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“You should have seen their faces.” She laughed, gesturing with her wineglass. “All those old men, thinking they could pull one over on me because I’m a woman. I’ve been making deals since before they were in short pants.”

“That’s why you’re still our chief financial advisor,” Cade said, his tone warm with respect. “No one knows the business better.”

“Except you,” she countered, pointing her fork at him. “You’ve got your father’s head for strategy and your mother’s intuition. Deadly combination.”

I watched their interaction with a familiar mix of admiration and envy. Cade had always been the perfect heir—intelligent, strategic, commanding. Everything I wasn’t. But for the first time, I didn’t feel the usual sting of inadequacy. Instead, I felt astrange sort of pride. He was mine now, in a way I was still trying to comprehend.

After dinner, Aunt Vivian hugged each of us goodbye, holding me a little longer than the others. “I’m happy for you,” she whispered in my ear. “All of you.”

Before I could ask what she meant, she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of her signature perfume and a kitchen full of leftovers.

The brothers left for their respective commitments, and I retreated to my studio, determined to finish the painting of Logan I’d started the night before. Mochi curled up in his usual spot by the window, while Boba flopped dramatically at my feet with a sigh that suggested I was somehow personally responsible for all his life’s hardships.

The house grew quiet around me, but I barely noticed, too caught up in mixing colors and adjusting shadows.

Hours later, I stood back to assess my progress, rolling my shoulders to ease the stiffness. The painting was coming along well—capturing the way the sunset had painted gold across Logan’s shoulders as he’d emerged from the ocean. But something was still missing. The light wasn’t quite right, the muscles not perfectly defined.

“Still up?”

I jumped at Logan’s voice, nearly knocking over my water cup. He caught it before it could spill, because of course he did. Werewolf reflexes were just unfair sometimes.

“I’m almost done,” I said, though we both knew it was a lie. I was never “almost done” when it came to art.

Logan moved behind me, his chest warm against my back as he studied the canvas. “Is that from today?”

I nodded, suddenly self-conscious. It wasn’t finished, but Logan’s small intake of breath told me he recognized himself in the painting.

“You see us like this?” he asked softly, his hand coming to rest on my hip.

“I see you exactly as you are,” I replied, then immediately wanted to sink through the floor at how sappy that sounded. “I mean, you know, anatomically. For art. Because I’m an artist. Who does art. Professionally. Or will, eventually, when?—”

Logan’s laugh rumbled through his chest, cutting off my rambling. “Come to bed,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. “The painting will still be here tomorrow.”

“Five more minutes?” I tried, even as he was already pulling me away from the easel. “Three minutes? Two?”

“Bed,” he insisted. “And a shower. You’ve got paint…” He brushed his thumb across my cheek, showing me the smear of blue.

“Fine,” I conceded. “But only because I can’t see what I’m doing anymore anyway.”

He followed me to my room, waiting patiently while I showered and changed into sleep clothes. When I emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp, I found him sitting on the edge of my bed, scrolling through his phone. Mochi had already claimed his usual spot at the foot of the bed, while Boba had somehow managed to take up most of the pillow despite his small size.

“Better?” he asked, looking up.

“Cleaner, at least,” I admitted, suddenly shy. We’d spent the last week sharing beds, but there was something different about tonight. Something more deliberate in the way he watched me.

It had always been me going to their rooms—Cade’s massive suite, Logan’s minimalist space, or Keir’s tech-filled domain. This was the first time one of them had come to mine, and there was something intimate about having Logan in my space, surrounded by my things.

“Come here,” he said softly, setting his phone aside.

I moved to stand between his spread knees, my hands finding his shoulders automatically. He looked up at me, his green eyes serious in the dim light.

“What?” I asked, suddenly nervous under his scrutiny.

“Nothing,” he said, his hands settling on my hips. “Just… looking.”

“Now who’s staring?” I teased, trying to lighten the moment.

His lips quirked in a small smile. “Studying,” he corrected. “For… security purposes.”