Page 70 of Alpha's Revenge Luna

THE NEXT DAY

We leave early in the morning, Kyrio driving while Dion works off his phone. I sleep part of the way but then wake up from being jostled on the bumpy back roads.

I press my temple against the cool glass, feeling the subtle vibrations of the road beneath us. My eyelids flutter with each passing mile marker, the hum of the tires on asphalt lulling me into a contemplative haze.

“Almost there,” Dion finally murmurs, breaking the silence as if he senses my nerves beginning to fray at the edges.

Anticipation gnaws at me, along with excitement.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen my family that now I am nervously excited.

Nervous about Grandma’s reaction when she sees I’ve been marked.

Nervous she won’t see the truth I feel in my gut is correct.

“Uh-huh,” I reply, unable to muster anything more articulate, my thoughts spiraling around what awaits us at Grandma’s house.

As we pull up to the familiar cottage, framed by creeping ivy and memories, something gnaws at the pit of my stomach.

Grandma comes rushing out with her shotgun, aiming it at the car before lowering it when we pull up.

She stands on the porch, her surprise clear as she glances around nervously, probably wondering where the entourage of Dion’s men are from his last visit when we dropped Caleb here.

Climbing out of the car, I smile, happy to see she is alright.

“Land sakes, what are you doing here?” she exclaims, her voice a forced mimic of delight that couldn’t quite conceal the tremor of unease.

“Thought we’d surprise you, Grandma,” I say, trying to read the map of wrinkles on her face that seems to tighten with concern. Why is she looking so worried?

She forces a smile on her face, “It’s a surprise indeed.” She glances from me to Dion with darting eyes that betray her nervousness.

“Where’s Caleb?” I ask, scanning past her shoulder for any sign of him.

“Caleb? Oh, he’s... he’s at the sleepover still, dear.

You know how it is, he wanted to stay longer,” Grandma repeats the excuse she had given over the phone last night, but the words hang awkwardly in the air, and I glance at Dion as he comes to stand by me.

Kyrio climbs out of the car also and sits on the hood, lighting a smoke.

“Right... a sleepover,” I echo, my mind racing with questions. Alarm bells clang loudly in my head. The dissonance between her words and her body language is striking.

“Let’s go inside. I’ll make some tea,” she offers, but her gaze lingers a moment too long on Dion, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

I follow her into the house. The scent of lavender and mothballs reaches my nose, but not the usual smell of her baking.

Despite the comforting familiarity, a shadow creeps along the edges of my perception, darkening the cozy ambiance of Grandma’s living room.

Everything is the same, yet it no longer feels warm and inviting.

Instead, I feel unwelcome, and the house itself feels smaller.

Was it always this small, or has my perception of it changed?

As I settle onto the couch, my hands twist together, the threads of worry knitting a tight pattern of dread. Something is amiss. She didn’t even greet me with the usual hug. She feels distant or maybe it’s because Dion’s marked me?

“No, something is off, I can smell her nervousness leaking from her paws; she doesn’t want us here,” Elara tells me. My skin ripples and Dion turns to look at me from where he wanders around the small living room looking at the old landscape paintings on the walls.

“You okay?” he asks through the mind-link. I chew my lip and nod once. He watches me carefully for a second.

“What is it?”

I shake my head, unable to explain why I feel out of place here so suddenly. The silence that once comforted me here now seems to scream that she is hiding something from me.

“So whose house is Caleb at?” I call out to grandma hearing her rummaging around in the kitchen.

“Huh, Dear?” she calls back.

“The sleepover? Who is Caleb staying with?” I reply, the words tasting bitter—a flavor of suspicion I can’t shake off.

She doesn’t answer and I glance at the door nervously when Dion moves to sit on the armchair across from me. He leans back, watching me, and I feel him sifting through the bond, feeling what I am.

Peering around, the musty scent of old books and faded linen fill the living room as Dion and I settle into the floral-patterned armchairs that face each other across a worn rug. The place even smells different, like it’s been closed up for a while.

Grandma’s collection of porcelain figurines stare at us from the mantle. Amidst them all, a solitary photograph in a tarnished silver frame seems to catch my attention. Dion glances over at what I am staring at.

Dion rises and plucks the photo from its perch just as Grandma returns with three cups of tea on a tray. She sets them down on the coffee table, handing me one when Dion speaks.

“You knew Donovan?” he asks, brows furrowing as he studies the image of a stern man clad in a police officer’s uniform. I know the picture well. Grandma used to tell me stories of her late husband, but how Dion knows him is beyond me.

Dion wanders over with the photo in his hand to show me.

I lean forward, craning my neck to view the gray scale-toned face staring back from the past. “Yeah, that’s Grandpa. He died before Mum was born,” I explain.

As my gaze lingers on the man in the photo, a shadow falls over it, and the air grows thick with tension.

Grandma’s hand shoots out, swift and sure, and the picture vanished from Dion’s grasp.

Her knuckles whiten as she clutches the frame to her chest as if protecting it like she thinks Dion will damage it on her.

“Grandma?” I ask, startled by her actions, a frown creasing my forehead. Her eyes, usually warm and inviting, are now pools of worry. Dion shifts uncomfortably, the question hanging between us like a fragile glass ornament ready to shatter.

She offers no explanation, just a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The photograph disappears behind her back, and she turns away, leaving an unspoken void that stretches and twists in the silence.

I exchange a glance with Dion, finding in his expression a reflection of my own confusion. Yet something else, he almost seems angry.

“Grandma has always been private about Grandpa,” I say, trying to ease him some.

I sip my tea, the taste is bitter, making me wonder if the milk is off.

Setting it back on the tray. My hands fold in my lap, fingers intertwining and untangling as I grapple with the oddness of her reaction.

Dion doesn’t even take his. Instead, he stares at Grandma, who places the photo back where it was.

The silence that follows is thick, heavy enough to smother the embers of the conversation. Dion and I sit, marooned on the floral-patterned sofa, as the clock on the wall ticks in an almost exaggerated manner, each sound a sharp punctuation in the quietness.

“Excuse me,” Grandma says suddenly, her voice slicing through the stillness with a brittle edge.

She clasps her hands together, knuckles whitening—a clear sign of distress—and avoids our eyes.

“I will make a call to see if Caleb is ready to be picked up.” With that, she leaves the room, her footsteps loud on the floorboards, and I turn my attention to Dion.

Dion’s gaze lingers on the kitchen door where she wandered off to, his brow furrows in contemplation. The pensive look on his face concerns me; it is as if he is piecing together a puzzle. He turns to me, and there is a gravity in his eyes that paralyzes me to the spot.

“We need to leave,” he whispers, his voice barely a breath, ensuring the words are just for me. The urgency in his tone is unmistakable.

I nod, feeling the layers of expectation I had built up about this visit crumble within me.

My stomach twists into a knot—the kind that no amount of rational thought can untie.

This is not the familial reunion I had envisioned.

The warmth of the hearth did little to stave off the cold realization that something is amiss.

My thoughts churn, a whirlpool of confusion and worry.

Dion comes over to me, hand grabbing mine as he pulls me to my feet, his movements deliberate. Rising from the couch, I peer up at him.

“Are you okay?” I ask, though what I really wanted to ask is a thousand different things. Like if he felt the same pervasive sense of wrongness that is gnawing at me.

“I’m fine,” he says, but his eyes dart to the hallway where Grandma has disappeared. “Just thinking.”

“About?” I prod.

I cast a backward glance at the mantle, at the photo of Grandpa wondering why a photo had upset him so much. But there is only the echo of our footsteps and the faint, distant sound of a phone being placed back onto its cradle.

Grandma reenters the room, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan.

“So where is he? Can I have the address to stop in and see him?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

Her reply comes swiftly, slicing through the air with an edge sharper than I remember from her. “I’m not giving you the address,” she says flatly. “I won’t have—your mate—” she cast a fleeting but pointed look Dion’s way, “—frighten off the friends he’s made.”

Dion doesn’t flinch at her words, but his jaw is clenched, the muscle ticking. The sting of her barbs course through me, and I bite back a retort, knowing it will only wedge the divide deeper. Instead, I pull my gaze away, feeling the cool rejection settle like frost on my skin.

I step closer to Dion. “Well, we better—” Grandma cuts me off.

“Wait, you’re leaving already?” she asks, glancing between us.

I chew my lip nervously. One second ago, she didn’t look like she wanted us here and now she wants us to s tay.