I close my eyes, realizing the music is different today.
It doesn’t bring back my memories, but… it eases the pain, strokes its edges, soothing it like balm. For a while, I let myself exist in the muted space the sound creates.
Does Snow know?
How can he know what I need right now?
The balcony is set maybe fifty feet above the ground; that height makes me feel distant from other people’s lives below, and I like that distance.
An hour passes; the harmonica never stops, its music creating a calming presence. I don’t know where he’s hiding, but I don’t need to know. All I need is the comfort it brings, an hour free from anxiety.
Thank you, Snow.
When the sun climbs higher and the heat grows heavier, I go back inside. The room is cool from the air conditioning, even though the roof above must be burning hot.
That’s when I hear a knock at the door.
Lake steps in, so radiant, and his face brightens even more when he sees me.
"Hello, Summer. I hope you slept well. I wanted to let you know I’m going to the mall. I’d like to pick up some things for you. If you have a list of essentials you need, please let me know."
I bite my lip; still, I stay silent, even taking a step back until my shoulders touch the wall. I don’t want to go anywhere, but…
He watches me for a moment, as if he can read that unspoken wish in my eyes.
"Maybe I’ll just drive and get what I feel you may need the most."
Only then do his eyes land on my bed, and he blinks.
"Oh. And I see you already have theimportantstuff." He grins. "So I’ll focus on some nice outfits, since I feel bad about leaving you with all these old T-shirts."
His nostrils flare slightly; he’s obviously sniffing for my Allure.
"Mm… your scent reminds me of violets and lilies. I’ll try to find toiletries that match your natural fragrance," he adds with a warm smile.
Still I say nothing. The discomfort grows heavier. I don’t know if I should thank him or offer to join him. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I feel a bit overwhelmed.
Lake seems to understand. I don’t sense the slightest offense in him. His expression is gentle, almost sweet.
He’s beautiful, really. An exceptionally attractive omega. He really looks in his mid-thirties, though of course I know he’s much older.
His hair falls to his hips in a pale golden braid. His eyes are turquoise, clear and bright, framed by long lashes. Sun and Snow inherited many of his features.
The silence is pressing on me. I don’t want to be a dick to him; he’s so nice. I want to say something, to express gratitude for his hospitality. So I force myself to fight through the discomfort. It feels like digging through a tunnel of snow, but I push forward. With immense effort, I pull one sentence from my throat.
"Thank you."
"Oh, sweetheart. You don’t need to thank me. I understand your situation so well. I was once in the exact same place as you. I spent nearly a year in hell before I came to the home of my current husband, who turned out to be my True Mate."
Lake pulls out his phone, scrolls through his gallery, then turns the screen toward me.
I hold my breath.
The image is horrifying.
It shows Lake, years younger, maybe my age, his face covered in scars: faded scratches, cigarette burns, small cuts, his beautiful eyes like those of a frightened animal.
The sight is unbearable.
