Knowing what they were, his behavior made more sense now. Manchu had recognized they were werewolves from the moment he’d set eyes on them. Now she, too, knew the truth.
Dressed in clean clothes, her hair still damp, she took a tremulous breath and headed down the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-One
Pierre unpacked the items from the bag he’d snuck up to get while Melinda was in the shower. The clay teapot and a tin of jasmine tea. Whatever meaning she attributed to it, it soothed her. Something from her childhood, perhaps. On the grainy black-and-white security feed—a poor substitute for the real thing—every time she’d made tea her body would visibly relax. The tension would ease from her shoulders and the worry would slip from her face, replaced by a serene calm and a wistful smile.
Today had been a shock for her. Pierre would have given anything not to have revealed their true nature to her that way, but surrounded by armed men, they’d had no choice. He’d risk everything, even losing her, to keep her safe. Louis, too.
Louis dumped the shards of the crystal glass that had borne his frustration into the trash. “Do you think she’ll come around?”
Pierre shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, if she does, I think we should tell her.”
“Tell her?” Pierre drew in a breath. He knew what Louis referred to. Cordelia. And the real reason they’d been in London.
“We can’t hide what we did, and why we’re really here, from her forever,” said Louis. “Accepting werewolves exist is a far bigger challenge, don’t you think?”
Louis could tell himself that if it made him feel better, but Pierre couldn’t shy away from the truth. “We stalked her online, uploaded malware to her computer, tracked her to London and then lied to her about being nothing more than her new neighbors. Oh, and the woman she believes is a victim, is reallyan evil witch with a vendetta against our pack. If finding out we’re werewolves doesn’t make her run, that will.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “Or maybe you’re referring to the fact she’s our mate, and we want to claim her by biting her and turning into a one of us. After today, any mention of our teeth anywhere near her and she’ll be on the next flight back to London.”
Louis paled. “Maybe we wait a bit to tell her that part. Until she’s not so afraid of us. But the rest of it… If not now, then when? The longer we leave it, the worse it’ll be when it comes out.”
Pierre would rather Melinda never found out, but Louis was right about one thing. Theywouldhave to tell her. If only for her own safety. Melinda continuing to believe Cordelia needed saving could be dangerous for them all.
A light footfall at the top of the stairs had them both freezing.
“Leaving?” whispered Louis.
“Where would she go?” he mouthed back.
The creak of the stairs continued as Melinda descended, heading not for the front door, but toward them. A little of the tightness eased in his chest. He hadn’t been too certain shewouldn’tleave.
Pierre set the kettle to boil as Melinda appeared in the doorway, uncertainty pouring off her. She eyed the teapot and the tin of jasmine tea laid out on the bench.
“I thought you might like some tea,” he said.
She took a deep breath and blew it out again, her gaze flicking between them. He didn’t dare move an inch, lest she bolt.
She stepped into the kitchen. “Do you know how to make it?” She cleared her throat. “Properly?”
He did. He’d watched her enough times on her security feed, longing to take her in his arms and soothe away her stress. Guiltlodged like a lump in his chest. “No.” The lie tasted thick on his tongue. “Can you show me?”
She hesitated for a brief second, then joined him behind the kitchen counter. “You have cups?”
Louis produced three cups and set them on the counter.
“My mother taught me Gongfu Cha—the traditional way of making tea. It was important to her. Respecting tradition. She used to say it’s a way of mindfulness and a way to connect with others, but also to yourself.” She cradled the teapot. “This was my mother’s.”
“You were close?”
Melinda rubbed her hands over the pot with a reverence reserved for holy relics. “When it was the two of us, making tea, it was like the rest of the world didn’t exist. We were in this bubble and nothing could touch us.” Melinda set the pot on the counter. “That was most likely because my mother never made tea when my father was around.”
That she was willing to share something of herself, of her past, those precious moments with her mother, touched him and buried him in a good measure of shame. What would she think of him—of them—when she found out what they’d done? What they were still doing? Maybe Louis was right. Maybe they should lay bare everything.
“Anyway, you have to warm the clay first.” Melinda poured boiling water into the clay teapot and all three cups. “It helps prevent the pot from cracking, and it maintains the temperature so you get full flavor from the leaves.” Her expression softened as she swished the water around before tipping it into the sink.
Pierre held up a cup. “These, too?”
