Our Aurora Borealis (Blue Lake Series Book 3)

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The rich scent of mahogany and aged paper lingered in Rylee's office, offering a comforting contrast to the emotional intensity of the recent dinner. It was late, and the packhouse was settling into a post-meal lull, but inside Rylee's space—a place she had carved out for both pack management and her own retreat—the lights remained bright, and the mood was shifting from somber reflection to focused excitement.

Milan and Melody had followed Rylee inside, exchanging their lingering grief and familial frustrations for the excitement of wedding plans. Rylee’s desk, usually crowded with pack reports and inter-pack correspondence, had been completely overtaken. It was now a battlefield of joy: a large, sprawling mood board filled with fabric swatches, color palettes, venue diagrams, and several pages of a not-so-carefully detailed budget.

"Alright, ladies," Rylee said, her energy coming back as she pointed to the desk. "It’s D-day—decision day. The wedding is in just over three months, and honestly, I still have no f*cking idea what I’m doing. I need the final decisions on the Big Three: the flowers, the invitations, and the menu.

Melody, who was already leaning over the desk, picked up a swatch of pale gray silk and held it against a crisp white linen sample. She was glowing, not just from the office lighting, but from the quiet, mid-stages of her second pregnancy.

“Okay, but before we dive into the deep end of rose versus peony, we need a celebratory drink. Milan, remember the special occasion when Aunt Zoe gifted Rylee Scotch? It’s hidden behind the 'Emergency Alpha Files’ binder.”

Milan managed a small, genuine laugh, the first completely carefree sound Rylee had heard from her all evening. “Found it. You really classify ‘Which silverware to use’ as an emergency, don’t you, Rylee?” she teased, pouring three fingers into a heavy, crystal tumbler.

“In a pack with nearly a thousand people, if the silverware is wrong, someone will complain. And I have enough fires to put out without dealing with a fork-related rebellion,” Rylee retorted, taking the glass with a grateful sigh. She leaned back in her chair, allowing herself this brief, well-deserved break.

“Speaking of fire,” Milan said, waving her hand over a terrifyingly long list of duties, “I just want to formally apologize again for basically abandoning ship on the planning front. With the twins and the... well, the general cloud of doom I was under, I wasn't here to catch any of the slack.” She winced, looking directly at Melody. “And you, Dot, are pregnant. You should have been resting, not fielding calls about which shade of blush is the 'right' blush.”

Melody dismissed the apology with a casual flick of her wrist. “Girl, please, you needed time, and that’s fine. And honestly, it was a great distraction from the early morning sickness. Besides,” she smirked, “Rylee only assigns me the fun tasks, like sampling the cake and intimidating the caterers. All the real work, like managing the finalization of seating charts and who her matron of honor is going to be, she handles herself.”

Rylee chuckled, taking a sip of the warm, smoky Scotch. “Well, someone has to make sure your dress is hemmed correctly, Mel. I don’t mind. It kept me sane during the last few months of juggling the Royal Pack’s generational curse, the Ryker situation at Golden Moon, and finding a non-tacky way to incorporate white truffle oil into the main course. Which was one thing your Dad insisted on us having.” Melody laughed. Her father was a stickler for his white truffle oil during special events.

Milan’s smile softened, and he looked genuinely regretful. “That’s what I mean, though. You were the one handling all the serious, world-changing Primordial duties—the stuff that keeps us all safe—and I let you also deal with the petty, fluffy stuff. That wasn't fair. Melody's right; you’ve been doing the work of three women. I’m truly sorry.”

Rylee walked around the desk and wrapped an arm around Milan, pulling her into a brief but fierce hug. “Stop, Milan. Seriously, stop. You had to focus on yourself, on Jason, and on those incredible Jade wolf twins. But you’re here now, finally, and that’s what matters. We’re finally all here.” She pulled away, a deep sense of relief settling over her. “Now, enough with the self-flagellation. Let’s look at these invitations. I’ve narrowed it down to two.”

“Self what?” Milan quirked a brow.

“Self-flagellation… It means…”

“I know what it means, Rylee. I’m wondering where you learned such a big word?”

“I’ve been reading. Plus, you learn a thing or two in grammar when you hang out with British people. And a dark witch who’s been alive longer than she cares to admit.” Milan and Melody snickered, and they got back to the real mission at hand: the wedding invitations.

Rylee pulled out two mock-ups from a folder. The first was traditional and simple: thick, ivory cotton paper with dark blue, formal script and a plain, embossed Blue Lake crest. The second was more playful: slightly smaller, made of delicate baby blue paper with a silver foil lettering and a wax seal stamped with intertwined ‘W’ and ‘R’ monograms.

“Okay, the formal one says, ‘We are the most powerful couple of this region, and you will obey our seating chart,’” Melody analyzed, tapping the ivory card.

“And the light blue one says, ‘We are marrying for love, but please note the dress code is still Black Tie Mandatory,’” Milan finished, her eyes twinkling with shared amusement.

“Exactly! See, I knew I needed you two for the critical translation!” Rylee exclaimed. “I like the formality of the ivory, but I think the light blue feels more… us. More like the party we actually want to throw.”

“Go with the light blue, Rylee,” Milan said definitively, nodding at the whimsical design. “It’s celebratory. It’s light. It says, ‘We survived a hell of a lot, and now we’re drinking champagne and dancing until dawn.’ The ivory one is for a treaty signing.”

Rylee’s heart warmed. Milan’s renewed decisiveness, her return to being her strong, opinionated self, was the best wedding gift she could ask for. “Light blue it is. Melody, send the confirmation to the stationer. Next up: Florals.”

Rylee turned to the mood board, where a riot of color was pinned. “I was thinking a clean white and blue palette. Elegant. But then, I saw these pictures of deep burgundy and sapphire blue, and it feels so luxurious, so much more dramatic.”

Melody took one look and groaned. “Oh, Rylee, no. No drama. We are not having a funeral-chic wedding—white, cream, and blue. Classic. Timeless. You’re wearing a spectacular dress; don’t let it compete with flowers that look like they belong in a royal coronation.”

Milan, however, was intrigued. She picked up a deep burgundy swatch. “But why not? It’s your wedding. You don’t have to do 'classic.' It's sophisticated, and it’ll be stunning in the winter light of the ballroom. You and Wyatt are strong, bold people. And you’re a primordial. The white and blue is beautiful, but it’s… safe. The burgundy and blue is unforgettable.”

Rylee paused, her brow furrowing in concentration as she looked from the simple, elegant white to the rich, passionate colors. Melody was pragmatic and traditional, always leaning toward safety and comfort. Milan, despite her recent trauma, had always been adventurous. Rylee loved the dramatic look, but it was definitely a risk.

“I’m torn,” Rylee admitted. “The white is perfect. But the burgundy… It’s a statement.”

“You are a Primordial Luna, Rylee. You don’t do ‘safe,’” Milan said, her voice full of confident persuasion. “Make the statement. Get the moody flowers.”

Melody sighed dramatically, throwing her hands up. “The newly resurrected Queen of Drama outvotes me. Fine. Burgundy and blue it is. But if her bouquet looks like a bowl of fruit punch, I am blaming you, Milan.”

“Duly noted,” Milan replied, taking another sip of Scotch with a satisfied grin.

Rylee experienced a deep sense of gratitude. This small, everyday squabble and return to their relaxed, familiar rhythm felt more significant than any big team victory.

“Okay, last thing, and this is the most stressful, high-stakes decision of the night,” Rylee declared, pulling out a large sheet of paper labeled 'The Menu.' “We have three final choices from the caterer. Option A: Classic beef tenderloin and salmon. Option B: A full, six-course farm-to-table tasting menu. Or Option C: Buffet-style comfort food like burgers, nachos, tacos, and fries.

Melody, ever the mother and traditionalist, immediately voted for Option A. “Tenderloin and salmon. Elegant, simple, and everyone eats it. No one wants to deal with a fussy tasting menu, and the buffet-style is practical, but it’s not for a wedding.”

“I absolutely disagree,” Milan countered. “Option B is out; a six-course meal just means six different opportunities for someone to spill something on their silk dress. But the buffet? Option C? That’s genius. It’s fun, it’s casual, and after the ceremony, after the toasts, when everyone has had a little too much Scotch—they’ll want tacos, not tiny, artistic plates of artisanal beets. It says, ‘We love you, please get tipsy and be happy.’ Not to mention, we’re werewolves and we all have insatiable appetites.”

Rylee examined the options, tapping her finger on the table. She loved the idea of the buffet; it was completely unexpected and definitely fun. But Melody had a point about the elegance.

“Melody, you’re right about the elegance, but Milan’s right about the fun,” Rylee summarized, shaking her head. “We’re throwing a huge party for people who are used to boring, formal pack dinners. They need a surprise.”

Melody threw her hands up again. “Fine! Fine! But you have to include a fancy late-night snack for the old-schoolers who won’t eat a slider. Something with caviar. Especially if you’re planning to invite the Royal Pack, you can’t have the King Alpha of the Royal Pack complaining about a lack of proper canapés.”

“Deal. We’ll do a hybrid: a classic appetizer hour, a main course of elegant yet simple chicken and fish for dinner, and then, at 11 PM, we can bring out the warming trays with sliders, tacos, fries, and nachos.” Rylee jotted down the final decision, a clear line drawn beneath the options. “Compromise reached. Whew, now, I feel a lot better.”

Rylee picked up her glass, holding it high. Milan clinked hers, while Melody clinked her phantom glass.

“To Milan,” Rylee toasted, her voice soft and heartfelt, “for coming back to us. We’ve missed you more than you know.”

“And to Rylee,” Melody added, looking at her best friend and sister-in-law with unwavering affection, “for being the only person who can run this pack, solve international crises, and plan a gorgeous wedding all at the same time. You’re our guiding star.”

Milan’s eyes shimmered with emotion. “Thank you, both. Truly. And Rylee, I promise, from this moment forward, I’m yours. Whatever you need—bridal shower, bachelorette party, or just a good, old-fashioned pack-leader rant—I’m there. No more hiding.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Rylee whispered, tears of relief and love stinging her eyes.

The emotional weight of the evening finally lifted, replaced by a deep and peaceful contentment. The wedding was going to be beautiful, not just because of the burgundy flowers or the late-night tacos, but because the three of them were finally, wholeheartedly, together again. At least, that’s what Rylee was praying for.