“Like an asshole.”
Nathan’s mouth curves slightly.
“That would be my mother,” he says, and there is warmth in his voice that was not there before, “she raised me differently.”
“That obvious.”
“Very.”
We fall into conversation without really deciding to, and the topics shift naturally from small things to heavier ones, from the ridiculous posturing of Alpha gatherings to the pressure that comes with inheriting a legacy you did not ask for.
He listens when I speak and he does not interrupt or dismiss, and he asks questions that feel genuine instead of strategic.
“How the hell are you related to him,” I ask finally, half teasing and half confused.
Nathan’s smile fades slightly.
“Blood doesn’t determine character,” he says quietly, and his gaze drifts briefly toward the ballroom doors
