“Why do you have these?” I ask, my voice dangerously quiet. I’m fighting for control, trying to keep my temper in check until I hear what she has to say. But my wolf is already snarling with suspicion, with betrayal.
She takes a step back, her eyes darting from my face to the papers in my hand. I can see her pulse racing in the hollow of her throat, can smell the sudden fear radiating from her.
“Kieran, please,” she says, her voice trembling. “It’s not what you think.”
“What is it then?” I demand, standing now, the clippings crushed in my fist. “Why do you have newspaper articles about the fire that killed my parents? What kind of sick game are you playing?”
“No game,” she whispers, a tear spilling down her cheek.
“Answer me,” I growl, my control slipping. The memories of that day are rushing back—the phone call, the hospital, identifying their bodies. Years of grief and rage that I’ve barely kept contained, threatening to explode.
Francine flinches at my tone, taking another step backward until her back hits the wall. The towel slips slightly, revealing the curve of her breast.
“I can explain,” she says with tears running down her cheeks.
“I want answers, Francine,” I say, immediately feeling sick that I’ve made her cry.
All I feel is a growing sense of dread. Whatever she’s about to tell me, I know it’s going to change everything between us. And not for the better.
Twenty-Eight
FRANCINE
My heart slamsagainst my ribs like it’s trying to escape my chest.
Kieran’s eyes that gazed at me with such heat and possessiveness just hours ago are now cold and hard as steel. The newspaper clippings in his hands might as well be a smoking gun.
I clutch my towel tighter, feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my near-nakedness. This isn’t how I wanted him to find out. Not like this. Not with me dripping wet and vulnerable while he sits on my bed holding physical evidence of the worst thing my mother ever did.
The worst thing anyone in my family ever did.
“Why do you have these?” he demands again, his voice dangerously quiet.
Water drips from my hair down my back, each cold droplet making me shiver. Or maybe it’s fear making me tremble. I can’t tell anymore.
“I’m not snooping,” I manage to say, the words barely above a whisper. “They’re mine. I brought them with me.”
His breathing is harsh, each exhale like a growl. I’ve never seen him like this—not even when he was taking me at my mostvulnerable during heat. That was passion, possession. This is something darker. Something wounded and dangerous.
“Why would you have newspaper clippings about this fire?” he asks, rising to his feet. The papers crumple in his fist. “Do you know what this is? Do you have any idea what you’re playing with?”
“I’m not playing,” I say, my voice breaking. “Kieran, please, I can explain.”
“Then explain,” he says, taking a step toward me. “Because from where I’m standing, this looks bad, Francine. Really fucking bad.”
The words stick in my throat. I’ve rehearsed this confession a thousand times in my head, but now that the moment is here, I can’t find the right way to say it. There is no right way—just the ugly, brutal truth.
“My mother started the fire,” I blurt out, the words falling from my lips like stones.
Kieran goes completely still. For a moment, I think he hasn’t heard me. But then I see the shift in his eyes as they darken from blue to almost black.
His face drains of all color. He looks frozen.
“What did you just say?” he asks, his voice so quiet it’s barely audible.
“My mother,” I repeat, tears spilling down my cheeks. “She started the fire that killed your parents. I only found out recently. I’ve been trying to understand it, to process it. That’s why I have the clippings.”
I watch as the information sinks in, as the full weight of what I’ve just told him registers in his expression. His nostrils flare, his jaw clenches. The air in the room seems to vibrate with his barely contained fury.
