Of course I hadn’t confirmed. I wanted to see Johanna first to know how much I’d want an excuse to do so again. I don’t even realize I’m patting the coat pocket until my fingers stroke the paper under the fabric, the folded layers still stiff, and corners sharp. Two layers of notes, one tucked inside the other, that lured me here.
Caity Shallot waits, again exhibiting a patience unusual in a young alpha. She has no biological connection to Johanna, but grew up with her aunt’s regular presence for most of her life—according to the information I’ve gathered—and it shows in her gentle, yet demanding, expression.
“I’ll be there. Will that do as confirmation, or does your father require a formal response?”
“No, that’ll do. We have your number.” She pauses, a smile tugging at one side of her lips, expression still darkly intent. “We’ll text if anything changes. If you drive or cycle, rather than taking the tram, parking is available.”
“Good to know.” I nod and turn away.
“Mr. Eveson,” she calls as I’m about to swing into the car, then waits to finish her thought until I meet her gaze. “Don’t hurt her.”
Many responses swirl through my head, most sharp and pointed to throw her threat back, show her the weight of dominance I keep firmly in check. Others reflect the urge todefend, but those are easier to suppress because they risk offering her more ammunition. I settle for a platitude.
“Life hurts, but I have no desire to cause her more pain.”
Caity doesn’t like that, but I give her no opportunity to reply. My car’s already running and in moments, I’m off to my home in Cleaveland Heights.
I’m committed now. Gave my word to her—and, by extension, her father.
Does Johanna know? She was clearly surprised to see me today, but that says nothing about the coming meeting. Maybe she won’t even be there, but I expect she will. Hope she will.
I touch my pocket again while stopped at a light. No need to pull the papers out; I’ve memorized their contents.
The outer paper is short and sweet for all its convoluted legalese: an invitation to a meeting to discuss the estate of Max Shallot. By implication, I must be mentioned somehow, though I don’t delude myself that I’m an heir. More likely a pawn in further securing Max’s legacy.
That alone wouldn’t lure me to attend. It’s the other message, inscribed on a narrow rectangle of velvety, high-quality paper, that matters. The handwriting is shaky, and there’s no salutation or signature, but it’s clear Max wrote this for me, one of the last missives he managed with his own hands.
Your loss was my gain. Here’s a second chance if you want it. Don’t mess it up.
Chapter 4
Forward Movement
JOHANNA
Max wrote to Dan and never told me. My head aches. I rub my temples, pushing the matter away. I can’t deal with it, with the implications, just yet.
The car drops Corin and me off in front of the house. The three-story high stone facade casts a chilly shadow. A breeze tugs at my skirt as I hustle up the walk through the narrow yard, then fuss with the layers of locks and authentication to prove I’m myself.
I mistype the code twice before Corin reaches around me and takes over.
With achirp, the door opens, and I dart into the warmth. Programmed lights gleam from the living room on one side and the home office on the other, the same lamps that always turn on in late afternoon. The same way Max left them. Another reminder, but it’s too much trouble to change the timing just because he set it up.
For a moment, a hint of his orange-and-rum scent floats by, then it’s gone. Cider with hints of cedar overrides it, because Corin is close and Max dead.
My lingerie still chafes, but I long to rip off the layer of mourning just as much. My shoes rap against the tiled hallway as I head for the stairs.
“Dinner at six work for you?” Corin asks. “I’m thinking something light.”
“Maybe.”
I make it halfway up the stairs before his “Johanna,” stops me. He didn’t utilize the alpha power to command other designations, which I’ve got some experience resisting. No, it’s a request, almost a plea. His scent keeps shifting back between cedar and cider, in almost dizzying swirls. I shouldn’t be able to notice it, except for that damned growing sense of smell—and our long years of sharing the house. It’s the same with his daughters—and Max.
Familiarity brings greater awareness. Only fair, since all but fellow-beta Bebe can track changes in my subtler scent.
One hand gripping the smooth mahogany banister, I turn to find him standing at the base of the stairs. His suit jacket hangs from one hand, white shirt bright against the dark walnut of the outer door. Warm yellow light highlights half his face.
In most ways, he and Max barely resembled each other. Max was basically average in size, while Corin’s physique displays the usual alpha height and breadth, Max lithe and flexible. where Corin tends to stomp and thud. Max’s coloration leaned toward gilded browns in contrast to Corin’s dark hair and tawny skin. Max’s face round and mobile, Corin’s rectangular with an unyielding chin.
