Page 30

I wake up the next morning, in my room, alone.

As it has so often, my hand drifts down my body, resting on my stomach. Is there a little life in there? Something growing that Dorian and I have created together?

The thought of him makes my skin prickle, and I swing my legs out of the bed, getting to my feet. I walk to the window, pulling open the curtains and looking through the brush. If I look long and hard, I can just make out the town in the distance, the tall spiral of the old church right in the middle of everything.

I want to go out there. See what’s changed. Other than that first day, when I was walking to my parents’, I haven’t been in the town at all. It’s been far too long stuck in this house, and it’s starting to grate on me. I’m going stir crazy.

But more than that, it’s the sense that Dorian doesn’t want anyone knowing I’m here. The same shame and humiliation burn inside me that I felt as a kid, but this time, there’s the knowledge that I let him in, trusted him, am carrying his baby.

I drop my head into my hands and take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. Trying to figure out what to do. A few days ago, I’d determined I would ask him point-blank what he wanted.

That’s still what I need to do. I need to tell him that it’s all or nothing for us—that either he accepts me, or I’m leaving.

The very thought of leaving him, especially with the baby I might be carrying, makes me sick. But I spent enough of my life not respecting myself, being okay with him taking advantage of me. Accepting what everyone else said my value was, to the point where that’s what I thought my value was, too.

Not knowing what to do, I decide it can’t hurt to get ready for the day. I step into the shower, stand in the hot water. Then, I wonder if hot showers are bad for pregnancy and turn it to cool, then think that might be bad, too, before I settle on warm and realize I have a lot to figure out.

By the time I get out of the shower, I’m only feeling more confused.

I walk through the hallway, past the room filled with my sewing things, and remember the day he brought it all back for me. Our first kiss, the way it had felt to realize he was thinking of me, and that he was willing to go to Grayhide territory, to get the things I loved.

In the kitchen, I start to make myself a coffee, then realize I probably shouldn’t have one if I’m pregnant. I put the cup back, stand still for a moment, then turn and walk back in the direction of my sewing room.

I have no pattern, no plan, but I start pulling fabric down from the shelf, cutting it out, mind whirring with Dorian leaving all day, how he didn’t communicate with me.

How much pressure he must be under, to be the alpha leader.

We need to talk. That’s obvious—I need to figure out how he feels about me and what he wants from me. I need to tell him what I need in order to be happy here.

I need to tell him about my potential pregnancy, the fact that I’ve had a premonition of giving birth to his baby at some point in the future. But he’s not home now, and he was gone all day yesterday.

Without me realizing, two hours go by, the sewing machine working, my thoughts running, until I sit back and realize I’m holding a completed baby onesie in my hands. A little pale blue thing, so tiny I can hardly believe it would fit around a baby.

It probably won’t—I didn’t measure a thing to make it. But something inside tells me that I knew exactly what size my baby would need, exactly how tiny he would come out.

He. I blink, sit back in my chair, put my hand to my stomach again. Is this baby a boy?

Shaking my head, I try to clear the thoughts from my head. There’s a chance that I might not even be pregnant—there’s no point in thinking in circles, tying myself up with questions I can’t answer.

I’m still sitting there, staring at the onesie, when I hear someone coming to the front door.

Dorian.

I know without knowing, and I’m on my feet, moving toward the door, watching as he pushes through. The anger and hurt are still simmering below the surface, and when I look at him, I can see that nothing has changed for him.

He’s still unwilling to let me leave, to go out into the town.

Crossing my arms, I shift back from him, already feeling defensiveness crawl up my throat.

“What?” I ask. “You’re home already?”

“Kira,” he sighs, letting the door shut behind him. He runs a hand roughly over his face. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but—I just need you to trust me, okay? You’re my mate. We’ve marked one another, and I—right now, I just have to keep you safe.”

“But you won’t tell me what the problem is,” I challenge, stepping forward, feeling the hem of my dress brush against my shins. “Do you understand how that makes me feel?”

To my shock, he nods, looking sorry. “I do. And I—well, I was actually hoping you might be able to help us with that.”

He laughs when I go completely quiet, eyes wide. Of everything I thought he was going to say, I certainly didn’t expect him to ask for my help.

“Okay,” I wind my fingers together slowly, watching as he reaches into a bag at his feet, pulling out an object. Some sort of keypad, wires dangling from the back, looking like it was uninstalled from the wall.

“Something was stolen from us,” he says, voice low. “And we have reason to believe it might be the Grayhides behind it.”

My throat jumps at the mention of my old pack, and Jerrod’s face flashes to mind, but I stuff it down. I need to show Dorian that he can trust me with this information. That I can be involved.

“I know you and Beth haven’t had much time together, but I thought that, maybe if you touched this, felt the energy or something, you might be able to hear something. Give us some insight into what might have happened.”

I want to demand that he tell me everything—what he knows about the Grayhides and what, exactly, was stolen. But this is a start. This is Dorian showing me that he trusts me, that I might get to play the role I want in this pack.

“We have a lot to talk about,” I say, voice thick as I look up at him. “You know that I’m not happy, right?”

He swallows, his eyes locked on me. “I know. I’m sorry, Kira. I’m just—I’m doing my best, here.”

“Okay.” I nod, pushing down the simmering agitation, the need to get everything out in the open, sit him down and talk it through. Clearly there are other things going on right now that are taking his attention. My first taste of what it’s like to be mated to the alpha leader. “I’ll try.”

We move to the dining table, and Dorian sets the keypad in the center, then disappears. A moment later, he comes back with an ice pack and a glass of water, taking a seat across from me.

“Thank you, Kira,” he says, as I touch my fingers to the keypad. The interesting thing about it is that there are no numbers—almost as though they’ve all been rubbed off. Perhaps an attempt to avoid anyone being able to guess which keys are used the most.

“Can you tell me more about this?” I ask, trying to anchor myself to it, straining to listen, to feel the energy Beth talked about. “It might help me.”

“Sure,” Dorian leans back, crosses his arms. “It’s a keypad from a storage room at the pack hall. Very few people in the pack get access to it, and the code is changed daily.”

I nod, still trying to connect with it, find a path in.

“You might have more luck asking Beth about this,” I murmur, already starting to feel the headache pushing at the back of my skull.

“She’s gone, remember?” Dorian says, quietly. “And by the time she comes back, it might be too late.”

I want to ask more about that, but I don’t. For five more minutes, we sit quietly like that, with me straining to hear something and only silence greeting me.

It’s so quiet, and so still in the house, with me barely even able to hear the sound of Dorian’s breathing, that when the four rapid knocks rap against the front door, it feels like gun fire.

I jump, nearly throwing the keypad on the ground, and feeling whatever progress I’d made dissolve, the spirits spooking around me and leaving, too.

“Fuck,” I whisper, hands shaking as Dorian gets up. I notice how he angles his body between me and the door and feel something tug in my gut at the sight of it.

I remember what he said when he first got here. Something is wrong, and he’s trying to protect me.

And now, somebody is at the door.