Page 201

“You sure about this?” The guy asks as we park it in the corner of the Morgan Restorations garage.

“Yeah, man. I’m sure.” I get it. The car’s a heap of junk, looking like it’s about to fall apart, but he doesn’t see the vision. Good thing I do.

I’m not sure if the former owners left the 1959 Stolebaker Lark outside to deteriorate or if their family did after they died, but it’s a mess. Paint, vinyl and plastic chips everywhere. The brakes are toast, and the engine is going to need a full rebuild. There’s even part of the trunk missing.

It’s a complete fucking gut job, but all I see is sparkly maroon paint with duochrome flecks to catch the light, custom pink seats in the softest leather and a pearlescent steering wheel ready for tiny, perfect hands to drive. Everything inside designed and bought for Daphne, from the upgraded stereo to the backseat that’s spacious enough for her friends or the pack to ride with her. The safety system throughout the car and the latches I’mgoing to weld to the frame so we have somewhere to buckle our kids.

A chariot fit for our queen.

And I’m doing it alone. No Dez to paint it, no Connor to design. Top to bottom, every aspect of this car is going through my hands.

This project is my grand gesture. A chance at a life I never thought I’d have. A promise and a prayer all at once. And when our family outgrows the Lark—which I fucking hope we do—I’ll find another lump of metal and start all over without complaint because I know in my bones that Daphne is the first and final stop in my search for love. The only thing that fucking matters. And every time she leaves our house, she’ll know I put my all into making sure she’s safe.

Snapping a tarp from my station, I pull it over my secret and tack it down. I wish I could do this at home, but until Dez’s greenhouse is finished, the garage is his domain. I could take it to the pack house, but it feels so fundamentallywrongto take something of Daphne’s there. The shop’s garage is huge, with plenty of bays for everyone to work without crowding, so I doubt anyone’s going to peek. Especially not in my area.

I wouldn’t say our employees fear me, but they’re wary. I’ve been quiet, distant the entire time I’ve worked here. Thinking of Daph with her friends, the warmth I know she brings to her customers has made me wonder if maybe it’s time to change that too.

Maybe this is the next step to healing, pulling myself into the real world one day at a time. Into Daphne’s world because it’s the only place I want to be.

I pull out a notebook and start writing out ideas for the Lark when the far door opens, showing Missy and Sawyer with their heads bent together over a tablet. It’s late, but I can’t exactly call them on working overtime when not that long ago, I washere round-the-clock, day off or not. Guess finding your omega makes it hard to be a workaholic.

For me, at least. Connor seems to manage just fine.

Moron.

I can’t tell if he’s willfully ignoring that he and Daph are still strained or if he truly doesn’t see it but I’m trusting him to sort his shit out before he does long-term damage. Plus, Dez told me I can’t punch him again unless he deserves it.

“Hey,” I say, dusting my hands off on my jeans and carefully moving into the light so I don’t startle my employees. Habit wants me to fall back, but I need to make an effort.

Missy’s head whips up. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Way to sound sketchy, Miss.” Sawyer shoves an exhausted hand through his hair. “What she means is, we weren’t expecting you so late. You’ve been busy.”

I appreciate him more than ever for not outing Daph to Missy yet. We’re not hiding her. We just want more time together as a pack first. Time we’ll need if Connor keeps fucking up.

“Had a delivery.”

The car is a neon sign behind me. Sawyer pulls out his tablet. “I don’t have another project right now. Did I miss something?”

Since his promotion, he’s taken his job seriously. Too serious, I think, but I don’t say that. There’s a haunted look in his eye that I recognize and I’m not the one to comment on his coping choices when mine weren’t any better.

“This one’s personal. Can you make sure no one touches it? I’d take it home, but we don’t have the room.” I shrug.

While Missy seems even more confused, Sawyer understands. He looks away, rubbing a palm over his jaw before shooting me an unsteady smile. “Of course. Good luck.”

“Good luck?”Missy whirls on him, hands planted on her hips. “Don’t you want to know what’s going on? Who that car is for? Why he’s doing it alone?”

“If Nate wanted me to know, he’d tell me.”

She stares at him in complete disbelief, then shakes her head. “Men.”

“I promise to tell you when the time’s right,” I offer, trying to extend an olive branch. “What’re you two doing here?”

Sawyer refocuses on the tablet. “We’ve got three birthdays next week. Missy’s trying to convince me one party is enough, but everyone deserves to feel special. Ya know?”

Pain flares behind my breastbone, immediate and so fucking raw it steals my breath. Mom loved birthdays. She and I would stay up late decorating for Dad or Ella, dancing in the hallways and talking. The memory of her quiet laugh and my sister’s shy but pleased smile when I woke her up with sprinkle pancakes nearly makes me stumble, but I stay strong.

I read once that grief is love that never ends. For the first time, it feels true. I got to hold my baby sister the day she entered this world, both of us surrounded by our devoted parents. And that’s how she left it. With the people who loved her the most. Just because I’m still here doesn’t change that.