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Chapter seventeen

Roan

You go on one amazing, fun, and hot as hell date and you get sent home with homework.

Homework!

I didn't even do this stuff when I was at school. Why does Clay have to be so mean? I’m completely fine with talking about how fucking hot and overwhelming it was to have my first time having real sex be a threesome.

I can chat for days about how incredibly sexy it was watching Mitch lose his mind between me and Clay.

I could spend all day on the pleasure I received from Clay’s mouth.

Hell, even when we had to talk about things we didn’t think went well or things we want to change for next time, I was still on cloud freaking nine because, fuck me, I’ve got mates.

Not one, but two hot, older monster men who are secure in their relationship and eager to have me in it with them.

But being handed an extra paper cup that had a kink website and scribbled directions on it?

Yeah. Not cool. Mitch promised me he’d give me a special treat if I filled out all the stuff that Clay asked.

He also said they’d both done it as well once they got more into the BDSM side of their relationship, and did more internal work on how their Wolven instincts affected their bond.

They didn’t give me a timeline for this homework, and I’m not exactly jumping for the chance to use the decrepit “business centre” at the motel.

Connie said the original setup was state of the art, but I think they still have a fax machine next to the giant box they call a computer.

That’s going to have to be a midnight rendezvous when I know there are no eyes open to peek over my shoulder.

I need to focus on the Cove Arts Centre.

That’s my purpose for being here. Rick came around two days ago with all the supplies I ordered, so I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.

Just like with the clear-out, I start on the ground floor.

I’m potentially in over my head, clambering up and down the ladder scrubbing the walls and ceiling clean so I can paint them once they’re dry.

The floors are a different subject. I need a builder to manage that, but for getting this place up and operational, a lick of paint will do. My arms ache by the early afternoon. The cleaning jumpsuit I changed into after Mitch dropped me off at the motel is soaked.

The ground floor is clear, though, and I had hoped I’d be able to do the first floor today as well, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.

I run up to the loft, panting by the time I’m there, and I strip completely out of this suit.

I throw it over the railing outside to dry in the waning sunshine.

An afternoon of sketching will be good for my soul.

There are a few things I want to add to my goals list as well.

I want to have monthly art nights here at the centre, something to get tourists and townspeople excited to come here.

There is nothing more oppressive and ostentatious than an empty gallery.

My phone lights up with a call from my agent.

We didn’t part on the best terms after my last show. I’d had only one request for opening night, and my mother showing up unannounced meant they weren’t really the sort of business partner I was looking for.

“Hey, Zee, you alright?” I answer after too many rings.

“So you are alive, Rowena.” My mother’s clipped tone in the receiver takes my brain offline.

“You have one poor showing, and you spiral into this nonsense. I had to force this tiny Fae to hand over their even tinier mobile just to get in contact with you. They said you’ve gone off the rails, taken some ‘boggin’ backwater residency in a dump. ”

Okay, maybe I was mean enough. Hallow’s Cove is a diamond in the rough, rich with a community that can’t be replicated anywhere else.

“What do you want, Mum?” I ask instead.

“Your brother has… stepped out of line, and we need you to come home.”

“What?” I stutter.

My brother is a cherubic shining light to our household.

Camberford educated and the future Marquis of Farrador, Donovan has always been the child my parents praise the most, love the most. He’s never done a single thing wrong in his life.

How the fuck could he have fallen so far that they want me back?

“You know how it is,” Angelica insists. “Some spineless paparazzo takes a photo they shouldn’t have and now the rags are trying to bleed us for pence. It’s really all very ridiculous.”

“Excuse me?” My voice rises. Every hair on my body stands on end at her implication.

“Oh, it’s just some media spin. We just need to turn it back in our favour. Your flight’s already booked, bobble, just head to the airport in the morning.” She continues on like she isn’t asking me to just abandon everything here.

I’m going to be sick. She can’t be serious. Donovan is entitled, he thinks he can do whatever he likes, but he’s not stupid enough to do something illegal in front of those cretins. What on earth could have gotten Lady Angelica so riled about this?

It doesn’t matter. They won’t use me to cover up his slip, whatever it is. I’ve barely spoken to him since he went off to uni, too busy networking to pay attention to his younger sister. Donovan is a grown man. His mistakes or public slips are his own to deal with, not mine.

“No.” I scowl at my trembling hand, still gripping my pencil.

“No? Rowena, I refuse to fight two scandals on different continents. You will come home tomorrow and you will play the part you were born to.” Her voice rises to meet mine.

“Or what?” I say, calling her bluff. She can’t possibly do anything else to hurt me more than that review.

There is a pause on the line, the only sound is the blood rushing through my ears. I can’t even imagine what she’s doing at this very moment. Her calm facade sounds shattered over the line. She doesn’t expect me to refuse or fight when she gives me a command.

“We’ll disown you,” Mum finally says. “No more connections, no more allowance, you will be completely cut out of the family and everything we have given you.”

My brow furrows at that. I don't use those now. I've done everything I can not to use my family's influence.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you truly believe I haven't been paying for your lifestyle? Oh, bobble.” She says that godsawful nickname like I'm some stupid idiot. “What artist do you know who gets monthly stipends? Who has patrons in this economy?”

No.

“Your father and I figured you would grow out of this once you'd found a husband we preferred. We didn't mind indulging you while you weren't causing a fuss, but now you are.”

Tears fall down my cheeks before I can stop them.

“So you have a choice, come home tomorrow and be the sort of daughter we can be proud of, or don't bother speaking to us again.”

The line cuts.

Has it all been a lie, then? My lungs pump like I’m gasping for air, but nothing is coming in.

A sob, choked and weak, comes out of me.

The thoughts in my head morph, taking on the voice of my mother.

Every critique, every reprimand, every backhanded remark comes bubbling up to the surface, and I can’t stop crying.

Zephyr had been happy when they negotiated that deal with the anonymous patron, some angel investor for the arts. I felt so lucky finding that East London studio for a bargain. It had felt like pieces falling into place, before my mother’s terrible review of my first solo show.

Everyone in Hallow’s Cove is right. I'm a fraud and a failure.

I really thought I was making myself into a better person, but it was just a lie.