Page 23 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
I led her along the creek to the far side of the meadow where a massive cottonwood tree grew at the edge of the forest. Its trunk was easily four feet in diameter, bark deeply furrowed with age. The kind of tree that had been here long before we discovered this meadow, that would still be here long after we were gone.
“We tried to climb this tree once,” Talia said, laughing at the memory. “You made it about six feet up before you got scared and I had to talk you down.”
“I wasn’t scared. I was being strategically cautious.” I ran my hand over the bark. “But look.” I pointed to where someone had carved initials into the trunk, now weathered and grown over but still visible if you knew where to look. “JM + TQ. Friends forever. Summer 2001.”
Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh my god. I’d completely forgotten about that.”
“You carved it with your grandmother’s pocket knife. Said friends forever needed to be memorialized properly or it didn’t count.”
“I can’t believe it’s still here.”
“Trees remember,” I said simply. “They carry marks forward even when we forget we made them.”
She traced the carved letters with her fingertips, and I watched her face as she processed the evidence that our childhood friendship had been real and important enough to document. That we’d thought forever was possible back before we learned how easily people disappeared from each other’s lives.
“We were so sure about everything back then,” she said quietly. “So convinced that friendship was simple and forever meant something.”
“Maybe it does. Maybe we’re just complicating it by growing up.”
She looked at me, and something in her expression made my breath catch. Vulnerability mixed with want, confusion tangled with certainty.
“Jace, I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
“I’m confused. About a lot of things.” She leaned back against the tree, putting a little distance between us. “Coming back toHollow Haven, starting the bistro, trying to figure out who I am when I’m not performing for critics or trying to please someone who couldn’t be pleased. It’s all overwhelming.”
“That makes sense.”
“And you’ve been this constant good thing. These cooking lessons, the easy way we fall back into friendship like no time passed at all, the way you make me laugh and remember what it feels like to enjoy cooking instead of treating it like combat.” She bit her lip. “But I think we both know it’s not just friendship anymore. Or not only friendship.”
“No,” I agreed carefully. “It’s not only friendship.”
“And I don’t know what to do about that. Because I came here to rebuild my career, not to develop feelings for someone. Especially not someone I care about enough that messing it up would actually hurt.”
The admission that she had feelings for me, that she cared enough to worry about messing things up, made something sing in my chest. But I could see the conflict in her face, the fear that wanting something meant risking everything.
“So don’t do anything about it,” I said simply. “Not yet. Just let it be what it is. We’re friends who are attracted to each other and enjoying spending time together. That’s enough for now.”
“Is it? Enough for you, I mean?”
I thought about that. About whether I could actually be satisfied with friendship and attraction when what I wanted was to pull her close and kiss her until neither of us could think straight. To claim her in ways that went beyond carved initials on a tree.
But I also knew pushing would destroy whatever we were building. Talia needed space and time and the freedom to figure things out without pressure. And I wanted her whole, healed, choosing me because she wanted to, not because I’d rushed her into something she wasn’t ready for.
“It’s enough,” I said. “Because you’re worth waiting for.”
Her eyes got bright with tears she didn’t let fall. “That’s a hell of a thing to say to someone.”
“It’s true. You’re worth waiting for, Talia Quinn. However long it takes for you to figure out what you want.”
She pushed off the tree and closed the distance between us in two steps, wrapping her arms around me in a hug that felt like gratitude and apology and promise all at once. I held her carefully, letting myself feel the warmth of her body against mine, the way she fit perfectly under my chin, the vanilla and honey scent that I was starting to associate with home.
“Thank you,” she said into my chest. “For bringing me here. For being patient. For making this easier instead of harder.”
“That’s what friends do,” I said, even though friend felt inadequate for what I was feeling.
We stayed like that for a long moment, holding each other while the creek murmured and birds called from the forest and the meadow existed in its own perfect bubble outside of time and complication.
