Page 55 of Pack to the Wall

Chrissy felt warmth spread through her. "Once I get out of Marty's contract, I'm staying here permanently. With Zev." She held her breath, watching his reaction.

"What about your career? All those fans?"

"I can make music anywhere. Real music—not the overproduced garbage Marty was forcing on me." She leanedforward, sudden passion coloring her voice. "Dad, I want you to stay here too. With us."

She expected hesitation, or a request for time to think about such a massive change. Instead, he laughed—a free, unrestrained sound that reminded her of carefree days before fame had complicated everything.

"Honey, you couldn't drag me away from this island with wild horses," he said, his eyes crinkling. "Besides, I'll need to be close when those grandkids start arriving."

"Dad!" Heat rushed to her cheeks, though she couldn't deny the flutter in her stomach at the thought of children with Zev's piercing blue eyes.

"What? That Alpha of yours isn't exactly subtle about staking his claim. The man looks at you like he's planning your future right in front of everyone." Her dad's teasing expression softened. "He loves you, Chrissy. That's all I ever wanted for you."

Chrissy felt a fierce joy bubble up inside her. This—this connection, this freedom to be herself with the people she loved most—was what she'd been missing all year in the spotlight's harsh glare.

"So," her dad said, a familiar mischievous twinkle returning to his eyes. "Think they've got room for an old guitar player in this pack of yours?"

"Funny you should mention guitars. They have some in their music room that will make you swoon," Chrissy replied with a wide grin. "Do you want to go check them out?"

"Lead the way, Luna."

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'seyes 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 whilesimultaneously 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."

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