Page 45

NASH

Mia’s already in the driver’s seat when I come out of the estate at five-fifty in the morning. Ten minutes early. Of course she is. I load my pack into the back of her car without comment, circle to the passenger side, and fold myself inside. The car isn’t exactly spacious, but I make it work. Mia doesn’t comment on it. She’s got coffee in the cupholder, waiting—one for her, one for me. I know better than to be touched by the gesture. For Mia, it’s practical to bring coffee for an early morning road trip just like it’s practical that she already has directions queued on the dash screen.

What’s not practical is my physical reaction to the sight of her in casual clothes. Leggings. Hiking boots. An oversized, long-sleeved tee. Hair hanging loose like a red flame. Lips shining with a layer of gloss just begging to be licked clean.

My cock hardens, and I have to lay my jacket over my lap to keep her from noticing. I haven’t been this obvious or out of control since high school. My wolf is losing his mind, too, which is just ridiculous.

It’s a wonder I resisted going back to her apartment last night. The only thing that stopped me was my conference call with the board.

I clear my throat. “Morning.”

“It sure is.”

My mouth quirks. “But is it a good morning?”

“You tell me.” She eases onto the gas, and we roll down the long drive toward the front gate.

“Are you always this early?” I ask.

“My dad says early is on time, and⁠—”

“On time is late,” I finish with her.

She glances at me sideways. Something in her expression is still carrying the weight of the last few days—the fire, Bobby, Crow’s arm, Claire’s grief—but underneath it, barely visible, her eyes sparkle with interest.

“My dad says that too,” I explain. She gives me a look of quiet intensity. “What?”

“You’ve never talked about him. Your dad.”

She arches a brow. “When would I have done that? When I took my clothes off or put them back on?”

I grin. “I’m open to either.”

She makes a sound like “hmmph,” and we drive on.

For the first hour she’s mostly quiet, and I let her have it. The city gives way to the mountain roads gradually—the density of buildings thinning, the light shifting from urban amber to the clean pale grey of early morning in the high country. She drives the way she does everything: precisely, without wasted motion, hand firm on the wheel, and her eyes moving constantly between the road and the mirrors.

I drink my coffee and watch the tree line and don’t push.

Somewhere around the hour and twenty mark she exhales. Long and slow, like something she’s been holding is finally finding its way out.

“Bobby had a daughter,” she says. Not looking at me. Just straight ahead through the windshield, barely blinking. “In the human world. Grown. They weren’t close, but she exists.”

“Does she know?”

“Donahue’s handling the notification.” A beat. “He wasn’t a great dad from what I hear. But he managed to get her out when she asked at eighteen. Not much contact after from what I’ve heard. I’m not sure how she’ll take it.”

“I’m sure she’ll mourn the loss.”

“It’s a particular kind of grief. Finding out someone you didn’t know very well is gone.”

I look at her profile. The clean line of her jaw. The way she’s holding herself carefully upright even now, alone in a car with me. “Have you experienced that?”

A pause. “My mother,” she says finally. “After she died, I found letters. From before she met my dad. A whole person I never knew existed.” She’s quiet for a moment. "She was funny in those letters. I didn’t know she was funny. I always thought of her as… I don’t know, soft. Sad. Sick.” Something shifts in her expression. “She was twenty-three and funny and full of plans, and then she got married to a general. Had his wolf pup daughter. And got sick. And then—” She stops.

“Franco refused to provide treatment,” I say quietly.

She glances at me sharply.