She sits back down and fluffs out her floral skirt as she does. “But what you need to be concerned about is you. Not anyone else.”
Seems to be another common theme around here.
I lean against the pillows, assessing a woman who is family, but also a complete stranger. “I’m going to be honest. It’s rather frustrating with you sometimes. You know more than you’re letting on, and I’m not sure what to do about your secrets, but I appreciate you being here now.”
Her lips twitch. “Darling, secrets are just truths waiting for the right time to bloom. And sometimes, flowers bloom best under pressure. Or fertilizer. Which, let’s be honest, is what half this situation smells like.”
A laugh huffs out of me before I can stop it. “So what? You’re saying my life is a compost heap?”
“Exactly.” She grabs her knitting materials and points one of the needles at me. “But from compost comes flowers. And you, sugarplum, are one prickly little rose whether you know it or not.”
I rub my temple. “Why do I feel like we’ve not even scratched the surface of things?”
“Because we haven’t,” she replies without hesitation. “What’s coming is bigger than you realize. Jocelyn knew it. Marius probably figured it out before he vanished. And if you’re going to survive long enough to figure out whoyou are in this world, you need to stop worrying about why people left and start deciding what you’re going to stay for.”
Her words settle like a weight in my chest, heavier than I want to admit. For all her eccentricity, Iris has an unnerving way of cutting to the bone.
“Thanks for…” I say, attempting to summarize our conversation. “Looking for Marius, calling me a compost pile, and telling me I’ll likely bloom into a rose, hopefully before the next wolf tries to bite my head off.”
“That’s my girl.” Her grin is wicked, but her eyes don’t leave mine. “Just remember. No matter what you see or hear, you’re not alone. Not now and not ever. NightShade is your home, and we can be your family if you’ll have us.”
And there it is. What it always seems to come back to with Iris.
She wants me here, just as she wanted my mother.
It shouldn’t be a bad thing, but something in me says no matter how many unexpected hugs Iris might give, ones that make me see her a little more like family…
I need to tread carefully.
Still, I press. “Will you tell me more about my parents?”
“Of course, sugarplum.” Her lips twitch, but it’s the only sign of hesitation. “Jocelyn was a wildflower. Stubborn, bright, beautiful. The kind that rooted herself in places no one thought she’d survive—like falling in love with a wolf. She knew what it would cost her, but she did it anyway.”
“And my father?” The word feels foreign on my tongue, clunky, like it doesn’t quite belong.
Iris sighs and sets the green bonnet back down. “Marius was… Well, let’s just say handsome enough to make poor decisions inevitable. He had that Stoneclaw strength, but he wasn’t as rigid as his father. Gabriel—your grandfather—wanted control. Marius wanted freedom. And Jocelyn gave him that until the prophecy changed everything.”
“Always back to that,” I mutter.
“It would seem so.” She pats my hand again, softer this time. “Marius left because Gabriel started sniffing around. He knew about you. Maybe not the details, but enough to suspect. If Marius stayed, he risked Gabriel ripping the truth out of him and coming after you and Jocelyn. So, he disappeared.”
“Disappeared how?” I push, though part of me isn’t sure I want the answer.
Her eyes narrow, and she leans close, dropping her voice like we’re plotting treason. “That’s the problem. No one knows. Some think he died. Some think he’s still out there, hiding in the cracks of the world. And some…” she pauses for effect, “…believe he’s waiting for you.”
The breath leaves me in a rush, but Iris is already reaching for her knitting again, as if she didn’t just upend my world with casual prophecy gossip and a sprinkle of family drama.
“But which is it?” I demand.
She shrugs, cheery again, like she hasn’t a care in the world. “You’ll just have to live long enough to find out, won’t you?”
The words land like a joke, but the way her eyes linger on mine—just a fraction too long—make me wonder if she already has the answer. And if so, why isn’t she telling me?
Chapter 25
ROWAN
Forty-eight hours of training feels like a lifetime when every square inch of your body is either bruised, sore, or plotting revenge. My arms ache, my ribs feel like they’ve been used as Cade’s personal drum set, and I’m fairly certain my legs are going to file for emancipation.
