“I wanted to talk to you about that guy from Willow Ridge, the one who I almost adopted. Remember him?”
“Elara—” My tone is low and a warning for her not to fuck with me right now, but she brushes me off.
“He mated a cat shifter. Can you believe that? Crazy things happen when you don’t reply to my messages, you know?”
“Right. That’s nice. Now, tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”
“I just figured we wouldn’t get a chance to talk later during the gig, so I wanted to fill you in now.”
I blink at her. Somehow, despite having known her for years now, she always manages to both frustrate and surprise me.
“You really thoughtnowwould be the best time?”
“Also, can you sign this napkin for me?” She leans close, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Figured it might throw the dickhead off the scent so he won’t suspect anything.” She winks and my fingers twitch with the desire to throttle her.
“Sure.” I grab the pen she plucks from nowhere and squiggle on the napkin, leaving a smear of ink and a hole.
“I’ll treasure it forever.” She straightens and tucks it in her pocket. “Signal if you need anything. I know a few moves of self defense and can jab a fork in his eye before he can blink.”
She saunters off and I’m left staring after her.
... Ithinkthat was her way of letting me know she’s here if I need her.
As weird and unwelcome as her intrusion was, it distracted me from my nerves and my hands are no longer shaking.
I take a sip of Dorian’s coffee and recross my legs, trying not to jiggle them under the table.
“Blonde. Really, Saint, darling?” A male voice makes me startle enough to slosh coffee onto the table. “Dyed hair just isn’t for you.”
My breath catches in my throat as my heart pounds and the world tilts slightly.
Cedar Orlog—the Herald—is here.
It worked.
It’s like all the words have evaporated off my tongue, though.
Careful, darling, you don’t want to show the world what you are.
Abomination.
Slut.
You belong with me, Saint. Stepping off The Path will only lead to ruin.
Luckily, the Herald has never needed an active partner in conversation.
“You’re doing well for yourself, Saint,” he continues. “I’m proud of you.”
It takes everything in me not to spit coffee in his face.
He shakes his head, and I take him in properly for the first time. Gone are the fancy suits and the shiny hair. Instead, he’s wearing a tatty jacket that’s probably designer, but has a large tear all along one sleeve. His hair looks greasy and unwashed and his bright white smile is now stained to a dull gray.
“You never told me you weren’t satisfied, darling,” he adds. “I tried so hard to make a good life for you. If you weren’t happy, you should have told me. We could have talked things through.”
“I don’t think we could,” I rasp, my voice not as strong as I’d like it to be.
Do you think people would accept you if they discovered what you are, Saint? My child, there’s a reason people like you need their names on a register.
