Emotion tingles the backs of my eyes, and I sway in place, reaching for the air to keep me suspended. Is it possible to feel such a strangely intimate connection to a person already? Talking with Ryder isn’t anything like the others; he doesn’tterrify me for all the reasons he should. He feels safe, especially holding me how he is. It makes zero sense, and I wish I understood this obvious trauma response.
“Breathe for me. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
I feel it, but I part my lips to take in as much air as I can—Banff mingling with Ryder. I hold it for a few seconds and then release on a slow breath.
“Again.”
I obey him easier than any order Mom has ever given, and without the thought of rebellion.
“That’s good. Better?”
How do I admit thathesinglehandedly helped ease the weight I ran outside being crushed by? I don’t, so I merely lower my chin and break my gaze. The house, and two shifters in front of it, redirect my focus to where exactly we are and what I should be doing instead.
As the moment passes, Ryder’s hand slowly drops from my chin and he steps away, taking with him that warm sense of belonging that’s been pulling me his way. Silver flashes through his eyes, but he looks away just as quickly, concealing whatever the moment meant for him too.
“I’ll be back.”
As I head for the house, the two wolves move out of my way and pass me with a considerable long look. I don’t look behind me to see them join Ryder as I enter through the door and call out for Mom.
“Kitchen,” she shouts, so I go there, finding her seated at the table with hands wrapped around a cup of tea, one finger tapping the handle repetitively.
Tightness squeezes my chest as I settle in the chair across from her; a feeling probably similar to what she’s experiencing. The power to make or break our relationship rests with me.
“Did you ever want kids?”
She hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip. “Not really. I wasn’t chasing a relationship or a family. The Sinclairs were close friends and always destined to have a child, so I’d get my fill through them. That’s not to say I haven’t enjoyed being a mother—beingyourmother.”
“Thank you.” I stretch, resting a hand on top of hers, halting the slight quiver to hers. “For giving up your life to raise me. Whoever my birth mother was, she chose the best house to drop me at. If she’s watching from Summerland, she’ll be happy to see what I’ve become—the womanyoumade me into. My chance at this life is because you took me in. Whatever the story behind my birth is doesn’t matter. I’m curious, but not so much I’d ever risk this one to figure it out.”
She squeezes my hand back in return, gratitude seeping through her touch. “It’s been simple to raise such a wonderful woman. But for you, for your mother, I would like to know the truth.”
“Maybe going to Twilight Grove will get me those answers.”
At the mention of them, Mom’s skin turns ashy and she rips her hand away to stand, circling the kitchen. “I really wish you weren’t doing this, especially after what you now know.”
“I’m not re-hashing this.” I sigh, falling against the chair’s backing. “I’ve only come to say goodbye and pack a bag.”
“Why not remain here and the wolves can return for you in a few days?”
Ryder wouldn’t go for that. He’d want me close, not trusting we wouldn’t fuck them over. I’d do the same in his position.
“It’s not what I’ve agreed to. Before I go, I’m hoping you might have a pain potion or something we could give Alaric to hold him over.”
She stops pacing, the instinct to deny helping them almost instant in her defensive snarl, but it’s gone by my second plea. “I’ll grab him something while you pack.”
With that, I take my exit, heading upstairs to my bedroom. There’s an old backpack discarded on the floor that I stuff a hoodie, sweats, leggings, sneakers, jeans, and a couple tops into. Anything frilly, feminine, or summery remains in my drawers; they won't do for my unwanted camping trip.
Then I change out of my dress and into more suitable clothing before re-dressing in Ryder’s hoodie.
The room is central to my entire life—my childhood. There are pictures of Mom and me hung on my wall, others of Jasper and me. The only one I have of Harlow, from my sixth birthday, is in a frame atop my dresser. A wooden pentacle hangs above my bed, one I’ve prayed to countless times—and I do again, silent and alone before turning for the doorway. My hand brushes the fairy lights framing my door as I reach over to find the small switch, flicking them off for good.
IfI see this room again, it won’t be the same Carina Hargrove returning.
In the bathroom, I grab soap, toothbrush, and toothpaste. Although magick can tide me over, there’s nothing better than real soap.
When I return downstairs, Mom’s nowhere to be seen, but voices propel me to the front door.
They better not be arguing again.
