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Harley squeezed Brak’s hand as she blurted out what was on her mind. “Why didn’t you tell me I’m adopted?”
Apparently, Harley wasn’t big on small talk. Brak respected that about her. Though tender wasn’t usually in his wheelhouse, he had comforted her during the tense days and nights since the big reveal of her bright lilac peepers. She’d gone through dozens of emotions. She’d sat frozen. She’d thrown vases against the wall, and she’d cried until his chest was soaked with her tears. She’d cursed her parents. She had asked Brak why they would have betrayed her. He’d had no answers. He just held her tight.
Now, she had invited her parents to dinner and told him he was coming, too. Moral support, she said.
Her father looked gut-stabbed.
But her mother dipped her head, nervous hands twisting in her lap. “Why do you say that?”
“Because neither of you is a witch or warlock.”
After he had fucked Harley. No. Not right. After he had bedded her. Polite but still not right. After he had made love to Harley. Yep. That’s how he’d describe their connection. And it had grown since. Anyway, he had looked into her eyes. Shocked the hell out of him. Harley, too.
With her newly acquired bright lilac irises melting his demon heart, she’d shared the gist of her phone conversation with her parents. Like others in the Alliance, they had a drop of Aeternal blood and had taken the mandated test. No witch. No warlock. No Blood Coven. No worry. Apparently, Harley’s DNA didn’t get the message.
Since her parents had assured her their screening showed they were not mages, logic said she wasn’t either. So she had lied to them about being tested. No chance her genealogy would differ. Why bother with the test?
Surprise.
Margery lifted her chin. As she stared into Harley’s eyes, her hands stilled. She gasped. “Pale purple.”
“Exactly. And more specifically, I am a Blood Coven descendant. Since I am genetically different from you and Dad, the only answer I have is that you aren’t my parents.”
Her father drew back his shoulders as he bellowed. “Young lady, we are your parents. Don’t ever say I’m not your father or that Margery is not your mother.” He lowered his voice to a mumble. “Just not your biological parents.”
Tears broke free, streaming down Harley’s cheeks. As much as Brak wanted to wipe them off, he knew the score. This was her battle. Hers alone, but she had wanted him beside her. His heart had never been fuller.
Margery stifled a gulping sob. “I nursed you through every fever, held your hand when we walked to school on your first day. I kissed you every night before bed. You are mine. I love you, Harley. I am so sorry. We meant to tell you. Then one day turned into another and another. Blame me. Your dad said to tell you once you reached your teens. I couldn’t. So much time had passed I knew you’d hate us.” She lost her battle, breaking down in tears, snagging a tissue from her purse.
Darryl rushed to Margery’s side, stroking her arm. “There, dear.”
Harley squeezed Brak’s fingers tighter. “Who are my biological parents?”
Brak noted she didn’t say “real.”
“Dear friends of ours,” said her father. “They left you with us for a weekend to go on vacation. You were eight months old. Their small plane crashed. They had no family. Since we were all they had, they had drawn up papers giving us custody of you in the event of their deaths.”
Brak watched the exchange go on and on. The Rosses yelled, Darryl paced, Margery wept, and Harley gestured, sometimes wildly. No matter what they did or said, one thing was clear. They loved each other. They were a family.
With her head high, her chin jutting out, Harley dialed up the heat. “You should have told me.”
“Yes.” Her mother sighed. “What we did was unfair to them and to you.”
Harley’s father patted his wife’s shoulder, acceptance finally replacing his defensive anger. “We saved a box of mementos, things about them, things of value to them. Our plan was always to give it to you.”
“I will want to see it. What else about them?” Harley asked.
Her father shared a brief recounting of their story. Names, occupations, plans, and dreams while Harley leaned into the safety of Brak’s arms.
At the end of his narrative, her mother said, “You hate me, Harley,” the tissue dabbing her cheek.
Harley remained snuggled into Brak while no one spoke, the only sound her mother’s muffled boohoos. Finally, his female—yes, she belonged to him—popped off the couch, running to her mother, throwing her arms around Margery’s neck. “I could never hate you, Mama. I love you. I’m just so angry.”
Her father brushed a hand over Margery’s hair and, dropping to his knees, dragged both females into his arms. “Harley, you are the joy of our lives. You have always made us proud. Not because of good grades or your important job but because you are happy, kind, and generous. It would break my heart if you no longer saw me as your father.”
From the embrace, she stared at the man. “You are my papa and I love you, even though what you did is wrong.”
According to Harley, her parents had showered her with attention, anything she wanted as a child. She was a self-proclaimed spoiled brat. Yet somehow, they had instilled in her a desire to help others, to be selfless. They were misguided, but it was obvious they cherished her. Brak watched as their tears melted her generous, tender heart.
