Page 27

Chrissy led her dad through the resort pathways, her bare feet padding across the polished stone.

The jungle night hummed around them, a symphony of cicadas and distant waves that seemed to play backup to her racing heartbeat.

Her dad's eyes widened at every turn—at the torch-lit paths, the cascading flowers, and the glimpses of the moonlit sea through the trees.

"This place is breathtaking," he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "No wonder you didn't want to go back."

Chrissy squeezed his arm. "Just wait until you see the music room. It's small but... special."

When they reached the main lodge, she guided him to the tucked-away room where she'd sung for the pack children days earlier.

Pushing open the door, she watched her dad's expression transform from curiosity to reverence.

The two professional acoustic guitars gleamed under the warm lighting, their polished wood reflecting the glow like honey.

"Oh my God," her dad whispered, approaching them with the hesitant reverence of someone entering a sacred space. His fingertips hovered over the strings of the nearest one. "These are?—"

"Custom Martin D-28's," a deep voice finished from behind them.

Chrissy's heart skipped as Zev stepped into the doorway, leaning his muscular frame against the jamb. He wore dark jeans and a simple black henley that stretched across his broad chest, his stubbled jaw catching the light as he nodded toward her dad.

"Please, feel free to play," he added, his commanding presence filling the small room. "They're meant to be used, not just admired."

Her dad turned to Zev, his green eyes bright. "You sure about that? These are expensive."

Zev's lips curved up into a half-smile that made Chrissy's stomach flutter. "I'm sure. Besides, I want to hear where Chrissy got her talent from."

The simple compliment made her chest warm. She'd spent twelve months surrounded by people praising her voice while simultaneously trying to change it. But Zev just appreciated who she actually was.

Her dad lifted the nearest guitar with a reverence that bordered on worship, settling it against his chest like reuniting with an old friend. He strummed once, the perfectly tuned strings resonating through the small room, and closed his eyes in appreciation.

"This is incredible," he murmured, adjusting his fingers on the fretboard. Then he began to play.

Chrissy recognized the opening notes instantly—a lullaby he'd written for her after her mother left, a song that had never been recorded but had been played at her bedside through countless childhood nights. Tears sprang to her green eyes as the familiar melody filled the room.

Zev moved behind her, his strong arm encircling her waist as he gently pulled her back against his chest. "Play with him," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "Use my grandfather's guitar."

He nodded toward the corner where the older instrument sat, its worn wood bearing the patina of generations of music. The significance of his offering wasn't lost on her—it was solidification into his family and his lineage.

Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted it, feeling its perfect weight in her hands again. "Dad," she said, her voice wavering, "let's play 'Rainy Sundays.'"

Her dad's eyes lit up. "We haven't played that together since?—"

"Before all this 'pop star' madness," she finished, settling on a stool across from him. "I think it's finally time."

Their fingers found the strings simultaneously, muscle memory taking over as they began the song they'd written on a stormy weekend when she was fifteen. It had never been recorded, never performed—just theirs, a private language between father and daughter.

"Remember watching raindrops race down the window," she began singing, her voice pure and unprocessed in the intimate space. Her dad's harmony joined her on the chorus, their voices twining together in the familiar pattern they'd created in their tiny kitchen a decade ago.

Chrissy's gaze lifted to find Zev watching them, awe etched across his features. His piercing blue eyes glistened with something suspiciously like tears, though his powerful stance hadn't changed. The Alpha who'd killed to protect her hours earlier now stood transfixed by their simple melody.

As the final notes faded, the silence held something sacred—a moment untouched by contracts or obligations or predatory managers. Just music and family.

"That was simply beautiful," Zev said, his voice rougher than usual. "You two should record that together."

Her dad laughed. "Not sure Empire Records would be interested in a folk duet with a has-been almost-was."

"Screw Empire Records," Chrissy said, suddenly fierce. "We'll build our own studio right here on the island. Record whatever we want."

The rebellious declaration hung in the air. Suddenly, after months of hopelessness and despair, Chrissy felt herself planning a future she actually wanted—one filled with authentic music created on her own terms.

Zev's eyes darkened with approval, his stance shifting as he crossed the room to her. His fingers brushed her cheek gently.

"Whatever you need, Luna," he murmured. "This island is yours now."