Page 6 of The Honor of Being Hers (Terms of Devotion #1)

The first full day passed under the slow weight of an unfamiliar routine.

The estate felt different in daylight, warmer somehow, with golden morning light filtering through gauze curtains and the scent of cedar wood floors mingling with something that might have been baking bread from the kitchen below.

The floorboards were smooth and cool beneath her bare feet as she padded through the halls, worn to a soft patina by decades of use.

Even the air moved differently here, circulated through systems designed to carry comfort rather than demand attention.

Lauren woke late. No alarm. Just light through gauze curtains, the weight of a real blanket—Egyptian cotton that felt like silk against her skin—and the faint warmth of orange tea steeping beside her bed in a delicate porcelain cup. A quiet gesture. Thoughtful. Unintrusive.

She didn’t have to guess who had left it.

Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.

A text from Dr. Singh confirming that her keynote presentation had been successfully delivered via video link that morning.

The technical setup had worked flawlessly, and the audience response had been enthusiastic despite the remote format.

Lauren felt a quiet satisfaction reading the message.

Her work had been shared, her research recognized, and she’d managed it all from the safety of the estate.

When she emerged into the shared spaces around mid-morning, he was already in the solarium, sitting on a low bench in worn jeans and a soft gray cardigan that looked hand-knitted.

His sandy brown hair caught the morning light as he watched the horses out beyond the glass with that soft, inward focus that made it easy to forget he was an Alpha.

He glanced up when she entered, but didn’t stand. Didn’t speak.

He just patted the seat beside him.

She didn’t sit right away. She wandered first, fingers brushing over the warm wooden shelf of tea tins—smooth bamboo that held the morning sun, the edge of the aloe plant with its thick, waxy leaves, the little tray of grounding tools nestled like casual afterthoughts on the table.

Sandstone rough under her fingertips, polished shell smooth as glass, a weighty malachite egg cool and substantial in her palm.

Heavy. Cool. Real.

She sat.

They didn’t speak for a while. It wasn’t a lonely sort of silence, more like space being held.

“I thought being here would feel like surveillance,” she said at last.

The malachite egg warmed in her palm, its weight solid and grounding. She could feel the faint texture of the stone’s natural patterns beneath her thumb, each ridge and hollow worn smooth by handling.

Tyler didn’t turn his head. “And?”

“It doesn’t.”

“That’s on purpose.”

Lauren’s fingers curled slightly around the malachite. “You made the tea?”

He nodded once.

“Are you always this gentle with shy Omegas?”

“No,” he said. “Just the ones I think might actually let me stay if I’m careful.”

The comment shouldn’t have made her melt, but it did. She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

When he finally rose to leave, he didn’t touch her.

Instead, he just rested one large hand lightly on the bench as he stood, anchoring, not guiding.

His fingers were long, she noticed, with calluses at the tips that spoke of practical work—gardening, maybe, or woodworking.

The kind of hands that created rather than destroyed.

The gesture left the faintest trace of cedar and leather in the air, but it faded quickly, never overwhelming the space she’d claimed.

Later, after lunch, she retreated to her room and reviewed the updated schedule. She felt steadier now. She had slept. She had space. Now, she was ready to know how the days would unfold.

Tyler was first.

Then William.

And there, just below Tuesday afternoon, was Ryan.

She stared at the name for a full ten seconds before her pulse started to rise.

One hour. Tomorrow.

Grounding rotation. Just like the others.

It hadn’t been her idea.

Her hand curled into a fist before she even realized it, and, by the time she was halfway down the hallway, she wasn’t walking, she was moving with intention. With heat in her veins and a tightness in her jaw, she hadn’t felt since her last departmental review.

William was in the reading room, reviewing footage from the symposium on his laptop. The leather chair creaked softly as he shifted, and he looked up as she entered, then closed the file with a decisive click.

“I didn’t approve this,” she said.

“Lauren—”

“You said I had control. That no schedule would include Ryan unless I—,” the words seemed stuck inside her throat.

“You’re not scheduled with Ryan,” William said calmly. “He’s on the general rotation. Nothing’s assigned. You choose to activate or not. No one will knock. No one will enter.”

She stepped closer. “Then why is he listed at all?”

William didn’t flinch. “Because with your history, and after yesterday’s events, he offered to stay away as long as was necessary. Even permanently. And I asked him not to.”

Lauren’s mouth opened, but the next words didn’t come.

William’s voice stayed quiet. “He said he’d leave the estate if that made you feel safer. Said he’d dissolve his claim before it even formed.”

“He doesn’t have a claim,” she said sharply.

“No,” William agreed. “But he could have tried to make one. Alphas have done far worse with far less reason.”

Lauren’s chest felt too tight.

“I’m not defending him,” William added. “I’m telling you what he chose.”

She dropped her gaze.

It was easier than looking at William’s face.

“I don’t want to be managed.”

“Then don’t be,” he said. “Say no. Close the door. Opt out of the hour. You’ll never see him unless you open that door first.”

Lauren stared at the edge of the desk. A deep scratch ran along the oak, long and jagged, like someone had pressed a coin into it once out of habit. Not destructive. Just repeated.

She closed her eyes.

Then nodded.

That evening, she found Tyler again, this time in the back garden.

The sun had dipped low, and the light had turned golden, casting long shadows across the herb beds.

The air was crisp but not cold, the scent of hay and pine and something almost like clove drifted faintly from the barn across the hill.

The gravel path crunched softly under her feet as she approached.

He was trimming the rosemary bush when she stepped outside, his movements careful and precise. The sharp, clean scent of the herb filled the air as he worked, and she could see the gentle concentration on his face—the same focused calm he brought to everything.

“I’m using the hour,” she said.

He didn’t turn. “Yours to use.”

“Stay nearby?”

That made him glance up. “Of course.”

She didn’t say it, but she knew he understood. She’d chosen to let Ryan in. Just for one hour. Just with conditions. Just to see.

Later that evening, Tyler brought her tea again.

Only this time, he didn’t just set it down and leave.

Instead, he settled on the window seat nearby, close enough to be present but far enough to give her space.

She noticed the way he watched her hands as she lifted the cup, not invasive, but attentive.

Like he was cataloguing her comfort level, her stress markers, filing away information for future reference.

“How do you do that?” she asked after a moment.

“Do what?”

“Know what I need before I know it myself.”

Tyler was quiet for a long time, his fingers absently stroking the soft fabric of the cushion beside him.

“I had a sister,” he said finally. “She was an Omega, too. She used to get overwhelmed easily: too much input, too many scents, too many people wanting things from her.” His voice grew softer.

“I learned to read the signs. The way her breathing would change, how she’d hold her shoulders. Small things.”

“Used to?”

“She died in a car accident five years ago.” He looked out the window, his scent carrying a faint note of old grief. “I guess old habits die hard.”

The admission hung between them, explaining so much about his gentle attentiveness, his instinct to create calm around him.