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“By that point, they’d invested so much negative emotion and energy in the belief that it was me that they just couldn’t let it go. On top of that, they blamed me for their nephew being ‘wrongly punished;’ said Eddie was just a scapegoat.”
Quinley shook her head, furious on his behalf. “I get that they must have badly needed someone to blame. But to latch onto you when there was no proof, and then to refuse to believe—even to this day—that what you’ve been saying all this time was true… What possible peace can they find in holding onto their beliefs this way?”
“I’m not sure they want peace. They certainly didn’t want me to have it.” He paused. “There were times when I considered embracing the rumor, since defending myself sometimes only made people seem less likely to believe me. I think it’s in some people’s nature to enjoy seeing others torn apart or ruined or hurt.”
She nodded, grave. “I think that, too.”
“My parents suffered for it. Cherrie would constantly knock on their door, rant at my mom, accuse them of being terrible parents. Kristopher would turn up to drag his mate home, but he’d always end up in an argument with my dad.”
Practically able to feel the emotional wound throb inside him, she leaned into him and rested her head on his chest. “I’m sorry that happened.”
His arms tightened around her. “I thought maybe it would limit my chances of becoming an enforcer. Don’t get me wrong, I was aware that Vinnie believed me to be innocent. But it’s important that the pride feel they can trust the enforcers, and a handful of them didn’t. I think he thought the problem would resolve itself eventually, but it never did. Jenson’s family persisted in their beliefs.”
“Do they still give you or your parents trouble?”
“No. They spent the last few years pretty much pretending we don’t exist. That suited us fine. It suited us even better when they left the pride.” Nuzzling her hair, he hummed. “But I’d rather we didn’t talk about them anymore. Especially when I can hear your stomach rumbling.”
“I’m so hungry it’s about to eat itself,” she confessed.
He snorted. “Then let’s get you fed. Your stuff will arrive soon, and you’ll want to have finished your dinner before it does.”
It was literally ten minutes after they’d eaten their evening meal that her family arrived. Isaiah and Will did most of the heavy lifting so the females could focus on unpacking the boxes. Meanwhile, little Corey and Ren chased each other around the house.
She’d been telling the truth when she’d said she wasn’t bringing much. And yet, having her things among his seemed to change the “tone” of the house.
His living room now featured throw-cushions, her knick-knacks, new coasters, and framed photographs. A tall mirror was hung in the hallway, plants were sprinkled around various rooms, her coats were placed on the rack, and her kitchenware was added to his own.
She had some Christmas bits and bobs—baubles she put on the tree, LED candles she placed on shelves, a garland she set on the fire mantel, and some ornaments she spread around.
At her request, he and Will set her reading chair and books in the bedroom while the females placed more of her personal belongings throughout the space—filling the dresser, vanity, and closet. Other bits were taken to the en suite bathroom.
Once they were done, they took the empty boxes to the large van Will had borrowed to deliver her stuff. Her family stayed long enough to have a quick coffee, but then they left.
Quinley did a long stretch. “I’m tired after that, but resting isn’t gonna happen right now. My cat is itching to get out and do some marking.”
“So let her out,” urged Isaiah, eager to meet the little feline.
Quinley went to the patio door and opened it enough that her cat would be able to squeeze through. “I’m not getting undressed outside,” she explained. “It’s too damn cold.”
He watched her as she stripped—a show he enjoyed despite how quickly it was over. Clearly to escape the chilly air filtering through the open patio door, she shifted instantly.
Isaiah smiled down at her cat. Light-green eyes took him in, curious. She looked much like a tabby or Bengal cat. Black spots and tiger-like stripes decorated her tawny fur. Thick dark bands surrounded her long tapering tail.
“Hey, there,” he murmured, going down on his haunches. “Come over here,” he softly coaxed.
Her small pointed ears pricking forward, she cautiously padded toward him.
“Good girl.”
Pausing near his thigh, she prodded him with a paw he knew would be black—hence where the name of her breed came from. “Want a stroke, do you?” He petted her gently, focusing mostly on her head and neck, since she seemed to prefer being stroked in those areas.
His own feline watched her every movement, admiring her grace; feeling a little left out.
Apparently done being stroked, she wandered off. Isaiah hung back as she rubbed herself over furnishings, leaving a few claw marks here and there—marking their territory as partly hers.
He followed her into the yard and remained on the patio while she darted around, fast as fucking lightning. No, faster.
She sprinted. Climbed. Jumped. Rolled. And then found herself a goddamn spider, which she promptly ate.
