Page 24 of The Honor of Being Hers (Terms of Devotion #1)

Lauren noticed it right away.

Her desk was usually tidy, though not obsessively so, papers stacked in neat rows, a tea mug half-finished from this morning, the worn spine of her field notebook splayed open beside a fountain pen still uncapped.

Nevertheless, the flat portfolio lying at the center of her workspace didn’t belong.

The ribbon was a soft slate grey, not a color she’d ever use herself.

And someone had aligned it perfectly parallel to the edge of the wood, like they knew she’d spot it before she even entered the room.

She paused, fingers brushing the frame of the door. No scent gave anything away. No scribbled note. Just the folder, waiting.

Her first instinct was suspicion. She didn’t like being caught off guard anymore. She crossed the room slowly, set her satchel aside, and ran one finger along the edge of the ribbon before untying it. It loosened easily. Whoever had done the knot had been gentle about it.

The folder unfolded with a whisper, not a snap.

Inside, there were thick pages that felt substantial between her fingers: architectural paper, the kind with weight and texture.

Blue lines, Ryan’s distinctive handwriting filled the margins in precise, measured strokes along with subtle smudges where adjustments had been made and re-erased with the care of someone who understood that details mattered.

She pulled the first page into view.

It was a layout of the west wing. The same space she had stayed in since the heat, only…

not quite. Walls had shifted. Rooms realigned.

A soft partition had been added to the corridor that linked her sleeping area to the shared hall.

She stared at the section Ryan had re-labeled: Lauren’s Suite.

Not nest. Not enough room. Not Omega wing.

Lauren’s. The lettering was precise, each character formed with deliberate care.

The second sheet revealed more: a converted eastward corner into a narrow balcony garden. Reinforced glass. A skylight designed to open or darken automatically depending on the time of day. And here, in a smaller script at the bottom of the page, a line of annotation.

This would be yours entirely.

She sat down, carefully, as if the weight of the paper demanded the same attention as her body.

Her fingers trembled slightly as they moved over the lines slowly, reverent in a way she hadn’t expected to feel.

This wasn’t just a revised blueprint for the estate.

This was an offering. A gesture she hadn’t asked for.

There was no assumption, nor was it a dictate from an Alpha to an Omega—just space for her to be herself.

He had created a space for her, right here in the home he already shared with William and Tyler.

She turned the last page and found a scaled rendering of a joint studio.

Sound-treated. Divided storage. Dual lighting.

And a small note in the margin near the corner where the desk would go.

“For the woman who chooses her own words, her own battles, her own future. A space worthy of your brilliance.” Her breath caught in her throat at the simple sincerity of it.

Her throat tightened.

It wasn’t a gift because it cost him anything. Not the design hours, not the money, not the signature in the corner. It was a gift because it left her untouched. It didn’t push. It waited. Every line of it said: You are free. And we want you anyway.

She stood only after a long moment, folding the pages gently back into the folder and smoothing the flap shut. She didn’t re-tie the ribbon.

She slipped it into the top drawer of her desk, rested her palm over it briefly, and let herself feel the strange, quiet safety of what had been offered.

Not a command.

Just a promise that if she said yes, they’d build her something better than the saferoom she’d been staying at.

They’d build her a home.