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It just bothers me that my men have to be part of it, and that I know they need to be part of it. As much as I wish I could do this alone, I don’t think I can. Even though I’ll be endangering their lives.
I withdraw my arms from Orson and retreat to the king-size bed. Propped up against its headboard, I start to worry about Simon, about facing off against two enemies at once, about the myriad ways this operation could go sideways. Panic stalks the perimeter of my consciousness, circling, ready to seize control.
I’m going to kill my brother. I have to protect my men. Anything could happen.
There’ll be blood. Death. Destruction.
My pulse picks up. The room fades away. Dark pictures uncurl in my mind of the horrors I endured while being tortured, and then more images come of what the Blood Mages could do to my men. Flashes appear in my mind of Orson, Braxton, and Max suffering, dying. Their faces masks of pain. Life fading from their eyes.
Braxton comes quickly to my side, calming hands pressed into my back, but it’s like he’s far away. “Where are you?” he says, his words cutting through my panic. “You’re safe in this bedroom with your mates.”
Safe in this bedroom. Right. I’m here. Not there. I can do this. I can handle this.
But the images are still there. My heartbeat fills my ears, and I’m trying, but it’s like being under water when you don’t know which way is up and which way is down.
Max and Orson join us and shortly I’m cocooned by warm shifters, sitting all around me on the bed. As it so happens, it’s a successful method of warding off panic attacks. Even if I feel dumb that I need their help, dumb that I can’t handle this thing on my own.
“Think about what happens next,” says Max gently, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “After tomorrow night.”
I try to focus on the future, a life after the violence, but the impending showdown raises an insurmountable wall. “Tell me,” I say. “I can’t see it. Show it to me.”
“Well,” says Max, thoughtfully, “I think it starts with a home.”
A home. I’ve longed for a home every day since I lost mine. What would one even feel like?
Braxton and Orson nod in agreement. “Yep, good place to start,” Braxton agrees, rubbing my back lightly.
“A nice one, but you know, nothing pretentious,” Max continues, his voice a comforting lull. “Or overbearing. A place where we can all relax, not a place in constant need of attention.”
I smile, even though my smile feels weak and shaky. “Good call. I tap out after thirty minutes of dusting.”
“No more than an acre for us to mow,” says Braxton. “I can see myself mowing a lawn with a beer in one hand, jamming to some music, but I’m not exactly in the mood to become a farmer.”
“Exactly. A manageable, cozy, pleasant home,” says Max. “Can you see it?”
I nod, and I am. “It’s starting to take shape.”
“One with good internet access,” Orson adds, looking truly thoughtful. “And nooks full of books, and maybe a few places my wolf can lay in the sunshine, without being disturbed.”
I picture that, and more images come to my mind. Of Orson tapping away on his computer while I dance in the kitchen. Of wolves lying in puddles of sunlight around the house, and big chairs sitting by shelves of books, just beckoning to be read.
Max’s gentle voice comes again. “Good. What else do you see there, Asha? Help me out.”
It’s easier to do than I would have thought. In my mind’s eye, I broaden the scope of the fantasy to include the surrounding neighborhood. “We’re living alongside all the surviving Blood Pack members. We’re all together again, like we used to be. It’s a community. A family. Maybe a little broken, but we’re being put back together piece by piece.”
“That sounds nice,” says Orson, a comment that would sound sarcastic coming from anyone else. “I was also hoping we might cultivate a garden. Perhaps a few crops of tomatoes, cucumbers, pumpkins in the fall. I’ve always wanted to harvest fresh produce.” The brothers look at him curiously. “When you spend years eating prison gruel, these are the sort of dreams you harbor. Besides, I’ve always been good with plants.”
“Fair enough,” says Braxton. He pauses, then continues, “I like the idea of a garden too, but I definitely want to be able to take those damn pumpkins to some competitions. I don’t want any tiny, delicate pumpkins.”
Orson grins. “Man-sized pumpkins. Got it.”
“I like it,” I say, smiling. “What else?”
“We live alongside a forest,” says Braxton. “Woods with hiking trails so we can take Trouble out on long walks. Places our wolves can run around with Trouble and not be seen.”
Trouble perks his ears in his sleep, not quite awake, but nearly roused by his name. “Yes,” I say, “someplace swaddled in forest. Like I remember growing up.”
“And a house with plenty of rooms,” says Braxton.
