Chapter 19
Reid
Iwoke the next morning feeling something I hadn’t in months.
Refreshed.
Evan wasn’t there, but I hadn’t expected him to be. He’d promised to stay with me until I was asleep before returning to the clan house. He’d warned me that he’d likely be gone well into the morning. The inner circle wanted to take their time interrogating those who’d attacked us the night before.
I waited for the guilt to hit me. Knowing someone was going to be hurt as a result of something I was involved with was usually a huge trigger for me. There was none of the usual shame and fear though. It was kept at bay by the memory of Hamish’s desperate howl. The image of his inert body on the ground. The blood that had sprayed from Evan’s shoulder as Gavin sank his claws in.
Maybe that was why I didn’t care about the justice the McCarthys were delivering. The Clarksons hadn’t hurt me, not really. But they’d hurt others. They deserved to be punished for that.
After stretching like a cat, I lay huddled under the duvet for a while as I tried to pinpoint exactly what had led to me getting such a perfect night of sleep. Was it the bath? The gentle way Evan had washed my hair before scrubbing my back? The giant fluffy towel he’d wrapped me in? The soft hoody of his that he’d given me to sleep in, which was so big it fell to my knees? The chicken and vegetable soup we’d eaten at his parents’ kitchen table with thick slabs of homemade bread and butter? How we’d whispered late into the night about whatever random shit popped into our brains?
Or was it how he’d cuddled me as I drifted, his broad chest more comfortable than any pillow could be? The arms that had held me so securely that I knew nothing could hurt me? The familiar woodsy scent that was so uniquely him?
I had to figure it out so I could repeat it. Getting a decent sleep was rare for me at the best of times, so I’d do whatever it took to emulate it. Thinking it through, there was one common denominator.
Evan.
I didn’t know how to feel about that. Rather, I knew how I felt about it, but I couldn’t acknowledge it. Because doing so would mean accepting the other ramifications.
It didn’t matter how I felt about Evan when he was a shifter.
Just look at me now—back on clan lands and unsure if they’d allow me to leave.
Yes, it was different. Of course it was. The McCarthys were keeping me here for my own safety. They’d asked for my consent beforehand. They’d even gone out of their way to give me accommodation that would make me feel more comfortable.
I just wished my past trauma would fuck off and let meenjoy it. It lingered like a bad stench, inviting the old familiar friends of fear and anxiety along with it.
Evan and the inner circle might treat me fairly, but what about the rest of the clan? I wasn’t like Chester. He was from a human line and mated to their leader.
I was an aberration. A human who should’ve been a shifter. Worse, a human who’d been born to their enemies. A clan that had brutally murdered the wife of their alpha, as well as their baby.
Their baby.
An act so heinous that it had wiped out half my clan as a result, and ostracised their alpha from leadership on a permanent basis.
I’d been hated by shifters for a lot less in the past.
The nagging doubt was becoming louder. Maybe I should sneak out before Evan’s parents woke up. He said they’d be fine with me being here, but who knew how true that was? What if they secretly hated me?
Just then, I heard a loud female voice from the floor below. “Oh, come the fuck on. Ye canna be fucking serious. Were ye born with ye head up ye arse or does it just find its way there naturally?”
I shrank back under the covers as I flashed back to my childhood. To the screaming matches I’d witnessed whenever my parents had the misfortune to be in the same room.
Silence fell again. Whoever Evan’s ma was yelling at wasn’t responding. At least, not loudly enough for my human ears to pick up.
“And ye think that’s okay?” she bellowed. “Jesus fuck. Tell you what, how about I come to fucking Clacton and drag your ratty white arse into a dinghy in the Atlantic? Let’s see how fucking pious you are then, ye wee-cocked Nazi. Aye, wee cocked. I bet it’s like a pencil. One that’sbeen sharpened so many times the lead can’t write without breaking, if you catch my drift.”
I lowered the covers slowly. I wasn’t the best at context clues, but this was too oddly specific for me to miss.
“Wolf in sheep’s clothing? More like a weasel pretending to be a fucking lion.” There were several loud bangs, like she was slamming objects down on the kitchen counter. “I hope ye cut yer balls on a rusty razor and slowly die from tetanus.”
My lips twitched and I shoved back the covers. I had to meet the woman who could give Malcolm Tucker a run for his money in the insult department.
I crept down the stairs, listening as she continued her tirade.
