(Edythe POV)
The first notes of music were already in the air when Carlisle guided us back down the aisle and into the space Alice had declared "reception."
It wasn't a ballroom. It was Thomas's backyard with string lights, a cleared patch of grass, and a sound system that had been tested three times and threatened into obedience by someone who weighed ninety pounds and could see the future. The barn was also set up as a secondary option if the Forks sky felt like dropping rain like Renee's tears.
The music came from hidden speakers, of course it did. Alice didn't trust live anything on a day she'd planned down to the last breath.
Edward's playing, recorded, perfect, turned the backyard into something that felt like a chapel without anyone being able to explain why. Mixed in were other popular songs and several love ballets from the 80's she knew Thomas and I would love.
As the sound of Cindy Lauper's Time after Time started to come from the speakers, Thomas led me to the dance area for our first dance. Edward's eye role at the music choice caused my smile to increase even more, if that was possible.
Thomas's hands were warm…
That was still my favorite impossible thing about him.
We stepped onto the grass. It was damp beneath my shoes. The air smelled like crushed greenery and sugar and the faint mineral clean that always followed my family no matter how carefully we tried to behave like ordinary people.
Thomas's hand landed at my waist like he was handling something precious, not something that could throw him through a wall. The thought made my smile sharpen.
I let one hand rest on his shoulder.
Not for balance.
For contact.
For the quiet proof that this was not a scene Alice had arranged, or a story someone had written for us. This was my choice, made visible.
Time After Time wrapped around the yard, slow and human and earnest in a way that made the string lights feel warmer than they were.
Thomas leaned in just enough that only I could hear him.
"Edward just rolled his eyes so hard I'm surprised it didn't make a sound."
I let my smile widen again, just a fraction. "He's suffering bravely."
Thomas's breath left him in a soft laugh. "He is a martyr."
Thomas drew me a fraction closer, as if testing whether the world would let him keep me. His palm stayed at my waist, warm and careful in the way humans were careful when they loved something they didn't fully understand. He guided me, not because I needed it, but because he wanted to lead this, wanted to give me the normal shape of it.
I let him.
My feet found the rhythm without thought. I'd learned to move like a human again for days like this, to let the small sway read as natural instead of too perfect. It was a strange kind of restraint, choosing imperfection so no one would notice the control behind it.
Thomas's thumb made a slow pass along the fabric at my side, an absent-minded touch, grounding himself. Or grounding me.
"You okay?" he asked under his breath.
The question wasn't really about the dancing. It was about the day. About the crowd. About the vows still ringing in the spaces between heartbeats that didn't exist.
"I'm better than okay," I said, and meant it.
His mouth curved, quick and private. "Good. Because I'm trying not to step on your feet."
"You won't," I promised, and let my voice soften. "And if you did, I would survive."
He snorted, then sobered, eyes searching mine like he needed to see the truth behind the joke. He found it. Whatever tension had been sitting under his skin eased, just a little, and his shoulders dropped with a sigh that made the song feel more real.
We turned slowly on the damp grass. The string lights blurred into warm streaks over his shoulder. I could hear the small sounds of the reception building around us, chairs shifting, a laugh cut off and lowered, someone murmuring "look at them" like it was an observation and a prayer.
Thomas leaned his forehead toward mine, not touching, just close enough that his heat brushed my skin.
"I kept thinking," he murmured, "that I'd blink and this would be over. That I'd wake up and be back in some other version of my life."
I lifted my hand from his shoulder to his jaw, fingertips light, contact without pressure. "This is the version you chose."
His eyes flicked shut for a second. When they opened again, they were steady.
"And you?" he asked, quieter. "You really…this is what you wanted?"
The question was careful. Not doubt. Respect.
I let my smile show, small and sharp with how certain it was. "Thomas… I have wanted you in every way a person can want something. Even when I pretended I didn't."
His breath caught, human, automatic, honest.
I slid my hand back to his shoulder and let us keep moving, slow and unhurried, letting the song do what it was meant to do: give everyone else permission to watch without demanding anything from us.
I wondered how many of his questions still came from the man who felt he was a little boy crying for all his loss. Only time would let me silence those doubts, and luckily, time is something we have.
The last thought settled into me with an odd, unfamiliar softness.
Time.
For most of my existence, time had been a thing I endured. A long hallway I walked because there was nothing else to do. It had carried loss, distance, hunger, and patience sharpened into something hard.
With Thomas, it felt different. Not endless.
Ours.
The song drifted into its next verse, and Thomas's hand shifted slightly at my waist, subtle, protective, like he could feel the weight in my silence and wanted to hold it up with me.
His eyes flicked past my shoulder for half a second, taking in the yard the way a man does when he's still learning to believe he's allowed to keep what he has. Then he looked back at me, and his mouth pulled into that half-smile that always looked like he was trying to hide how much he meant it.
"You're thinking too hard," he murmured.
I arched a brow. "I don't know how to do anything else."
"That's a lie," he said, and it was gentle. "You know how to kill things."
I let a quiet sound escape me, almost a laugh, too small to count as one. "That is not the skill we're featuring today."
"It's in the brochure somewhere," he said, deadpan, and his thumb made another slow pass along my side like he couldn't help himself. Like the simple fact of touching me was still something he wanted to confirm again and again.
We turned. The grass gave slightly under his feet. He adjusted without thinking, leading me away from a slick patch, keeping the motion smooth enough that the humans wouldn't notice.
Of course he did.
Thomas didn't do anything halfway. Not even pretending to be ordinary.
My gaze slid outward for a moment, quick, controlled. Renée sat forward, eyes bright and wet, her attention fixed on us like she was trying to memorize every second before it could be taken from her. Charlie stood stiff near the edge of the dance space, hands shoved into his pockets like that could keep him from being seen caring. Sue was beside him, close enough to anchor, far enough to let him pretend he didn't need it.
Bella watched with that same thoughtful steadiness she'd carried through the ceremony, but now there was something warmer threaded through it, like she was letting herself believe that "forever" could be a choice and not a trap. She leaned into Edward's side just slightly, and he shifted without thinking to make room for her. A quiet habit. A quiet promise.
Leah's eyes tracked everything…me, Thomas, the crowd, sharp and watchful the way a wolf watched a clearing.
She caught me looking.
For a beat, neither of us moved. Then she gave the smallest dip of her chin. Not approval. Not surrender.
Acknowledgment.
It was enough to make something in my chest ease, a fraction.
Thomas followed my gaze, found Leah, then found the tension he didn't fully understand behind it. His jaw tightened once, then loosened as he looked back to me.
"You good?" he asked again, softer this time.
"Yes," I said. And then, because he deserved more than a single word, I added, "I didn't know I could have this."
His hand stilled at my waist. His eyes held mine like he was bracing for something heavy.
"I did," he said simply.
It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't certainty born from ignorance. It was Thomas, choosing belief like it was a weapon he'd decided to use for something gentle.
The chorus returned, familiar, human, earnest, and he drew me closer again, forehead nearly touching mine without quite closing the last inch.
As the song started to wind down, I made a suggestion, "How about you ask Renee to dance, and I ask Charlie. Then we follow it up with Esme and Carlisle?"
He bent down and gave me a quick kiss, "Sounds perfect Mrs. Raizel."
We separated as Edward's song he wrote for Esme started to come over the speakers. I made my way to Charlie and Sue, "Mrs. Clearwater, may I steal your date for a dance?"
Charlie sighed and took my hand, the thin satin of my glove still holding the last trace of Thomas's warmth, and then, with the grim determination of a man walking into bad weather, he let me lead him toward the cleared patch of grass.
Sue's smile didn't soften. It sharpened, quiet triumph, like she'd just won an argument without saying a single word.
"I'm warning you," Charlie muttered as we stepped into the edge of the dance space, "I don't dance."
"That's all right," I told him. "I'm not asking you to dance. I'm asking you to stand here with me while the music happens."
He blinked at that, suspicious. "That's dancing."
"It's surviving," I corrected, and let the smallest hint of humor touch my voice.
Charlie's posture stayed stiff as a fence post. His palm was rough against mine. Human. Alive. His pulse beat steadily at his wrist, a metronome I could have counted without thinking.
I did not think about it.
I moved with human timing. Slower than my instincts. Less perfect than my body preferred. I kept my hold light, guiding without trapping, because Charlie Swan didn't need to feel handled. He needed to feel respected.
For the first few steps he watched our feet like the ground might betray him.
Sue, watching from the edge with her hands folded, lifted her eyebrows in silent approval.
Charlie cleared his throat. "So. This is… nice."
It was the closest he would ever come to beautiful.
"It is," I said quietly.
His gaze flicked across the yard, string lights, tables, the barn standing ready like a backup plan, and then, inevitably, it landed on Thomas.
Thomas had moved the way he always did when he chose something: directly.
He was already dancing with Renée, he had her laughing, actually laughing, her shoulders lifting, her face turned up toward him like he'd handed her something she hadn't known she was still allowed to want. For a second his expression softened in a way I rarely saw, like the part of him that still carried old grief had found a place to set it down.
"He's going to miss his mother today," I said quietly. "I'm glad Renée could come."
Charlie's gaze stayed on them. His jaw worked once, like he wanted to argue with the sentiment on principle and couldn't find the energy.
The song wound toward its end. I'd already found Carlisle with my eyes, because some instincts didn't turn off just because the music was slow.
"You happy?" Charlie asked suddenly.
The words came out blunt, like he didn't know how to shape them into anything softer.
I met his eyes. Held them.
"Yes," I said. "I'm happy."
Charlie stared at me for a long beat, like he was deciding whether he was allowed to believe that. Then his gaze flicked, quick, toward Sue, and whatever he saw there made his shoulders drop a fraction.
"Then…" he cleared his throat, rough and quiet, "talk to each other. Don't let things fester. I did that. Most problems don't fix themselves."
"We will," I promised.
The song ended. I guided him back to Sue before he could pretend he'd never said any of it.
"You should get him out here again, Mrs. Clearwater," I told her lightly. "I just proved it's possible."
Sue's mouth twitched. "You did," she said, voice low. "And please, call me Sue."
"I will," I answered, and meant it.
Sue slid her hand back onto Charlie's forearm with an ease that said mine without saying a word. Charlie didn't pull away but adjust for it subconsciously.
Across the yard, Phil watched Thomas and Renée with a fond, resigned expression, the look of a man who'd made peace with being outnumbered by feelings.
The next song began, and I moved toward Carlisle just as he offered his hand to Esme.
Esme 's eyes flicked to me. She gave the smallest shake of her head, gentle, decisive, like a message passed without words: not this one.
I stopped behind Carlisle, close enough that only he could hear me, and waited until his attention flicked back.
Then I asked, softly, "Care to dance with your daughter, Father?"
He turned to face me, joy on his face, then he nodded once.
"I would be honored," he said, voice soft enough that it belonged to me and not the yard.
Carlisle guided me onto the grass as if it were any father and daughter at any reception.
Carlisle's palm settled at my shoulder blade, light and respectful. Not because he needed to be careful with my strength.
Because this was how you danced with your daughter in front of humans.
"You look beautiful," he said quietly.
I tilted my head. "That is not an unbiased assessment."
"No," he agreed, and there was a faint smile in his voice. "It isn't."
I watched Thomas over Carlisle's shoulder; he had approached Esme after returning Renee to Phil. The happiness on Esme's face was apparent for all to see as she took his offered hand and moved to the dance area with him.
Carlisle took note of the new couple dancing near us and smiled in fondness. "He makes her happy without even trying. You have found a good man, little Edythe."
I matched Carlisle's pace, deliberately imperfect, letting the small sway read as ordinary. It was almost…peaceful, in the way a familiar lie could be peaceful when it kept everyone else safe.
Carlisle's voice softened again. "How are you, truly?"
The question wasn't about the dance. It was about the ring on my hand. About the vows. About the shift from almost to always.
"I feel…settled," I said, and the word surprised me with how accurate it was. "Like something that has been braced for impact for a very long time finally realized it could stop."
Carlisle's eyes warmed. "That is what I hoped today would give you."
I watched Thomas laugh at something Esme said, small, private, meant only for her, and my chest tightened with a feeling I still didn't have a name for. Not sorrow. Not fear.
Gratitude, sharp enough to hurt.
"I didn't know I was allowed," I admitted, quieter. "To want a day like this. To want him."
Carlisle didn't rush to fill the silence. He let it exist, the way he always did when someone needed to hear their own truth out loud.
"You were always allowed," he said finally. "You simply learned, over time, to confuse endurance with virtue."
I looked up at him. "And you?"
His brows lifted slightly. "Me?"
"You've had to watch all of us," I said. "Hold ourselves together. Pretend we didn't want things. Pretend we didn't ache for them. Did it…" I hesitated, because the word felt too sharp for a day like this. "…hurt?"
Carlisle's expression didn't change much. It never did. But something in his eyes shifted, an old ache acknowledged, then tucked back into place.
"Yes," he said simply. No drama. No self-pity. Just truth. "But it was never a burden to love you."
My throat tightened. Useless, unnecessary. Habit.
Carlisle's hand rose to my cheek, not to wipe at something that couldn't happen, not to fuss. Just a brief, careful touch…comfort delivered in the only language he ever used: steady presence.
"You're married now," he said, and there was a gentle humor in it, like he was testing the word for how it fit. "Does it feel different?"
I glanced at the ring. The band was cool against my skin. Permanent without being heavy.
"Yes," I said. "Not because it changed what I feel."
"Because it made it visible," Carlisle finished for me.
I nodded once.
"Then," Carlisle said softly, "my only advice…if you will tolerate it,"
"I will," I answered immediately.
His mouth curved, just barely. "Do not stop choosing each other after the day stops being beautiful."
I held his gaze. "We won't."
Carlisle's eyes flicked past me, subtle, checking the yard the way he checked a room, humans comfortable, vampires composed, no sharp edges about to cut.
Then he looked back at me, and his voice lowered.
"And Edythe… if at any point you find yourself frightened by how much you have, come to me. Not because I can fix it," he said, gentle and honest, "but because you should not have to carry that fear alone."
My chest tightened again, that familiar ache that came when love had nowhere to go but deeper.
"I won't," I promised, and then corrected myself, because he deserved precision. "I will. If it happens."
Carlisle nodded once, satisfied, not because danger had been removed, but because the plan included honesty.
The song began to taper off, the last notes stretching thin across the yard.
Carlisle guided our final turn with the same calm grace, then released my hand slowly, like he didn't want to jar the moment.
I smiled, "Thank you for… Everything."
The next dance partner I approached was sitting in a chair looking rather stern of face but wistful in the eyes.
"Care to dance with me, Leah?"
Leah's head lifted at my voice.
For a heartbeat she looked like she might say no out of sheer reflex, like the word lived somewhere in her bones and didn't require thought. Her posture stayed rigid, shoulders squared, hands braced on her knees as if the chair might try to slide out from under her.
But her eyes, those were different. Wary, yes. Sharp. And tired in a way that wasn't about sleep.
She glanced past me, quick and automatic, taking in the yard the way a soldier took in exits. The humans laughing too loudly to cover nerves. My family moving with careful restraint. The cleared patch of grass that had been declared safe.
Then her gaze came back to mine.
"You're serious," she said flatly.
"I am," I answered, and kept my tone gentle without making it pity. "You came. You sat through everything. That deserves…something better than being left alone in a folding chair."
Leah huffed once, almost a laugh, but it didn't have humor in it. "You're really trying to make me look like the bad guy at your wedding."
"I'm trying to make you look like a beautiful woman," I corrected quietly. "The kind who gets asked to dance."
Her eyes narrowed like she wanted to find the trick in that sentence. Like there had to be one.
Because kindness, for Leah, was usually a hook.
I offered my hand and waited. I did not rush her. I did not soften my posture to seem less threatening. I was what I was. She knew it. Pretending otherwise would be an insult.
The yard moved around us, music shifting, people rising and sitting and pretending not to watch. But Leah stayed still, staring at my hand like it had teeth.
"You know I can't…" she started, then stopped.
Can't what? Touch me? Be seen with me? Let herself enjoy anything without paying for it?
I didn't fill in the blank for her.
"I'm not asking you to like me," I said. "I'm asking you for one song."
Leah's jaw worked. Her gaze flicked over my shoulder, once, to Thomas. To confirm something, perhaps. To measure whether this was his idea.
"But… My control, what if I slip? I do not want to ruin your day."
The pain in her eyes made my heart ache.
"You won't," I said simply.
Leah's mouth twitched, humorless. "That's a bold promise."
"It's not a promise about you being perfect," I corrected, and kept my voice low so the humans wouldn't hear the shape of the truth in it. "It's a promise about me being prepared."
Her eyes narrowed. "Prepared how?"
I lifted our joined hands slightly, still offering, still not pulling. "We stand on the edge of the dance space. No spins. No dips. No crowding. One song, slow steps. If you feel it…if you feel anything shift, then you let go and you step back. That's it."
Leah stared at me like she didn't know what to do with a plan that didn't come with judgment attached.
"And if you step on my feet," I added, letting the faintest trace of dry humor touch the words, "I will survive."
That earned a single breath of a laugh from her, small, startled, gone almost as soon as it appeared. Like it had slipped out without permission.
Her gaze dropped to my hand again. To the invitation she'd been treating like a trap.
"You really don't understand," she murmured, more to herself than to me.
"I understand enough," I said. "You're trying to protect people you don't even like from yourself. That's not nothing."
Leah flinched at that, not because it was cruel, but because it was accurate.
For a long second, she stayed frozen, caught between instinct and dignity.
Then she exhaled through her nose, the sound sharp with surrender that wasn't surrender.
"One song," she said again, like the rule was the only thing holding her together.
"One song," I agreed.
She placed her hand in mine.
Her palm was warm, not quite as warm as Thomas, but there was strength under it that didn't belong to an ordinary girl. A tension coiled tight beneath her skin, like the wolf was awake and listening.
I kept my grip light.
Not because she could hurt me.
Because she needed to know she couldn't.
We stepped onto the grass at the edge of the cleared patch, where the string lights didn't glare and the humans wouldn't press in. The music was slow, forgiving, something Alice had chosen for exactly this kind of fragile truce.
Leah's shoulders stayed rigid. Her eyes swept the yard once more, fast and automatic.
Then she looked at me, jaw set.
"If I ruin this…"
"You won't," I cut in, gentle but absolute. "And if anything goes wrong, it will be because someone else forgot where they were. Not you."
That made her blink.
It shouldn't have, but it did.
Because Leah was used to being the problem people planned around.
I shifted my hand to guide, careful to move with human timing, imperfect on purpose. I let her set the distance. Let her decide how close was tolerable. I let her take the lead.
Leah took one step.
Then another.
And the third step was the first one that didn't look like she was bracing for impact.
Her eyes stayed sharp.
But the fear in them eased by the smallest fraction.
Like maybe, just maybe, she could make it through one song without paying for it later.
Leah's mouth tightened, like she didn't trust the softness in her own body any more than she trusted mine.
"You do this a lot?" she asked, voice low, rough around the edges.
"Dance?" I tilted my head. "No."
That earned me a look, flat disbelief.
"I can," I clarified. "But I don't…need to. Humans do it because they have to work for grace. It means something to them."
"And to you?" she challenged.
I let the question sit for half a beat. Not because I didn't know. Because I wanted the answer to be clean.
"To me," I said quietly, "it means I can stand here and not frighten anyone."
Leah's eyes flicked to the crowd again, quick and involuntary.
"Don't flatter yourself," she muttered. "You're still terrifying."
"I know, but that's only because you know what I am." I said, calm. "And you're still here."
That hit something in her posture. Not enough to crack it. Enough to prove she felt it.
We moved in slow time. One step, then the next. The damp grass gave under our shoes, a soft drag that kept Leah grounded in her body instead of her head. Her fingers stayed tense in mine, not squeezing, not relaxing, like she was waiting for the exact moment the world would demand payment.
I watched her face instead.
Not to analyze.
To notice.
A human would have called her beautiful and meant cheekbones and hair and the way her dress fit. I could see all of that, of course. But what I saw first was the strain: the way she held her jaw as if it might splinter, the way her eyes didn't settle anywhere for long, the way she kept herself ready to move even while she stood still.
"You don't stop scanning," I observed softly.
Leah's gaze snapped to mine. "Habit."
"No," I corrected, gentle. "Training."
Her nostrils flared. "Same thing."
"It isn't," I said, and kept guiding us in a slow arc so we didn't draw attention. "Habit is comfort. Training is survival."
Leah's lips pressed tighter. She didn't deny it.
For a few beats we just moved. The music filled the space between us, something human and careful that made even the string lights seem less harsh.
Then Leah said, barely above the song, "You're not supposed to want this."
I didn't pretend not to understand.
"You mean I'm not supposed to want this," I said.
Leah's eyes sharpened. "You're a vampire."
"Yes."
"And he's…" Her gaze flicked past my shoulder, toward Thomas, and the word caught like it didn't want to come out. "He's not."
I could have corrected her. Could have explained what Thomas was in the ways that mattered. Could have told her about strength and shifting and the fact that "fragile" wasn't the right category.
But Leah wasn't talking about muscles.
She was talking about rules.
"The world loves rules," I said quietly. "Rules are easy to blame when people don't want to admit they made choices."
Leah's throat worked. "Choices get people killed."
"Sometimes," I agreed. "Sometimes choices keep them alive."
Her hand twitched in mine. A tiny spike of tension, like the wolf inside her heard the word alive and wanted to argue.
Leah swallowed. "You make it look easy."
I felt something sharp and private cut through me at that. Not anger. Not offense.
Recognition.
"It isn't," I said simply. "I'm just practiced."
She stared at me, and for the first time since I'd asked her to dance, her eyes didn't look like they were searching for the trick. They looked like they were searching for the cost.
"Why me?" she asked.
There it was.
Not why dance. Not why now.
Why Leah.
I let our steps slow, barely, enough that I could answer without it sounding like a speech.
"Because you're here," I said. "Because you keep showing up to things you don't want to show up to. Because you're treated like a problem when you're actually…a person."
Leah flinched like the word person was the cruelest thing I could have offered.
"Don't," she muttered.
"Don't what?"
"Don't…" She exhaled hard, as if the air was too sharp. "Don't make me…soft."
I didn't smile. I didn't reassure her the way Alice would have.
I just said the truth.
"I can't make you anything," I told her. "I can only give you space to be what you already are."
Leah's eyes glistened, not with tears. With pressure. With heat that had nowhere to go.
She looked away fast, toward the edge of the yard, toward the barn, toward anything that wasn't the feeling rising in her chest.
"Leah," I said softly.
Her gaze snapped back, furious at herself more than me. "What."
"You're holding your breath," I said.
Her jaw worked. Then she forced air in, harsh and audible.
It made her shoulders drop, just a fraction.
And in that fraction, I saw it: how exhausted she was from being on guard every second of every day. From being the only one in her own head. From carrying anger like it was the only thing that could keep her upright.
We kept moving.
One song.
Just one.
The music shifted into its last refrain, the melody thinning, stretching toward an ending.
Leah's grip finally loosened, not much.
But enough that her fingers stopped feeling like they were made of wire.
"I don't…" she started, then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "I don't know what you want from me."
I let my voice stay quiet. Private.
"I don't want anything from you," I said. "I want you to stop believing you only exist to pay for other people's choices."
Leah went still mid-step.
Just for a beat.
Then she moved again, because stopping would mean breaking.
Her voice came out raw. "That's not how it works."
"It can," I said. "If you let it."
Leah's eyes flicked, quick, toward Thomas again, like checking whether the world was watching this moment too closely.
Then she looked at me, and the words came out like they hurt.
"You don't know what it's like," she said. "To have your whole life, your whole future, rewritten without your consent."
I didn't look away.
"I know more than you think," I said softly.
Leah's expression twitched, suspicious again, reflex.
But the song ended before she could find the argument.
The last note faded into the air, and the yard shifted, people clapping for someone else, laughter rising in the wrong places, a chair scraping.
I released Leah's hand first.
Slowly.
Giving her control of the ending.
She took one step back like she'd been burned, then froze, realizing she hadn't.
Her eyes met mine.
For a second, the wolf and the vampire and the human-shaped world around us didn't matter.
Just two girls who had survived too much.
"Thank you," I said quietly. No weight. No demand.
Leah's jaw tightened like she hated the fact that the word wanted to exist.
"…Yeah," she managed, and then added, rougher, "Don't make a big deal out of it."
"I won't," I promised.
Leah turned to go, then hesitated, half a breath.
Her eyes cut to mine again, sharp but not hostile.
"If you ever…" She stopped, swallowed hard. "If you ever do whatever this is again…"
I waited. Still. Patient.
Leah exhaled. "Warn me."
The corner of my mouth lifted, small, private.
"I will. And Leah… I plan to make a habit of spending time at Thomas's rock every Thursday night."
She nodded once, tight, controlled, and walked back toward Sue and Charlie like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn't just made it through one song without paying for it.
But I watched her shoulders.
And they were not as rigid as they'd been when I'd offered my hand.
I had barely let Leah go before Kate appeared at my side, close enough to feel like she'd always been there, smooth, amused, and entirely too aware of everything happening at once.
"Really?" she asked, lips curving. "You asked the wolf before you asked me. What am I supposed to think?"
I turned toward her. "That you didn't need rescuing from yourself."
Kate's gaze slid past me to where Leah had returned to Sue and Charlie, posture still guarded, but no longer locked like a trap. "And she did?"
"She needed…permission," I said quietly. "One song where no one expects her to be a weapon."
Kate studied me for a beat, the teasing still on her face but changing shape. "So that's why."
"That's why," I agreed.
Her eyes flicked, briefly, to Thomas across the yard. He'd just finished dancing with Angela and was stepping back with that careful gentleness he used when he didn't want to overwhelm anyone human.
Kate looked back at me. "You're thinking about his future."
I kept my expression calm. "I always think about his future."
"No." Kate's voice stayed light, but her eyes were sharp. "Not the next week. The next decade."
The words landed cleanly.
I didn't deny it. There was no point pretending with Kate.
"We can't give him everything humans expect to have," I said softly. "Not the way they picture it."
Kate's mouth twitched. "And you're wondering if Leah could."
I held her gaze. "I'm wondering if Leah could ever have a life that isn't only pain and duty."
Kate went still for a half second, just long enough to show she understood the difference.
"Better," she murmured. "Because if you were trying to 'use' her, I'd bite you myself."
A dry sound escaped me, almost a laugh. "Noted."
Kate's expression brightened again, the public version sliding back into place. She offered her hand like we were only two women at a wedding and nothing more.
"Now," she said, "are you going to fix the insult, or do I tell everyone you've replaced me with a wolf?"
"One dance," I said.
Kate's fingers closed around mine, cool and familiar. "Finally."
I guided her toward the center of the cleared patch of grass at a human pace, keeping my posture relaxed, my smile easy, exactly what the crowd expected to see.
Only Kate would notice the truth under it.
As we stepped into the edge of the dance space, she leaned in just enough for only me to hear.
"After this," she murmured, "you tell me what you're really planning. And I'll tell you what the Denali will do if Irina's grief turns into something uglier."
I met her eyes, calm and certain. "Deal."
A.N.
I was trying to finish the Wedding in this chapter, but there is still more I want to accomplish so it will continue a bit more. But, since I have time to play with, I will ask if you as readers want a wedding night R18 scene or have you had enough of that in this story for now? Please let me know.