I am just getting curious about what thisaetheris when my aunt’s shrill cry jolts me into the present. I drop the book on the coffee table in front of me and jump up from the couch. Tappinginto my hellseeker speed, I zip to the basement door.
The second my fingers wrap around the handle, my aunt barrels out, slamming into my side and almost head-butting me. Luckily, I dodge right at the last second. I still suck in a serrated breath, though, at the pain rippling all over my body.
“Oh, snapdragons! I almost gave you a concussion. Sorry about that. Are you okay?” she inquires while pushing the curtain of wet hair out of her face.
Confusion pulls at my eyebrows. “I’m fine. But are you? Why are you wet?”
Aunt Josephine pushes past me in a hurry, half-yelling on her way to the entrance hall. “Because a pipe burst in the basement, and it’s soaking all the boxes as we speak.” She comes back, purse in hand. “Darn it, where is that phone?” she huffs as she rummages through it. “I’m going to call a plumber. Can you please start bringing the boxes up into the living room? Or whatever is left of them. And hurry. I’ll be right with you once I find an available plumber.” My aunt doesn’t swear, so she mumbles a few euphemisms instead until she fishes the phone out of the bag.
The musty smell, enhanced by the water coming in rivulets from the burst pipe in the ceiling, coats my lungs as I descend the stairs. I blink a few times to adjust to the dim lighting. It’s a good thing this happened now and not after she had already renovated or added any bookshelves and books. The water is pooling so fast it already reaches my ankles when I step onto the cement floor. I shudder in disgust. I hate it when my feet get wet.
Pushing the feeling aside, I grab the two boxes that are right under the spray. As much as I try to avoid it, my hair still gets soaked while I stack them on top of each other. The second my right foot touches the first step, the sopping bottom of the first box I’m holding gives out. Something passes in between my hands, falling right into the murky water with aplop.
Hastily, I balance the boxes on the steps and bend over to fish out whatever that was—maybe a notebook. It only takes a few seconds for me to find it, but it’s so wet it’s dripping. And it’s not a notebook—it’s a leather-bound book? Or maybe a journal? Shit. What if it was my grandmother’s? My aunt is going to kill me. I untie it and thumb through it to see the damage. Hopefully, it’s not too bad. The ink is smudged, and the writing is incomprehensible on most of the pages, but there are some that are still dry.
My eyes skitter over one of those pages. “Owen blindsided me today. He confessed his love to me, and I just stood there, not knowing what to say. He tried to kiss me and—”
I look away. This has to be my aunt’s journal—a journal I have no business reading, especially about her intimate moments with her dead fiancé. When I’m about to close it, though, the words a few rows further down catch my attention: “I should tell my sister, but how could I when they’re getting married in only three months? And she has been radiating happiness ever since he proposed.”
Holy shit! Is this—did this belong to my mother?
“The plumber is coming in twenty minutes.” Aunt Josephine’s voice pulls me into the present.
Pulse hammering in my ears, I slam the notebook shut, then shove it into the waistband of my jean shorts at my back, under my tee, before she pops into the doorway.
Even if it’s selfish, I don’t want to show it to her. Besides, I don’t think my aunt will be too happy to find out her dead fiancé was in love with my mother. When I used to live here, she often cried while looking at his photo, clutching the engagement ring—which she still wears on a gold chain around her neck—for dear life.
She gives me a weird look as she hurries down the steps. “Are you okay? You only moved two boxes? C’mon, they’re all gettingwet!” she shrieks, pushing past me.
“Yeah, sorry,” I mumble and join her in stacking up the sopping boxes on the stairs before bringing them to the living room, the journal burning a hole in my back. I need to see if Sam can salvage at least some of the smudged pages.
We make quick work of clearing out the basement, but most of the boxes are ruined. I help my aunt take out everything she wants to keep so she can dry them, then throw out the rest. My fingers tremble as I open the one that held my mother’s journal, hoping more of her belongings are inside. But I deflate like a balloon when I see it’s filled with junk that wasn’t hers. Someone must have misplaced the journal at some point and put it in there.
I hoped that I would at least find an old T-shirt, even something minuscule like a stray earring or a hair tie…anything really. Even though I just got a piece of my mother back, I can’t help but want more. Heaving out a deep sigh, I grit my teeth and pick up the box. “I think this was the last one. I have to go, Auntie. I’ll toss this on my way out.”
She tilts her head up to look at me from her spot on the living room floor, her legs crisscrossed. “Oh, already? I’m making lasagna for lunch. Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”
“I have plans with Sam. Sorry. Next time?” This is not a lie since I already texted Sam to let her know about the journal. She’s meeting me at Kaiden’s penthouse in thirty minutes.
“Okay, dear. I guess I’ll see you at the compound.”
I throw a hasty goodbye over my shoulder and stride to the door with urgency.
6
Iris
I’m sprawled on Kaiden’s massive couch, watching a new season ofThe Vampire Diaries,but I can’t concentrate because my eyes drop from the humongous screen to the coffee table—where my mother’s journal is—for the umpteenth time. To be honest, I’m surprised I haven’t burned holes in it yet. Since Sam left two hours ago, I’ve done nothing but stare at it. Unfortunately, she couldn’t fix the water damage. Restoration magic is tricky, and it’s not her specialty, but she managed to save some pages. I should find out what they say, right?
My lungs constrict when I pick it up, though, as if I’m on the verge of a panic attack. The trembling in my hands only gets worse as I open it. Blood drums in my ears. The blaring ringtone of my phone startles me, and I drop the journal in my lap. Shit. Ipause the show to answer.
“Miss Harper, there’s someone here for you,” Carter tells me.
“Carter, for the hundredth time, call me Iris, please. I’m not expecting anyone—”
“It’s Ava and Emily Dawson. Ava is Logan’s wife, the alpha of our pack, and Emily is his sister. Should I let them come up?”
“Oh, um…s-sure,” I stammer and hang up. Grunting, I stand, place the journal back on the coffee table, then brush away the wrinkles in my clothes. Thankfully, I changed out of Kaiden’s shirt earlier after taking a bath in the beautiful Victorian claw-foot bathtub, and am now wearing jean shorts and a black tee that fits me like a glove. The fabric is so soft that if I didn’t know better, I would think it’s made of unicorn tears.
