Our noses are nearly brushing.
I can count each of his eyelashes, see the flecks of gold in his eyes. His breath fans across my lips, warm and smelling faintly of mint. My own breathing is shallow, my heart hammering so hard I’m certain he can hear it. His face is so near mine.
I’m thinking we’re about to kiss and…
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks softly.
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications.Leave my apartment? Or from my life?I open my mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. My body screams no while my mind says he needs to leave. I’m literally paralyzed right now and frozen against the wall.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
He studies my face for a long moment, then something in his expression shifts. With a deep breath, he steps back, creating space between us that feels horrible to me.
“I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. I’ll wait in the car,” he says, his voice rough with what could be arousal. “Take your time packing.”
He leaves, and the bedroom door closes softly behind him.
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, my legs too weak to support me. My entire body thrums with unfulfilled desire. He almost kissed me. I wanted him to kiss me.
“What the fuck,” I whisper into the empty room.
How am I supposed to work as a nanny in that house with him there? With his brothers there? The memory of their scents is overwhelming.
I force myself to stand, to finish packing methodically. I look around the small apartment one last time before zipping up my suitcase. Despite its shabbiness, it was home. Now I’m heading into unknown territory, into a mansion filled with unmated alphas who all smell like sin and temptation.
I set my suitcase down and walk slowly to Mother’s bedroom one last time.
The door creaks as I push it open, revealing the space exactly as she left it. The bed is still made with her favorite floral comforter. Her perfume bottles line the dresser, collecting dust. The air smells stale, with just the faintest trace of her lavender scent lingering.
“Bye, Mother,” I whisper to myself, running my fingers along the edge of her dresser. Maybe I should check for important papers before leaving, like her will or insurance papers. I would have to pay the full rent on this place now, since her benefits would stop.
I pull open her bedside drawer first. Nothing but romance novels, reading glasses, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes. The top dresser drawers contain her neatly folded clothes.
When I reach the bottom drawer, it sticks. I have to yank it hard, and when it finally gives way, I’m surprised by what I find. Stacks of newspaper clippings, yellowed with age, fill the drawer to the brim.
“What the hell?” I mutter, kneeling to get a better look.
I pick up the first clipping. It’s from the Howl’s Edge Chronicle. The headline reads: “LOCAL BUSINESS COMPLEX FIRE CLAIMS TWELVE LIVES.”
My heart stops. This is it. This is the fire Mother confessed to starting. The fire that killed my fathers.
With trembling hands, I pick up another clipping: “INSURANCE COMPANY PAYS RECORD SETTLEMENT TO FIRE VICTIMS’ FAMILIES.”
And another: “INVESTIGATION RULES BUSINESS COMPLEX FIRE ACCIDENTAL.”
There are dozens of them, all about the fire or its aftermath. Some have photos of the burned-out building, others show pictures of the victims. I scan the names, and sure enough, my fathers’ names: “Tomas Reyes and Julian Winters, survived by their mate and three daughters.”
My stomach lurches. She kept these. All these years, she kept articles about the fire she started, about the people she murdered. I start to feel sick.
Breathing hard, I shove the newspaper clippings into my backpack. I’ll look into it later when I’m strong enough.
My mind spinning, I wheel my suitcase outside to where the limo waits, rain still falling in a gentle patter. Drake stands beside the open trunk, hands in his pockets, water beading on his shoulders. He straightens when he sees me, his expression unreadable.
Without a word, he takes my suitcase and lifts it easily into the limo.
“Something happened. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. I don’t want to talk about my mom, the killings, or any of it at all.
