Page 16 of Laced With Secrets

“Like Thomas Wong?” I asked. “He had an eye for beautiful spaces like this?”

Richard’s breath caught at the name.

“He did,” he finally said. His tone was carefully neutral, but there was something beneath it—not quite grief, not quite regret. Something more controlled.

“Did he visit often?” I asked, keeping my voice equally neutral.

“Often enough.” Richard’s hands continued their work. “He had questions about the native plants. Restoration ecology. The trilliums particularly interested him.” A pause. “They’re delicate. Easily damaged. He felt they were worth protecting.”

The way he said it felt weighted, as if he was talking about more than flowers but unwilling to say so directly.

“It must have been nice,” I ventured, “having someone who appreciated your work here.”

“I didn’t start cultivating them until after—” Richard’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “After his disappearance.”

His voice betrayed decades of loss, but his control snapped back into place almost immediately. He stood, brushing dirt from his hands with finality.

“Your grandfather Benji understood craftsmanship,” he said, clearly changing the subject. “Creating beautiful things requires patience. Care. Understanding what’s needed for something fragile to thrive.” His ice-blue eyes met mine. “I suspect you’ve inherited that understanding.”

Before I could respond, the greenhouse door burst open with a bang that made both of us jump.

Dominic stood there, his expression wild with concern and barely controlled alpha frenzy. His eyes found me immediately, scanning me from head to toe, taking in my disheveled state—hair mussed from the attic work, dust coating my clothes, a smudge of what was probably soot on my cheek.

“Leo.” His voice was rough with relief and residual panic. “I’ve been trying to reach you for twenty minutes. Your phone?—”

“Doesn’t work here,” Richard finished. “Cell coverage is spotty on the estate and nonexistent out here. You must be Dominic Steele.”

“I am.” Dominic crossed to me in three strides, stopping just short of touching me. His hand lifted toward my face, hesitated for a heartbeat, then dropped. The restraint in that aborted gesture—respecting my boundaries even in his obvious frenetic state—made my chest ache. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” I reached out to grab his hand, my fingers entangling with his. “I just needed some air.”

Through our bond, I felt his desperate need to pull me close, to scent me, to verify I was safe. But he held himself rigidly still, giving me the space I’d demanded even though it was clearly killing him.

“And you’re Richard Fairfax Sr.,” Dominic said, his silver gaze finally shifting to meet the older alpha’s stare.

“Guilty.” Richard studied us both with calculating ice-blue eyes. “Your mate was admiring my conservation work.”

Dominic’s hand settled on my back—light, almost tentative, as if expecting me to pull away. When I didn’t, his entire body seemed to relax fractionally. “We should get going.”

“Of course.” Richard returned to his potting bench, washing his hands in a utility sink. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Leo.”

“No, thank you,” I said quietly.

As Dominic guided me toward the door, I glanced back to find Richard kneeling again beside his trilliums, his shoulders bowed as he resumed work.

A man tending flowers in a dead zone. Was he surrounded by ghosts only he could see?

We walked in silence for several moments, Dominic’s hand a gentle presence on my back. The cold December air felt sharp after the greenhouse’s humid warmth. I inhaled deeply, the unmistakable metallic tang of approaching rain tickling my nostrils.

Finally, Dominic spoke, his voice carefully controlled. “What were you thinking? Wandering off alone to talk to a potential suspect?”

“I didn’t know he’d be there,” I said tiredly. “I needed to get away from that dusty attic and found the greenhouse. He was already inside.”

“Leo.” He stopped on the path, turning to face me. His hand lifted to my cheek, hesitated for a heartbeat, then gently brushed at the soot there. The tender gesture, so careful and restrained, made my inner omega keen with longing. “You’re covered in dust. And soot.”

I touched my face self-consciously, my fingertips grazing his skin. I leaned into his palm, enjoying the warmth of his skin against the chill. “The attic was filthy.”

“You need a bath when we get back.” His voice roughened slightly, carefully. “I could… help with that. If you wanted.”