Page 178 of Devoured

He was right. Sinclair Severi was totally, completely right.

I walk a little closer to the tide, burying my toes in the sand, and inhale the scents of silt and earth. I let it all wash over me. A moment of true, euphoric peace. Which is a miracle since I woke up in a hotel room this morning with Portia’s hand in my face and Evie’s foot kicking me in the ribs. I don’t know why two of the richest queens in the world insisted on us sharing a room for this trip, but they ended up in my bed last night after a particularly scary movie. We fell asleep huddled together, and now my back aches.

Somewhere behind me, abandoned on my towel, my phone blares Portia’s specific ringtone. The first thing she did after her coronation? Find a way to make cell phones work around werewolves. She almost succeeded too. Mine only turns off every so often. And the camera never works, of course. Or the internet. But at least we can call one another instead of simply sending letters.

They’re undoubtedly checking on me. They can’t stand that they aren’t here to hold my hand and help me through this. But I told them Sin wanted me to come and it felt private. They begrudgingly accepted with the addendum that if it’s too much for me to handle, I have to call them so they can pick me up and rush me back to our five-star hotel. The perks of being best friends with twenty-three-year-old werewolf queens, I suppose. Honestly, I think they just want an excuse to drink all the little shots from the minibar.

My phone rings again, this time with Evie’s ringtone, and I huff and stalk up the beach to answer it. The shiny rectangle—Portia compelled the manufacturer to make the brand entirely in gold rather than silver—rests atop a striped yellow pillow and beside a tube of lip gloss, a small bag of tissues (just in case), a protein bar, and a pack of gum. I should have brought sunscreen too, but I didn’t think I’d be out here for hours. I thought I’d just see the beach, think of Sin, and leave.

It’s selfish to ask this of you, I’m aware. But I have always been a selfish bastard, and I want to know that these things I love… They’ll live without me. They’ll continue to exist.

Continue to exist, Vanessa.

My heart hammers in my chest. I smile and lift my phone to my ear. “Yes, Queen Evelyn?”

“How many times have I begged you to stop calling me that?”

“I believe you tried compelling me twice yesterday.”

Across the room from her, shouting unnecessarily at the top of her lungs, Portia screams, “She answered? Tell her we’re worried about her! Where is she? Is she safe? Do we need to come—”

“I am at the beach,” I say. “Not busting an illegal werewolf crime ring.”

Portia groans. “Please don’t remind me.”

“Not this again. You handled yourself well,” Evie tells her. “You didn’t even have to kill anyone.”

“Someone was sliced in half!”

“Yes, but you didn’t do the slicing. Please, Portia. Focus. We’re worried about Vanessa drowning herself in the sea, remember?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m a twenty-one-year-old werewolf. I can take care of myself—”

“Twenty-two tomorrow,” Portia corrects.

I sigh because she starts to sing “Happy Birthday” at the top of her lungs. And then she screams, and Evie laughs, and I know Evie has probably pinched her to shut her up. My cheeks warm at the image, the thought of them. My friends.

My family.

“You’re sure?” Evie asks. “I know you’ve been doing well, living on your own with your shiny new job, but sometimes even my own grief catches me off guard. I still have nights where I wake up and I’m convinced my parents are just across the hall.”

So do I.

Sometimes when I’m watching a movie, I think I see Celeste in my periphery, camped out in the seat beside me. Or when I’m shopping for groceries, I’ll catch sight of my father perusing the deli case until I realize I’m watching a stranger. Another middle-aged man with a beard and the wrong color eyes.

Sometimes when I look across a meadow, I think Sin is there. I see his burgundy gaze and that flash of gilded hair, and my heart beats a little faster. But those moments don’t hurt anymore. They’re just reminders. They’re happy memories of those I’ve been lucky enough to love.

“It’s been nice,” I tell them. “I went for a swim. I saw a leatherback turtle”—the dolphins surface again—“and dolphins. I think I even spotted a shark fin—”

“Oh, hell, get out of the water. I will not allow you to be eaten by a shark before your birthday!”

I growl. “I am a werewolf.”

“It’s a shark,” Evie argues. “Even you wouldn’t stand a chance in hell.”

I shake my head and laugh, tucking my hair behind my ear as the wind picks up. It tickles my nose. Salt and earth and—citrus. Bright, sweet citrus. My stomach rumbles, and I set a palm on it, realizing I haven’t eaten since dawn. That protein bar is looking delicious right now.

“I’ll be back soon,” I tell Evie. “Before the rain comes in.”