I reach for the cardigan hanging on the desk chair, but he swipes it first. “Don’t hide it from me. We’re not done here.”
Knees bobbing, I brace for another onslaught of dizziness. Axe takes a step back, as if to devise a different approach.
“Can you just let this go? I promise, it isn’t worth it."
His stare is dismal. But he gives no voice to the thoughts I see brewing inside his head. Just an acknowledging dip in his throat.
Then he takes my arm again, this time gently. "Why don’t you sit d?—”
With a whimper, my knees lock and my eyes roll back into their aching sockets. Axe has me in his arms within a fleeting second. He helps me into bed and lodges a pillow between my head and the wall.
"Easy there, Moonshine,” he says.
My brow flicks upwards. He didnotjust give me a nickname.
Axe guides my arms through the sleeves of the cardigan. My eyes fill up with tears as the throbbing of my head increases tenfold. Silently, he examines my wrist, running his index finger along a horizontal mark that I made years ago, in the darkest hour of my grief.
There isn’t a day that I don’t think of them: my brilliant father, my doting mother, and my dorky brother Benjamin. There isn’t a day that I don’t feel guilty for leaving my remaining family behind, letting them believe I had died along with Mom.
Though the touch lasts only for a second, I swear I feel a tingle ripple across my skin. A stubborn piece of wavy hair dangles over his forehead. Beneath it, his expression softens. His eyes gleam with remorse. "I take it that a head collision is nothing compared to what else you’ve been through.”
My lip quivers. Something about his heavy gaze tells me that I’m not the only one who has endured such debilitating grief.Of course. He lost a mother, too.
I yank the sweater sleeve down and quickly dab my tears before they hit my cheeks.
"You're right. I don't know you. You can tell me about it whenever you’re ready."
He slips his palm under mine, careful to avoid the silver. I’m stunned by the contrast in size, how just as many muscles flex along this part of him. I wonder what violence these calloused hands are capable of, how many deaths they have dealt. I almost recoil at the thought.
“I’m sorry about earlier, too. I should’ve been upfront about Shay. The last twelve hours here have been a shit storm.”
Reaching into my pocket, I give him the folded note. He looks pleased as he briefly glances down at my response.I accept.
I try not to look overly intrigued as I ogle at his long fingers. The raised blue veins that travel down his arms. “What kind of bird is that?”
“It’s a raven. They have appeared in my dreams often since I was a boy. Being only fifteen, most of the artists in town turned me down. But I managed to sweet talk one of the elders here. Most of us don’t receive our first tattoo—the traditional warrior flames—until we’re eighteen. I got the raven done on the tenth anniversary of my parents’ deaths.”
My heart sinks. Oh gods.Parents?
He schools his expression. “Years later, the artist gave me the same Alpha crest that my father had. But I’ve always loved the raven most. Something about your first, I guess . . .”
I glance down at my unmarred wrist where my three feathers are inked. My one and only piece, chosen to honor the family members I was separated from.
Axe’s lips pull back tight. He motions to the food on the desk that, by now, has probably lost most of its warmth. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
My eyes remain glued on his sprawling back as he struts out the door. His phone chirps in his pocket and as he pulls it out to answer, he glances over his shoulder, catching my lingering stare. The bedroom door swings shut, the jolt galvanizing me out of bed to finally appease my empty stomach.
Chapter 9
VESSA
Iwake to the sight of frost clinging to my window, clouding the view of the world beyond. Staring at my open suitcases, I opt for a colorful sweater and leather belt that I loop through the waistband of my favorite pair of jeans. Next, I weave my hair into a loose braid and hook on a pair of dangly pearl earrings I once found in my mother's jewelry box. She never did ask for them back.
The memory fades with a tug on my heart. I gaze into the bathroom mirror. There isn’t much of me that resembles my mother. Cheeks paled by winter—my father's. A narrow, slightly upturned nose, light brown eyes—also Daniel Lemaire's. Benjamin, on the other hand, almost exclusively took after Mom with her gorgeous tan complexation and onyx eyes. To this day, I’ve always envied that about him.
Black Oak, she used to call him in the language of her ancestors, the first people of the Heartlands Plains. I was herMoonflower.
A part of me still mourns for that, too. That name is the only connection I have to my mother’s heritage—the Noctosanoc—meaningthose who gaze into the dark. Nearly all were lost to influenza brought ashore by Mongassi silver traders a littleover a century ago. My great-great-grandparents were among the handful of survivors who fled to the inoculated streets of Crayford. As generations passed, whisper spread that it wasn’t sickness at all; rather, it was the work of a demon.
