It was going to be a white Christmas.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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Turner paced the barn from front to back, his wolf’s restlessness warring with his human common sense.
She’s upset. You need to go to her,his wolf growled, and if he could have pinned the critter to the ground and bitten him, he would have.
I want to. God, I want to so badly, but I have to be here.
He had finally bolted the door to the corral, shutting himself and Maisey in the warmth of the barn. For once, Maisey didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she was intent on exploring every inch of the birthing stall he had set up for her, nosing at the straw piled up high to keep her comfortable, lipping at the rounds of summer sausage from his own groceries that he’d given up for the cause.
He wasn’t surprised when she didn’t eat—unicorns often stopped eating or drinking before they foaled—but he was startled by the long looks she was giving him, how she would toss her head as if trying to communicate something. Frowning, he went back over his mental checklist. As far as he couldtell, she had everything she need and then some, and then he realized.
Tentatively, he reached over to stroke her neck. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he had gotten a snap for his pains, but she allowed it, even butting his wrist gently with her nose. It was astonishing what contact with a person she really liked could do, and he sighed.
“I want to give her some more time,” he said to Maisey. “She’s got her own thing going, and I can’t just call her out here because you’re a little lonesome. It’s okay. She’ll be here when you need her, I promise.”
He had no idea how much Maisey understood about the situation, but then she uttered a nearly human-like sigh, startling a much-needed laugh out of him.
“Yeah, yeah, I miss her too. Tell ya what, when it gets to be too much for one of us, we just start screaming our heads off, how about that? I know you know how to do that.”
Maisey gave him an unimpressed look, going back to checking out the bedding and food on offer, and Turner sighed, taking a seat on one of the hay bales.
He was starting to get really maudlin when there was the discreet ping of a text from his phone
Turner blinked at the message on the screen:Macy gave me your number, I hope this is okay.
Ilona?
Yes.
There was a pause, the tell-tale nerve-wracking dots of someone trying out a few responses and changing their mind.He waited tensely, and then when he saw what did come through, he grinned so hard his face hurt.
I miss you and Maisey. Can I say that?
Darling, you can say whatever you want. The minute we’re settled, and Maisey has a brand new baby to nurse, I will spend so much time in your space you’ll get sick of me.
Haha, that sounds good. Look. I’m sorry about the hot and cold. This is all new to me.
Turner paused, his heart aching at his fated mate’s discomfort. They had done this all out of order, starting from the very beginning, and he had no idea how to fix it. He was old enough to know, however, that some things didn’t need a quick fix—instead they needed time, and that, at least, he could give her.
Hey, I want you to stop worrying about this, okay? It’s new to me too, and I
He jumped a little. He had been ready to typeI love you,and the abruptness of it all surprised him. He had grown up around fated mate pairings. He had heard all the stories, the sudden and sometimes shocking realizations, the way lives could be upended with plans tossed to the wind. In the end, there was joy waiting. He knew this, but the love caught him by surprise.
He did love her. He knew that for her sake, he couldn’t say it yet, and he sure as hell knew he couldn’ttextit to her.
It’s new to me too, and I’ll let you know if I’m feeling rough about anything. So far? I feel good. Really good.
I’m really glad.
So there, we can agree on that. That’s good, that’s common ground. While we’re at it, are there any questions I can answer for you?
More of those dots starting and stopping, and then:
Tell me about the sausage thing. Never in a million years did I imagine unicorns would eat meat and I’ve been dying to know why.
