My fingers flexed, curling into a white-knuckled fist at my side as I tried and failed to force the scent from my memories. Shame pooled heavy in my gut. Anger, too. At myself, for lettingmy thoughts drift back to Ambrose so quickly when they should have been anchored solely with my mate.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Even the pitter-patter of Creep’s little boots on the hardwood floor didn’t break the spiral. Nor did the slam of a car door outside, the creak of the porch beneath footsteps, or the sharp rap of knuckles against the door—
Odd.
Caitlyn shouldn’t be back for at least another ten minutes. And she wouldn’t knock unless Creep had locked her out. Still swimming in the memory of Ambrose’s scent, I pushed myself to my feet as the sound of the front door slowly creaking open echoed through the house.
When I reached the hallway, I froze.
Because standing in the open doorway—locs disheveled, eyes dulled with hunger—was Ambrose.
Chapter 20. Ambrose
I cursed for the entirety of the journey to the location of Blaise’s job.
I cursed the work van for refusing to go any faster. I cursed jaywalkers, cyclists, and anyone who dared hesitate at a zebra crossing. I cursed the tactical gear rattling loose in the back, shaken free by my sharp turns and reckless driving. I cursed Blaise’s too-small spare boots that I’d found in the back for cutting off circulation to my feet—but I’d rather curl up and die than drive barefoot. And I cursed Priscilla twofold. First of all, for denying me the satisfaction of tearing her mother to shreds myself. Second, I cursed her for making me leave my phone, ensuring Isadora would believe I’d simply died in the night, swallowed by shadows, leaving me to navigate my way to Blaise with a paper map like some medieval pilgrim. Apparently, her compulsion had to be used sparingly, and making sure her mother didn’t notice the van was missing was as far as she was willing to push it.
But the bulk of my curses belonged to Isadora.
In some twisted way, I was almost grateful for her. At least she gave me something solid to pour this seething mass of emotion into—something violent enough to keep my thoughts from drifting back to Blaise for most of the journey. Whenever my mind tried to circle him, I dragged it instead to Isadora. To the countless ways I would end her when I eventually had her in my talons.
For most of the eight-hour drive to the location of Blaise’s job—a lonely circle on a paper map in the middle of nowhere—I planned her death in meticulous detail.
Because when I reached the house, I would have to confront him.
And his new mate.
And imagining Isadora’s end was far easier than picturing myself forcing a smile while watching Blaise stand beside someone else.
But there are only so many ways one can imagine killing their captor.
Eventually—despite my best efforts—my thoughts did what they always did.
They drifted back to Blaise.
I’d spent most of the drive to Isadora’s job wondering what I would say to Blaise when I finally saw him again.
I’d never thought I would need to rehearse a confession. Until the moment I grabbed his hand beneath the table at the summoning and he squeezed back, I’d never allowed myself to hope that he had feelings for me too. But when we’d returned to the apartment that night, he’d exploded at me, telling me that at the very least, he wanted things to go back to the way they’d been. And admitting that he also wasn’t opposed to... more.
And I’d been a coward.
I’d walked out under the pretense of needing time, when really I’d been afraid of myself. Afraid that if I stayed, I’d press him into the couch before I’d fully understood what he was offering, and before he’d fully understood just how deeply my feelings ran for him.
So, on that long drive—somewhere between convincing myself that we both needed time to breathe and fighting the urge to go straight back to him—I’d planned my confession a hundred different ways.
But that had all been before I realized I was too late.
He had a mate now.
And I would not put myself between them.
So I scrapped my grand confession and made a different plan.
I would be calm. I would say hello, shake the hand of his mate, and tell them how happy I was for them both. I would briefly relay what had happened to me—omitting Priscilla’s name, as she’d requested—and tell them, and whoever Purdy was, that they needed to return to the coven.
Hopefully, they’d listen. Hopefully, they’d just go.
