The hallway was dim, lit only by the golden evening light that poured in through the tall windows of the packhouse. Lyra stood near the stairs, helping Maelin carry folded linens. She was quiet, as usual, her eyes lowered. But her scent—it had shifted. Warmer. Softer. Rich with something Xander couldn’t quite name.
He found her there, and of course, he couldn’t stop himself.
“Careful, little dove,” Xander drawled as he strolled up to her, snagging one folded towel from her arms with a lazy grin. “If you keep being this helpful, we’ll forget you’re supposed to be our precious mate, not a servant.”
Lyra flinched slightly but managed to smile, uncertain. “I… I don’t mind helping.”
Xander leaned closer, lowering his voice just near her ear. “That’s exactly what worries me.”
She blinked at
