THE BIKER ALPHA WHO BECAME MY SECOND CHANCE MATE

I'VE ALWAYS HAD A FAMILY ALL THIS TIME

Chapter 6

"Come on," Tristan says gently, "Let me show you what we've built."

The words hang in the air between us, loaded with meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to unpack. But I follow him anyway, my feet moving almost of their own accord as we step deeper into the garage.

As we walk through the garage, I'm overwhelmed by the scale of it. Twenty bays stretch out before us, each one equipped with the latest technology.

The familiar scent of motor oil and metal shavings floods my nostrils, but it's different now.... cleaner, more sophisticated.

Wolves in navy coveralls move with practiced efficiency, their movements coordinated like dancers who've performed the same routine a thousand times. The place thrums with productive energy, and I can feel my wolf stirring restlessly beneath my skin.

*This is pack,* she whispers, her voice filled with a longing I've been trying to ignore for five years. *This is what pack looks like when it's working together.*

I want to tell her she's wrong, that this isn't our pack, that we don't belong here anymore. But the words stick in my throat because deep down, I know she's right. This feels like home in a way London never did, in a way Dixon's penthouse with its cold marble surfaces and designer furniture never could.

As we walk through the main floor, heads turn. Some of the workers look up from their tasks, nodding respectfully to Tristan.

A few of them stare at me with barely concealed curiosity, and I can tell they're scenting me, their nostrils flaring slightly as they try to piece together who I am and why I'm here.

The wolf in me wants to bare her teeth, to establish dominance or flee—I can't decide which. Instead, I keep my eyes forward and my expression neutral.

We walk past the service bays, toward a set of stairs that lead to what looks like office space. My heart is hammering so hard against my ribs I'm certain Tristan can hear it, but I force myself to keep walking, to keep breathing, to keep pretending I'm not falling apart inside.

"The administrative offices are up here," Tristan explains as we climb, his voice carefully neutral. "Accounting, scheduling, parts ordering. The business side of things."

I nod, not trusting my voice.

At the top of the stairs, there's a long hallway lined with doors. The walls are painted a warm cream color, and the lighting is soft and welcoming. It's nothing like the stark corporate environments I've grown accustomed to. This feels... personal. Cared for.

Tristan leads me to a door near the end of the hallway, pulling out a key.

"I figured you might want to see this," he says, sliding the key into the lock.

I expect to see a typical office, desk, chairs, filing cabinets, maybe some motivational posters on the walls. The kind of sterile workspace that could belong to anyone, anywhere. Instead, I'm hit with a wave of nostalgia so powerful it nearly brings me to my knees.

The walls are covered with photos from the old shop. Dad and Mom in their younger days, grease-stained and grinning at the camera like they held the whole world in their hands. There's the photo of Dad fixing Mrs. Henderson's ancient Buick, the one he spent three weeks on because he refused to tell her it wasn't worth saving. Mom organizing the first charity car wash, flour in her hair from the bake sale she was running simultaneously.

Another photo of Tristan's parents and mine in the garage, Tristan and Orion by their side while I stood in-between them.

And there, in the center of it all, the last photo we took together as a family. The four of us crowded into the frame, Orion and I staring into the camera like we'd love to be anywhere but there.

My breath catches in my throat. I'd forgotten about that photo, forgotten about the way Dad's arm felt around my shoulders, forgotten about the way Mom used to laugh when Orion and I would get into mock wrestling matches over who got to use the best view.

Pictures of Orion and me as cubs cover another section of the wall. There's one of us "helping" Dad change a tire, both of us more hindrance than help but so eager to be included. Another shows us asleep in the corner of the garage, curled up together on an old blanket while our parents worked late into the night.

Awards they'd won line the bottom of the display. "Best Local Business" three years running. "Community Service Award" for the free oil changes they gave to single mothers. Newspaper clippings about their business, yellowed with age but carefully preserved behind glass.

Memories. All of it, memories preserved like treasures in a museum dedicated to the life I walked away from.

"We saved everything," Tristan says quietly, and when I turn to look at him, his expression is gentle but watchful. "Every photo, every award, every memory. We thought... we thought maybe someday you'd want to see them."

I can't speak. The words are there, trapped behind the lump in my throat, but they won't come out. I just stand there, staring at the evidence of who I used to be, of the family I left behind, of the parents whose memory I failed to honor when I ran away to London and tried to become someone else.

"Athena," Tristan says, and something in his voice, makes me turn around.

He's standing behind a large desk, his hand resting on something that makes my heart stop completely. A nameplate. Clean and professional, the letters etched in gold against black marble.

*Managing Director, Athena Slade.*

My breath catches. The room seems to tilt around me, and I have to grip the back of a chair to keep from swaying. "What is this?" I whisper, my voice barely audible.

Tristan's expression is gentle but serious, his dark eyes holding mine steadily. "It's yours. It always has been."

I stare at the nameplate, at the desk, at the office that's clearly been waiting for me. The chair is leather, worn soft in all the right places. The desktop is organized but not sterile, with a few personal touches—a small plant in a ceramic pot, a pen holder that looks handmade, a leather portfolio with my initials embossed in the corner.

"I don't understand," I say, even though I'm starting to. Even though the pieces are clicking together in my mind like parts of an engine finally falling into place.

"I think Orion would be the best to explain the situation," Tristan says carefully, and I can hear the weight of unspoken words in his voice.

I just stand there, rooted to the ground, different emotions and thoughts crashing through me like waves against a rocky shore.

I feel a sting in my heart, sharp and sweet and terrible all at once. I have a family. I've always had a family all this time. While I was in London begging for scraps of affection from someone who saw me as a pretty thing to keep around, Orion and Tristan were here, building something, waiting for me to come home.

Daxon never loved me. I can see that now with painful clarity. He never saw me as family, never saw me as anything more than a pretty accessory to his successful life. But here, in this office with my name on the door, I can feel the love that went into every detail. The care that preserved every memory. The hope that kept this space waiting for me.

"Athena?" Tristan's voice is gentle, concerned.

I reach up to touch my cheek and my fingers come away wet. I've been crying without even realizing it, tears streaming down my face as five years of buried grief and longing finally break free.

Tristan pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it out to me. I stare at it for a moment, then at him, before taking it carefully. Our fingers don't touch, I'm not ready for that kind of contact yet, but the gesture is so kind, so perfectly Tristan, that it makes me cry harder.

I walk to the chair. My chair. And sink into it, trying to process what I'm seeing. What I'm feeling. This desk, this office, this nameplate... it's mine. With no strings attached. No Daxon to tell me how to dress, when to smile, what to say. No one to control my every move and then act like they're doing me a favor.

I could work as I please. I could be myself. The thought is so foreign, so terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, that I don't know what to do with it.

Tristan's phone rings, cutting through the heavy silence. He glances at it, then at me. "I should take this," he says apologetically. "I'll be right back."

I nod, not trusting my voice, and he steps out into the hallway. The moment he's gone, my own phone buzzes against my hip. Orion's name lights up the screen, and I stare at it for a long moment before answering.

He's been avoiding my calls since he sent Tristan to pick me up instead of coming himself. Our communication has been reduced to brief text messages..... "How are you feeling?" "Do you need anything?" "Tristan will be take care of whatever you need." The messages too plain.

"How do you like your office?" His voice comes through the phone warm and familiar, and I can hear the carefully contained hope in it. "Anything you want to change? You can tell me or Tristan and we'll change it immediately."

My heart swells. I've missed Orion so much it's like a physical ache. He's the only family I have left, the only person who knew me before I became Daxon's polished, broken doll. Despite everything, despite the time and distance and all the words we haven't said, he's still my brother.

"Chill, bro," I say with a shaky laugh, and I can hear his sharp intake of breath at the old nickname. "I like my office a lot. It's just as I love it."

And it's the truth. The chair, the desktop, the photos, the interior design—it's all exactly how I would have done it myself if I'd had the chance. It's like they reached inside my head and pulled out my deepest desires, then made them real.

"When was all this done?" I ask, my voice breaking with unspoken emotions. When did you do this? When did you decide I was worth waiting for?

There's a pause, and I can almost hear Orion choosing his words carefully. "Three years ago," he says finally.

The words hit me like a physical blow. "What?"