But mostly, it made me want to run.
I started the truck, engine growling under my hands, and tried to shake off the feeling. I had work to do—fences to check, stock to prep, a million little chores that didn’t give a damn about my aching dick or my fucked-up head.
But as I drove away from the compound, I could feel Arsenal’s words clinging to me, burrowing deep.
You keep lying to yourself, or you just keep lying to me?
Maybe it was both.
I gunned it down the dirt road, rooster-tailing dust behind me, and pretended I wasn’t looking for Brie’s car in the drive.
Chapter 3
Brie
Monday morning found me in a small-town version of hell: brunch at Aspen Waters’ bakery, pretending to be a functioning daughter and little sister while the stench of failure clung to me like stale perfume. I’d worn my favorite vintage scarf and three layers of highlighter, but it wasn’t enough to hide the shadows under my eyes or the general air of a woman whose soul had been put through a meat grinder and left on simmer.
Aspen’s morning rush had cleared out, so it was just us. A pitiful private party. Translation: Harper, Mom, and I sat alone, so I didn’t have to worry about my dignity. Aspen had decked the place out with blue-and-white checkered tablecloths, with wildflowers in mason jars on every table. Sunlight spilled through the large storefront window and made the little glass cases gleam. The counter was overloaded with things that should have been illegal for anyone with a metabolism slower than a rabbit on Red Bull: lemon scones, apple turnovers, mini quiches with browned edges and tiny chives snipped on top.
The best part? No customers. It was just us, and Aspen’s familiar, Oscar, who wore a little bowtie and plaid vest. He scuttled around refilling our tea as if he hadn’t spent the last ten millennia plotting the downfall of all pastries everywhere. I couldn’t help but find it cute, the way he held out a tray of strawberry tarts and called everyone “madam” or “milady.”
I sat at the far end of the table, right next to the window, so I could escape with my eyeballs whenever the need arose.
Mom sat prim and proper; hair swept up in a perfect twist, her sweater set matching the silk of her skirt. She gave me the once-over, her gaze laser-focused on my roots, then my brows, then the scarf, which she’d once called “bohemian, in a kind of sad way.” She smiled wide and brittle as though she hadn’t seen me all morning. “You look… rested, darling. Dairyville must be doing something right.”
Harper sat beside her, posture perfect, hair in an elegant ponytail, and still managed to look more relaxed than I’d ever seen her. Maybe that was the effect of pack life. Or maybe it was just Arsenal’s wolf scent, which clung to her like an invisible blanket. She wore jeans and a white blouse and somehow made it look like a goddamn Ralph Lauren ad.
Aspen emerged from the kitchen, her skin somehow luminous in the bakery light, and sat down a three-tiered tray laden with finger sandwiches and petit fours. “Tea service for three, as requested,” she said, and then to me, softer, “We did the lemon ginger; a personal favorite.”
Oscar, not to be outdone, scampered up onto the table (God bless this pack and its unspoken rules for animal hygiene) and did a little bow. “May I tempt you with a scone, miss?” His British accent was so crisp it could’ve sliced bread.
I took the scone because defiance was exhausting and carbs were the only thing that didn’t judge me. “Thank you, Oscar,” I said, with genuine gratitude.
Mom immediately picked up a napkin and dabbed at her mouth, even though she hadn’t touched a thing yet. “Isn’t this delightful, girls? Harper dear, you must thank Aspen for going to all this trouble. It’s so nice to see a young woman take such pride in her work. Brie, you could learn something from that.”
Harper blushed and shot me an apologetic glance. “It’s amazing, Aspen. Thank you so much. I’m dying for the apple turnover.”
Aspen smiled and poured her a cup of tea, hands so steady it made me hate her a little. I tried to drink my tea, but it was still hot enough to scald the taste buds off a corpse. I set the cup down and focused on breaking the scone into precise, angry halves.
Mom was off to the races, commentary flying like buckshot. “Brie, I wish you’d have gone to that concert at the community center last weekend. I think you would have enjoyed it.” She was giving me a look—subtle, but not subtle enough—because we all knew I wasn’t interested in concerts at the community center.
“Well… I had some things to do at the house.” Like wallowing in shame and staring at the ceiling.
She smiled as if I’d said something witty. “Well, you really should make an effort, darling. This is your home now, whether or not you like it. You have to assimilate.” She pronounced the last word with extra syllables, as if maybe I’d forgotten how to do it.
Aspen piped up, quick, “Brie’s helping me design the flyer for the new muffin menu.” It was a lie, but I appreciated it.
“Of course she is,” Mom said, saccharine smile. “Brie was always creative. I just wish you’d put it to more… social use. Why don’t you sign up for the art class they offer at the senior center? It would do you good to be around people.” She dabbed at her lips again, even though there was nothing there.
The tea was finally cool enough to drink, so I sipped and tried to let the warmth settle in my chest instead of the usual ache. For a second, nobody talked, and it felt like maybe we could just eat and enjoy being a family, even if it was the Discount Bin version.
Of course, that’s when Mom started in again. “Harper, have you and Arsenal considered children?” She asked, casual as a hand grenade. “I read that it’s easier if you start early, and…”
“Mom!” Harper’s cheeks went pink, and she shot me an apologetic glance.
I nearly choked on the scone. “That’s… wow, Mom. Even for you.”
Mom was unfazed. “It’s a reasonable question, darling. You’re not getting any younger. None of us are.” She smoothed a napkin over her knee, then looked straight at me. “Brie, is there someone special for you here? I notice you don’t talk about anyone from France anymore.”
