Page 45

SERAPHINA

F ive years later.

He's late.

The knife snaps into the chopping board, almost cutting it in half.

Miranda hisses with displeasure. "Get out of my kitchen if you won't help!" she snarls. Quinn snickers from the island, stealing Landon's strawberry tart.

I glare. "Maybe I'd be more inclined to help if you weren't nagging me all the time!"

Quinn's mother and I don't get along very much.

The first time I'd visited four years ago, she had taken to giving me the silent treatment and pretending I didn't exist. The year after that was all bark and no bite.

Last year, I thought we'd bonded over mistaking the spiked punch for plain juice and getting so damned drunk, she had slept in my bed with Lilia while chirping away about how men were scoundrels and how no one should get married.

But she'd gone back to being insufferable the next morning.

This time, it is almost as if she has taken an oath to kill me with her constant complaints.

She tosses the rag against the stove and turns livid dark eyes to mine. "Put the pan in and go to your room, young lady. Your mood swings are getting unbearable."

Quinn nods in agreement. Landon wiggles out of his arms, still clutching the half-eaten tart, and runs toward me with sticky fingers and wide, chocolate-streaked cheeks.

"Mommy, up," he demands, reaching his arms toward me.

Despite the storm brewing inside me, my heart softens. I scoop him up and press a kiss to his curls.

"Missed you too, monster."

He giggles and tucks his head under my chin. "Daddy come home today?"

"I hope so," I whisper, hugging him a little tighter. "He promised."

He should've been here three days ago, but he's been held back by Goddess knows what. Maybe that's his excuse to stay away because of my unpredictable mood.

But it's hardly my fault. He put a baby in me. He should be here, waiting out the storm.

Abandoning Miranda with all the work, I walk from the kitchen. Her screaming and ranting follows me all the way upstairs and I growl inwardly.

Landon twists in my arms when we pass by my half-brothers on the way.

Bryan, seventeen, a jarring look-alike of his mother.

Silvery blonde hair, deep-set dark eyes, a mischievous smile and face that would make one look back twice.

He is nearly as tall as Quinn, hovering a few inches above my father's youngest son, Jill.

Jill has my eyes, though, that is all the similarities there are between us.

They both nod in greeting, the latter raising his hand to smack against Landon's small fist. Communication between us might be a little awkward as siblings, but they love Landon. Everyone loves Landon.

Sometimes, I wonder if Ronan would have, if things had happened under different circumstances. I try to banish the thought quickly, but it stays for a moment longer, much like the nightmares that still plague me, even after five years.

It is more a minor disturbance now than it was trauma back then.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see Ronan gurgling.

Other times, I hear Tova's wailing. Landon's cries, walking endlessly and never finding him.

And on most days, it is finding Kaida's corpse hung up from the ceiling that haunts me.

I should have known something was wrong when she didn't attend her son's funeral.

After emerging from where she had rounded up the guests to safety and finding Ronan dead, she looked little more than a wraith.

She didn't weep for Ronan like Tova did. Didn't ever touch him. Barely spoke when a temporary Head Alpha was put in place. Nora reported back to me. She barely ate. Barely drank. Barely slept. Barely functioned.

I knew grief. Understood how it ate away at you in the initial days. How words stopped reaching your ears. How colors became too bright, you suddenly hated them. How every new day reminded you of one more without them.

I should have known. Should've been able to stop her from killing herself. But I thought it best to let her mourn.

Soren had taken my face in his hands and whispered again and again that it wasn't my fault. Tell that to my brain that overthinks everything.

My most haunting nightmares are the ones where Soren dies. Over and over. Sometimes I find him too late in the dungeon chamber. Other times, Ronan kills him. And I scream my throat hoarse, because I die with him, too.

Loosening a breath, I take the stairs. "No," I say when Landon begins to wiggle towards the playroom. "The bonfire's in a few hours. We need to get you cleaned up."

"Nooooo!" he cries. He hates taking a bath. Soren has to come up with fun ways to get him in the shower all the time without setting him off. I try, but Soren's better at gimmicks than I am.

I sigh at the drop in my belly at the thought of him.

Six years ago after watching Ronan get engaged to Tova, I didn't think I could deal with getting myself involved in another relationship or entanglement.

Thought I was well and truly done with men.

Yet, here I am, sobbing over missing my husband, getting all needy and impatient.

Five hours later, music carries through the frost-kissed air, wild and pulsing, as flames roar in the center of the square.

It casts golden light over fur-lined cloaks, glittering dresses, and the smiling faces of my father's pack.

Laughter echoes from every direction, lifted by the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, laughing as Father dances around the fire with Landon riding on his neck, hands flailing wildly.

The mansion stands behind us, surrounded by a world of green and a beautiful lake. It had been a surprise when I first arrived. The peace and serenity.

My father liked his privacy well enough that he resided apart from the pack, moving his family into a private home within the vicinity of it. It was refreshing, not having to put on airs all the time, pretend to be strong all the time.

I had talked about it enough that Soren got us an apartment in the more private areas of the pack.

Eric hates it, because on the days Soren and I escape from the burden of our duties, he claims we leave him to do all the work.

In truth, we keep his hands full, especially since he keeps moping around like a moppet, trying to get over the fact that Lilia broke up with him and left the pack.

Neither I nor Soren know what happened. Lilia wouldn't tell me, regardless of how hard I pried, but judging from Eric's disposition—his painful yearning and unending pleas—I'd say he fucked things up. Royally.

I turn, scanning the crowd.

No sign of Soren. Or Eric.

My stomach gives a slow, aching twist. He said he'd be back tonight.

Quinn appears at my side, grin lopsided, mischief glinting in his eyes. "You're stiff, like a fucking statue." He offers his hand with dramatic flair. "Dance with me before you turn to stone."

I laugh despite myself, taking his hand. "Fine. But if you step on my toes, I'll gut you."

He twirls me once, then sweeps me into the rhythm of the music, lighthearted and fast. Soon, Bryan joins in, cutting between us with the worst steps I've ever seen, and I can't stop laughing.

For a few minutes, I let myself be. I dance. I laugh, let the music carry me.

I catch my father and Miranda watching from the sidelines, a small smile hidden behind his glass. He raises it and I wave wordlessly, happily.

A familiar line of fire runs a path down my spine and I turn. But I don't see him. I could've sworn I felt him staring.

He still isn't here.

I grab a glass of juice off a tray to quench my thirst and cool off, but a sudden squeal startles the shit out of me, making the juice splash on my dress. "Fina!"

"Shit. I'm sorry," Lilia says, eyes wide with horror as she takes in the mess. She grabs a kerchief from her pocket, dabbing at the floral white. "Shit," she swears again. The color won't come out. It looks like a huge map of yellowish-pink on the small pouch I've got.

I shake my head. "It's fine. I'll go change." Lie. I'm going up to bed and never coming down here again. I'm going to bawl my eyes out for the rest of the evening.

Her eyes shine with remorse and I let myself look at her.

I haven't seen her in months. Not since my trip to Manhattan with her six months ago.

Her eyes are covered in dark, smoky makeup, making the gray in them pop.

She wears her hair short, stopping short of her chin, and it makes her look years younger.

She hadn't bothered with an expensive dress, wearing a two-piece navy blue suit without sleeves, paired with the most corporate set of heels I've ever seen on her. She must have come straight from work. "You look hot."

She blushes, tucking her perfectly straightened hair behind her ear. "You think so?"

"Yes."

But the response doesn't come from me.

We both turn and my heart skips at the sight of green eyes. Lighter. Eric's here. That means...I look around him, disappointed when I don't find Soren.

"He'll run a little late," Eric says, leaning forward to kiss Lilia and me on our cheeks. On the former, his eyes linger, hunger entering them as his gaze devours every dip and curve. Goddess. If I have to stand between them, I might roast.

I step away, excusing myself, but they hardly notice or respond.

"I got you something, Fina. I'll bring them to your bedroom!" Lilia yells over the crowd, voice almost getting lost in a room of many. I nod in response, swiping down at the stain on my dress.

A wonderful night I'm having.

I find my way to the house, scowling as I climb the stairs slowly, my heels loud in the silence. Running late. Insufferable man.

My room greets me with a sliver of light beneath the door, though I remember turning it off.

The moment I twist the doorknob, the scent of winter and spice wraps around me, catching my breath.

He's there, sitting in my bed like it belongs to him. His coat hangs off the rack. His tie is wrapped around his fist and his shirt is completely undone. "Hey."

"You had better start explaining," I choke out, ignoring the flex of his toned biceps. Goddess, he is so handsome.

He leans back, green eyes shining with mischief. "You wore that for me?"

He distracts me efficiently and I look down at the pretty little gown that comes down mid-thigh. The low cut neck cups my breasts delicately, my cleavage particularly juicy tonight. My legs look good, long, sexy. I shrug. "Didn't think you would come."

But he's still staring at my legs. His eyes eat me up, from my toes in the brown wedge sandals to my nipples hardening through the material, rising to meet my eyes. And down. His Adam's apple bobs, and he seems to wrestle with himself before saying, "I got tipped off about Tova's location."

My heart sinks at the sadness that overwhelms him and I seek him out, settling on his thigh. "Did you find her?"

He shakes his head. "She was gone before I could get to her. Couldn't find a trace of her."

After Ronan's funeral, Tova left. No one knows where precisely, but Soren's sources often get back with news of her in the human territories. Paris. Germany. London. Brazil. She never stayed in one place long enough to find her. We've been looking for five years.

"Maybe she doesn't want to be found," I whisper, searching his eyes. "She'll come around in her own time."

He nods, heaving a sigh. When he blinks, the weariness in his gaze is gone. He nuzzles my cheek. "You smell good. Sweet. Maternal." He kisses my cheek. "I love it."

"I'm still mad at you."

He grips my thigh, lifting me into a straddle. He breathes up my neck and hot breaths whoosh out my lungs as he purrs, "How mad?"

"Very," I growl, though my spine arches.

He laughs, twisting us and I am deposited at the bed's edge, Soren kneeling between my legs. Need blasts through me and I rest on my elbows, watching him roll up his sleeves diligently. "Is this your idea of an apology?"

His green eyes flash with hunger as he pulls me over the edge, raising either of my legs to rest comfortably on his broad shoulders. "That, and I'm starving."

Canines sink into the soft skin of my thigh and I jerk back—Oh. His tongue flattens against the surface, soothing. His nose pushes against the fabric of my panties, sniffing. Sweat breaks on my skin as heat crawls underneath it.

His teeth find the hem and he tugs at my panties. My hips arch off the bed as the lacy material rubs against my clit. There, I think. Right there.

As if hearing my thoughts, the fabric thins, sliding against me slit to clit. I moan, fisting the sheets. The feel of my clothes sliding against my skin is torture. The sheets underneath my ass feels like too much. I need him so much, it hurts.

His teeth snap from the lace and it smacks against my heat hard enough to hurt, but the moan that leaves my mouth is needy and hungry.

He tastes me then, takes his tongue through my most private parts and sucks on the wetness that he wrings out of me. He groans in approval and lavishes me in affection with his mouth.

And when my hips begin to move, my breasts begging for the same attention, he drops my calf, but not before kissing my skin. He enters me with one finger, a rattling sound echoing in his throat. Then a second. His moan echoes mine. Hungry. Starved. Then a third.

He strokes me. Slow, then hard. Soft, then hard. The burn makes me wild. I'm dripping down his fingers, he tells me. My pussy sings for him, he whispers, encouraging me to ride his fingers.

He doesn't last very long. He never does. I am barely getting off the first orgasm before he pounces on me, kissing me until we both cannot breathe, until I can only pant and take in more of his tongue, take in more of my taste off his tongue.

My dress rips. "It's already ruined," he whispers. "I'll buy you another closet."

I don't give a fuck about the clothes. I only care that he fucks me.

He hears my thoughts and gives me precisely what I want. He traps my hands above my head and slams home. "Sera, the baby kicked."