‘Come on, Tristan says gently, “Let me show you what we’ve built.”
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with meaning I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack. But I follow him anyway, my feet moving
almost of their own accord as we step deeper into the garage.
As we walk through the garage, I’m overwhelmed by the scale of it. Twenty bays stretch out before us, each one equipped with the latest
technology.
The familiar scent of motor oil and metal shavings floods my nostrils, but it’s different now…. cleaner, more sophisticated.
Wolves in navy coveralls move with practiced efficiency, their movements coordinated like dancers who’ve performed the same routine a thousand times. The place thrums with productive energy, and I can feel my wolf stirring restlessly beneath my skin.
This is pack, she whispers, her voice filled with a longing I’ve been trying to ignore for five years. This is what pack looks like when it’s working together.
I want to tell her she’s wrong, that this isn’t our pack, that we don’t belong here anymore. But the words stick in my throat because deep down, I know she’s right. This feels like home in a way London never did, in a way Daxon’s penthouse with its cold marble surfaces and designer furniture never could.
As we walk through the main floor, heads turn. Some of the workers look up from their tasks, nodding respectfully to Tristan.
A few of them stare at me with barely concealed curiosity, and I can tell they’re scenting me, their nostrils flaring slightly as they try to piece together who I am and why I’m here.
The wolf in me wants to bare her teeth, to establish dominance or flee–I can’t decide which. Instead, I keep my eyes forward and my
expression neutral,
We walk past the service bays, toward a set of stairs that lead to what looks like office space. My heart is hammering so hard against my ribs I’m certain Tristan can hear it, but I force myself to keep walking, to keep breathing, to keep pretending I’m not falling apart inside.
The administrative offices are up here,” Tristan explains as we climb, his voice carefully neutral. “Accounting, scheduling, parts ordering.
The business side of things.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
At the top of the stairs, there’s a long hallway lined with doors. The walls are painted a warm cream color, and the lighting is soft and welcoming. It’s nothing like the stark corporate environments I’ve grown accustomed to. This feels… personal. Cared for.
Tristan leads me to a door near the end of the hallway, pulling out a key.
1 Bured you might want to see this,” he says, sliding the key into the lock.
1/2
18:24 Fri, Jan 2 d.
Chapter 8
46
I expect to see a typical office, desk, chairs, filing cabinets, maybe some motivational posters on the walls. The kind of sterile workspace
that could belong to anyone, anywhere. Instead, I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia so powerful it nearly brings me to my knees.
The walls are covered with photos from the old shop. Dad and Mom in their younger days, grease–stained and grinning at the camera like
they held the whole world in their hands. There’s the photo of Dad fixing Mrs. Henderson’s ancient Buick, the one he spent three weeks on because he refused to tell her it wasn’t worth saving. Mom organizing the first charity car wash, flour in her hair from the bake sale
she was running simultaneously.
Another photo of Tristan’s parents and mine in the garage, Tristan and Orion by their side while I stood in–between them.
And there, in the center of it all, the last photo we took together as a family. The four of us crowded into the frame, Orion and I staring
into the camera like we’d love to be anywhere but there.
My breath catches in my throat. I’d forgotten about that photo, forgotten about the way Dad’s arm felt around my shoulders, forgotten about the way Mom used to laugh when Orion and I would get into mock wrestling matches over who got to use the best view.
Pictures of Orion and me as cubs cover another section of the wall. There’s one of us “helping” Dad change a tire, both of us more hindrance than help but so eager to be included. Another shows us asleep in the corner of the garage, curled up together on an old blanket while our parents worked late into the night.
Comments
R Visitor
2 Comments >
What happened to their names? The ex name was Daxon and her last name was Morrison?? Now it’s Dixon and Slade …..
7 days ago
37
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
