing—the brightening, the warmth, the glow she got when she added another person to her collection of people she valued.

“Your father wants me to bring lipstick to a Norwegian farm.”

“He’s expressing approval.”

“He’s expressing approval through cosmetics commentary. I love your family.” She pulled his phone from his hand, typed a response, and handed it back before he could read it.

Aspen: LARK JUST TEXTED ME FROM RUNE’S PHONE. She said “Tell Erik I’ll bring the entire villain fall collection and we’ll find his shade.” RUNE. YOUR MATE JUST OFFERED TO PUT LIPSTICK ON OUR FATHER. I AM ON THE FLOOR. I NEED TO LIE DOWN.

He stared at the screen. His hair rose at the temples—the involuntary response she’d cataloged from their first week, the lion tell that betrayed every emotion he attempted to suppress. But the emotion now was not frustration or arousal or territorial alarm. It was happiness. Pure, uncomplicated happiness, and his hair’s interpretation of the joy was to stand up and celebrate.

“Your hair is doing the thing.”

“So it is.”

“The happy version. It’s different from the angry version and the turned-on version. I’m building a comprehensive guide.”

“Please don’t.”

“Too late. ‘The Contentment Lift.’ Subsection A: ‘Triggered by mate’s interactions with Pride family.’ It’s very scientific.”

He pulled her off the counter. She came willingly—sliding into his arms, her body fitting against his with the ease of repetition and the electricity of newness. His arms closed around her waist. Her hands landed on his chest. The mark on her right shoulder hummed warm against his collarbone through two layers of fabric.

“I wanted to be there.” Low. Against her hair. “At the meeting.”

“I know.”

“Dekel and I discussed it. The optics of a Sterling Pride alpha attending a legal proceeding against a human defendant carry implications for the shifter community. The council⁠—”

“Rune.” She leaned back in his arms to look at him. “I know. You told me. At 4:00 AM, in bed, while I was trying to sleep, in a seventeen-minute analysis of the political ramifications of alpha involvement in human legal proceedings. I listened to the entire thing. I have notes. The notes say: ‘Rune overthinks. Let him.’”

“Seventeen minutes?”