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“What do you think it is? It kind of smells like spaghetti.”

Sarina has her face near the door and is inhaling deeply. I didn’t know Emin could cook, but whatever he’s making smells good enough that even I’m getting whiffs of it through my broken nose.

I sit on the bed, legs crossed, going through the gems I had left in my jacket from the dark market. I line them up, touch my fingers to them, try to estimate what I can get for them.

Part of my deal with Dorian was that he would contact Willow discretely, offer her safety here, and ask her to get my bundle of money from under my mattress. My chest pinches when I think of Willow, hope that she’s okay.

She’s a strong woman, been taking care of herself for a long time. But I have no idea if Jerrod will send people after her. If they’ll discover the connection between us and try to extort it to find us.

“Mom,” Sarina says again, eyes flicking to mine. “Maybe we could just go and see—”

I bite my tongue. There are two protein bars in my purse, and if I’m being honest, that’s what I thought we’d be having. If it was just me, I’d stay in this room for the whole night, just to avoid going out and seeing Emin.

But it’s not just me, and Sarina has her hand over her stomach, a tortured look on her face.

“Fine,” I sigh, scooping up the gems, sliding them back into the velvety pouch, and swinging my legs off the bed. When I face her, I lean down, smooth my thumbs over her cheeks, her freckles. “You stay here. I’ll go see if I can bring some in.”

She nods eagerly, and I close the door behind me, casting a weak protection spell over it. Some of my strength is coming back. I can’t wait until I’m at full power again.

I go down the steps as quietly as I can, slowing when I realize there are voices sounding in the kitchen—Emin isn’t alone. There’s a woman with him.

Stupidly, something like jealousy rears its head inside me, and I push it down, trying to ignore the clawing, desperate feeling. There’s no reason—absolutely none at all to be feeling like that about Emin.

That’s proven extra true when I peer into the kitchen and see Kira Argent standing at the stove, an apron wrapped around her, a spoon in her hand.

“Veva!” she turns and smiles at me, popping out her hip. “Come in, come in!”

I step into the kitchen cautiously, glancing over when I hear lowered voices. Dorian and Emin sit at the breakfast bar, laughing and talking about something on Dorian’s phone. When I appear, they glance up, and Dorian waves at me.

Without thinking, I wave back.

“Thank the gods you’re here,” Kira says, opening a drawer, pulling out a spoon, and handing it to me. “Please taste this and tell me what it’s missing.”

Everything about this situation feels like a fever dream. Just beyond the guys, on little play mats, I see the two boys on their backs, reaching for hanging toys, gurgling and laughing happily.

Cautiously, I step forward, accepting the spoon and trying the sauce.

Without meaning to, I close my eyes and let out a little noise. It’s some sort of Bolognese, perfectly savory, with all the right notes of sweetness, salt, and acid.

“Nothing,” I hear myself say after a second. “I don’t think this is missing a thing.”

When I open my eyes again, Kira is beaming at me. “Have I ever told you you’re my favorite?” she asks, taking the spoon back from me and depositing it in the dishwasher. She strikes me as the kind of woman that’s very efficient in the kitchen.

“Pretty sure those two are your favorites,” I joke, gesturing at the babies, and her face softens.

“I’m sure you get that those two are in a league of their own. No competition.”

Silence falls, the understanding of two mothers hanging between us.

“Speaking of kids,” Kira smiles, gesturing to a large rectangular bag just outside the kitchen. I blink at it, realizing it’s piled to the top with folded clothes. “That’s some stuff I whipped up for you and Sarina.”

“Oh,” I say, shaking my head and putting my hand to my chest, “Kira, you didn’t have to—”

But I’m cut off by the sound of my daughter’s voice, nervous and hopeful at once.

“Mom?”

Kira and I turn at the same time to find Sarina in the doorway, her eyes wide as she takes it all in. I can’t even find it in me to be upset that she didn’t stay in the room when she smiles, asking, “Is it spaghetti?’

“Same kind of sauce,” Kira says. “Different noodles. Would you like to try some?”

Sarina nods, and in the next moment, she’s receiving her own taste of the sauce. After a second, she delivers the same praise I did.

“Are you a chef?” Sarina asks, and I see Kira glancing over at her husband, something there in those words.

“Not yet,” Kira says. “But I’d like to open a restaurant around here in a few years, when the boys are older. That’s a secret between me and you, though, okay?”

Sarina’s eyes get wide, and she nods. Kira turns back to the stove, and Sarina says, “Do you…do you have any books?”

Kira looks over her shoulder at my daughter. “This isn’t actually my place, but my brother Emin probably has at least a few books lying around here.”

My heart freezes when Emin looks up, his eyes landing on Sarina. A dialogue between the two of them, their eyes meeting. My daughter and her dad.

I watch Sarina carefully. Can she tell? Can she feel it?

“You like to read?” Emin asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” Sarina shifts from foot to foot nervously, glances back at Kira as though for reassurance. “Kira said I could get a library card…”

“Come on,” Emin says, pushing up from the counter. “I’ve got something that can hold you over until then.”

When he turns and starts walking down the hallway, Sarina glances at me, a question in her eyes—should we follow him?

Before he can turn back and see us hesitating, before Dorian and Kira can wonder too much about the pause, I nod, putting my hand on her shoulder briefly before we tail him down the hallway.

Emin pushes the door open to a study, revealing a large oak desk, a worn rug, and light spilling in from the windows outside. It’s gorgeous, and the walls on the left and right are both lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

“Wow,” Sarina says, mouth open as we step inside. Her eyes dart to Emin’s, and she says, “You like to read, too?”

“I sure do,” Emin laughs, running a finger along the shelf. He glances at his hand and seems satisfied that there’s no dust. “Though, our tastes might be a little different.”

“Can I—can I read any of these?” Sarina asks, and when Emin nods, she moves through the room, taking out book after book and piling it in her arms, like we’re in the library.

My heart is flipping in my chest at this entire situation, and I’m torn between being happy for my daughter and being terrified at the three of us, in this room like this. The soft, open look on Emin’s face as he watches her run her finger along the spines.

Luckily, a call from Kira pulls us all from this trance.

“Come on, you three!” she says. “The food is ready!”

Sarina and I return to our guest room so she can set her books on the end table, and when we come back downstairs, Kira and Emin are already seated around the table.

Kira has one baby crooked in her arm, his face and her breast hidden by a nursing blanket, and Dorian comes back with the other, the little man held aloft in the air.

“Mission accomplished,” Dorian says. “Clean as a whistle.”

Dorian gets the boys back on their mats, then we’re all settling in at the table. There’s pasta, salad, a plate of roasted veggies, and even homemade lemonade that Kira passes around proudly.

“For that deep lemon flavor,” she says, “you want to macerate the lemons, not juice them. That’s the trick. These are from the lemon tree in our backyard.”

“It’s great,” Emin says, and Sarina asks, “What’s macerate ?”

“It means I slice them up and cover them with sugar,” Kira mimes cutting, then sprinkling with sugar. “The sugar pulls the water out of them, making a sweet syrup.”

The conversation continues to flow around us, with Sarina asking questions of all the adults. Asking Dorian what it’s like to be an alpha leader, asking Emin how much his house cost. They’re all charmed by her, even when I try to explain to her that some questions are inappropriate.

“No, it’s okay,” Emin says, laughing. “Do you know what a mortgage is?”

Without meaning to, I relax. I smile, I laugh, and realize at some point in the night that I’m experiencing something I’ve never really had, other than with Willow and a few others in camp.

Community. Family. A sense of belonging.

Sitting up straighter in my chair, I push that feeling away—no matter how warm and enticing it is—and remind myself that this isn’t permanent. That being back here, in the Ambersky pack, is not what my future looks like.

No matter how nice it is to finally have a seat at the table.