Page 14

Knowing Veva is just across the hall from me, I barely sleep.

Last night, I’d watched her war with herself, alternating between laughing and joining on the conversation and pulling back, trying to keep those walls up.

Kira was right—the food did bring her out of the room. But she’s still not ready to give me a chance. Even after that moment with Sarina in my study.

After tossing and turning for hours, drifting to sleep, only to wake up to some strange sound outside, I finally get out of bed.

If I’m going to be awake, I might as well be getting things done. I go to my bathroom, brush my teeth, groom, dress, then head down to the garage.

The moment I flick the light on and smell the sawdust, something in my chest loosens up. If I had it my way, I’d be out on the lake, fishing—but this is the next best thing.

My last project was a new bookshelf for my study. I run my hands over some of the wood I still have left from that, thinking about the guest room. Once I have a plan, I get into the groove quickly, cutting and sanding, already thinking about what stain I might use for the piece.

“Good morning.”

“Ah!” I jump and turn to find Sarina in the doorway, staring at me, looking wide awake. There’s a book tucked under her arm, and she’s watching me with those open eyes. It makes her look like she absorbs everything around her. Maybe she does.

I should have smelled her before she spoke, even if I couldn’t hear her over the sound of the machine. Maybe it was the sawdust, clogging up my nose.

“Sorry,” Sarina laughs, her voice high and light, and not sounding sorry. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Really? Because it kind of seems like you meant to scare me.”

Sarina laughs again, rocks on her feet, and I realize she’s wearing one of the dresses my sister made for her. It’s yellow with little flowers, and suits her well, contrasting with her hair.

The hair that looks so much like mine, so much like Kira’s, that it doesn’t make sense. It’s not fair how much this girl looks like me, despite not belonging to me.

I can’t keep thinking about it, or I’ll drive myself mad.

“What are you doing?” Sarina asks, taking another step inside, her head tipping and turning as she takes everything in. My woodworking shop is in a little alcove off the main garage, which houses canoes, fishing gear, and my motorcycle.

“I’m working on a set of nightstands.” Reaching over, I pat my hand against the wood. “Figured your mom and you might like to each have an end table in that room.”

Sarina nods, matter-of-factly. “It would be nice to have a place to set my books.”

“Oh,” I tease, “ your books?”

Her face goes red. “I’m sorry—no, I meant—”

“Sarina,” I hold up a hand, shaking my head. “I’m just teasing you. You are welcome to use anything in this house as long as you’re staying here. I just want you and your mom to feel welcome.”

She stares at me for a long moment, then says, “I just can’t figure it out.”

“What?”

“Why my mom doesn’t like you.”

I bite my tongue, looking away from her. It’s Veva I want to talk to about this, and I have to resist the urge to dig, to find out what this kid knows. If her mother has said anything about me to her.

“You want to help me out with this?”

Sarina looks intrigued and surprises me by throwing herself into the project, following my instructions as we measure pieces, sand them down.

“Do you like to build things?” I ask, while we’re sanding down one of the pieces. I could use my tool for this, but it’s too loud and too dangerous around an eight-year-old. Besides, it’s kind of nice to get in and do it by hand.

Sarina shrugs. “I helped my mom build our house.”

That gives me pause, and I pull back a bit. “You and your mom…built a house?”

“Not like this,” Sarina laughs, looking around at the garage. “Well, maybe kind of like this—about as big as this. Not your whole house.”

She’s surprisingly well-spoken for her age. It must be from all the reading.

“That’s impressive,” I say, “that you built a place to live together.”

“I like it a lot more than the tent.”

Again, I pause, something in my chest dropping at the sound of this. The tent, them building a small house together? Not for the first time since seeing Veva again, guilt pushes through me.

That night, when I turned her away, I hadn’t expected it to prompt her to leave the pack altogether. I’d had a sinking feeling, deep down, that she was going to point out what had been obvious between us for a while—the fact that we were mates.

I didn’t think the rejection would hit her hard enough that she would move to the Grayhide territory and live in a tent.

I’m just opening my mouth to respond to Sarina when there’s a knock at the door. I perk up, tip my head, and take a sniff of the air.

It’s Aidan, and he’s alone. Still, I steer Sarina into the living room and tell her to stay put when I go to the door.

“Morning,” Aidan says, grinning at me and holding out a canvas sack. “Dorian said this is for Veva.”

I stare at the bag, wondering what Dorian might be giving her, but reach out and take it, anyway.

Aidan raises his eyebrows at me, not too subtly trying to look inside the house. “Heard they’re staying with you—how’s that going? You have any time to train later?”

“Probably not,” I say, angling myself so he can’t see past me.

It’s not that I don’t trust him—it’s that, right now, with Sarina behind me, I feel like I can’t really trust anyone.

I believe Aidan, that he’s here, in the pack, to prepare himself for taking on Jerrod, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to risk him being around Sarina. “Thanks, man.”

Closing the door behind me, I turn and peek into the bag, then suck in a breath. It’s several large bundles, of money, a heavy pouch that must be filled with coins. It’s a lot of money for a woman who was, apparently, living in some sort of shed that she built herself.

There’s an envelope, a few books, and a few other random personal items. My hands itch to reach, open the envelope and figure out what’s inside.

“ What are you doing ?” I startle, turning to find Veva standing in nothing but a large T-shirt at the bottom of the stairs, hands shaking as she takes Sarina by the shoulders and pulls her in, wrapping her arms around her.

“Sorry,” Sarina mumbles into her chest. “I tried to wake you—”

But Veva isn’t even paying attention to her daughter—her eyes are on me, the bag in my hand, pulled open at the top to reveal what’s inside.

“Is that mine?” she asks, and when I step forward to hand it to her, she practically yanks it out of my hands. All the familiarity, laughter, and warmth from last night is gone.

“Sarina,” she says, turning and pointing up the stairs. “Don’t leave that room without making sure I’m awake, and that I know where you’re going, okay?”

“We were building tables,” Sarina says, shrugging, a book held close to her chest. “Sorry.”

“Go upstairs. I’ll be there in a second.”

This is the first time I’ve heard Veva use anything but a gentle, loving tone with Sarina, and I realize it’s slightly my fault. The moment the girl is out of earshot, I lower my voice.

“I was just checking the bag—”

“You were snooping,” Veva frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. It seems like she’s just now noticing the fact that she’s still in her pajamas, but I can’t think about anything else.

I’m finding it very difficult to pull my eyes away from her long legs, from the hem of that T-shirt, from the way her crossed arms accentuate her chest, rather than hiding it.

“I don’t want Sarina going anywhere without me,” she says, looking pointedly at me, and though she’s not saying it, I hear it loud and clear: I don’t trust you, Emin Argent .