Page 8 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas (Hollow Haven #2)

"Here," I said, gesturing toward a shelf lined with books about Appalachian history, local wildlife guides, and several volumes about the area's coal mining heritage. "This section should have most of what you're looking for."

Cassian examined the selection with genuine interest, pulling out a book about the region's watershed systems and another about Native American settlements in the mountains. His focus seemed authentic, not just polite browsing.

"This is perfect," he said, then paused, looking at me thoughtfully. "Can I ask you something that might sound strange?"

"Sure."

"Do you think people can really change? I mean fundamental change, not just surface adjustments, but actually becoming someone different from who they were raised to be?"

The question was unexpected and loaded with something deeply personal. I thought about my own journey from Sterling's controlled omega to whatever I was becoming here in Hollow Haven.

"I think people can choose to change," I said slowly. "But it usually requires giving up something you thought you wanted in favor of something that turns out to matter more."

"Even if that choice comes with serious consequences? Like disappointing everyone who's invested in your success?"

"Sometimes those consequences turn out to be the best thing that could have happened to you," I said, thinking about leaving Sterling, about choosing uncertainty over security.

"You just have to be brave enough to face the possibility that your old life wasn't serving you as well as you thought it was. "

Something shifted in Cassian's expression, like I'd said something he needed to hear.

"What if the right thing—the thing you know you should do—goes against everything your family expects from you? What if it means losing everything they've built for you?"

"I think the right thing is always the course of action that means you can live with yourself afterwards," I said quietly.

"Even if it totally changes your life. Because sometimes those are the best changes that could have happened, and you just have to be brave enough to face the possibility of them. "

He was quiet for a long moment, holding the books like they contained answers to questions he was afraid to ask.

"That's wise advice," he said finally. "And terrifying."

"The best advice usually is."

"Thank you, Willa. For the book recommendations and for..." He gestured vaguely. "For understanding that sometimes the right choice isn't the easy one."

"Thank you for checking on me earlier. And for reminding me that not everyone wants to tell you how to live your life."

He smiled, and for the first time since he'd entered the store, he looked genuinely relaxed. "I have a feeling that woman would have very strong opinions about both of us if she knew our whole stories."

"Probably. Good thing she doesn't get to write them for us."

"No," Cassian agreed, tucking the books under his arm as he headed toward the counter to pay. "She doesn't."

After he left, I found myself thinking about our conversation.

There had been something beneath the surface, some conflict he was wrestling with that went deeper than typical family expectations.

But whatever it was, he seemed like someone who was genuinely trying to do the right thing, even when it was difficult.

It was nice to meet someone else who understood that sometimes the bravest thing you could do was choose your own path, even when it disappointed people who thought they knew what was best for you.

The camera bag was still in my car, still wrapped in blankets like something shameful. I'd managed to avoid thinking about it for three whole days, convinced myself that I could build a life here that didn't require me to confront that part of myself.

But Mrs. Vaughn's casual mention of photography as a "lovely omega hobby" had brought it all rushing back. The weight of the camera in my hands, the way composition used to come naturally, the satisfaction of capturing a moment that told a story worth preserving.

The way Sterling had slowly, systematically convinced me that none of it mattered.

"Real photographers make money, Willa. Real photographers have clients and commercial success and the kind of recognition that builds careers. What you do is... decorative. Pretty pictures that make people feel good but don't serve any practical purpose."

"If you want to play with cameras as a hobby, that's fine. But don't pretend it's professional work. Don't pretend it's something that could support you."

"Pack life requires focus on what matters. On building something sustainable together. Your little artistic experiments are a distraction from what we're trying to accomplish here."

I shook my head hard, forcing Sterling's voice back where it belonged. In the past, with everything else I'd left behind when I drove away from his carefully controlled life.

But the damage was done. Mrs. Vaughn's innocent suggestion had cracked something open that I'd worked hard to keep sealed.

Now I couldn't stop thinking about the camera equipment, about whether I even remembered how to use it anymore, about what it would feel like to look through a viewfinder again.

The front door chimed, and I looked up to see Elias approaching with what looked like another tea blend. He took one look at my face and immediately shifted into what I was beginning to recognize as his professional healer mode.

"Rough afternoon?" he asked gently.

"Something like that."

"Want to talk about it?"

I almost said no. Almost fell back on my default response of deflection and avoidance. But something about his presence, calm and non-judgmental, made me reconsider.

"Someone suggested I should take up photography," I said carefully. "As a hobby. For omega creative expression."

"And that bothered you because...?"

"Because I used to be a photographer. Before I moved here. And I'm not sure I want to be one again."

The admission hung between us, more revealing than I'd intended. Elias nodded like it made perfect sense, like people went around abandoning their entire professional identities all the time.

"What changed?" he asked.

"Someone convinced me I wasn't very good at it."

"Someone whose opinion you trusted?"

"Someone whose opinion I thought I should trust."

"Ah." He set the tea blend on the counter. "That's different."

"Is it?"

"Trusting someone and thinking you should trust someone are two very different things. One comes from the heart, the other from obligation or expectation."

I stared at him, struck by the simple clarity of that distinction. "I'm not sure I know the difference anymore."

"That's okay. Learning to trust your own judgment again takes time, especially after someone has convinced you that your instincts are unreliable."

"How do you know so much about this stuff?"

"Omega wellness is part of my training," he said simply. "But also, I've seen a lot of people trying to rebuild their sense of self after someone else tore it down. It's more common than you might think."

"Is it possible? To rebuild, I mean."

"Absolutely. But it requires patience with yourself, and the willingness to trust your own experience over someone else's opinions about your experience."

I picked up the tea blend he'd brought, turning it over in my hands while I processed what he'd said. "This is for the photography anxiety, isn't it?"

"This is for whatever you need it to be for."

"Thank you. For the tea and for... not telling me I should just pick up a camera and get over it."

"Healing doesn't work that way. And anyone who tells you it does is trying to rush you for their own comfort, not yours."

After he left, I made the tea and found myself thinking about the difference between trusting someone and thinking you should trust someone. About whether it was possible to rebuild a sense of self that had been systematically dismantled by someone who claimed to love you.

About whether I'd ever be brave enough to unwrap that camera bag and find out if there was anything left of the photographer I used to be.

The thought terrified me. But for the first time since leaving Sterling, it also felt like a possibility rather than an impossibility.

Maybe that was progress. Maybe that was enough for now.