Looking toward the Alpha house, a nervous laugh falls from my lips.
“On second thought,” I announce, rubbing at my arms. It’s damn cold now that I’m not contained within Connor’s embrace. With exaggerated gestures, I peer around the bases of the trees that hold the Alpha house at least a couple of stories above the ground. “I don’t see an escalator or elevator anywhere, and that is a lot of stairs.” I clear my throat. “Maybe being carried up wouldn’t be so bad.”
Bending back down to pick me up, he murmurs in my ear, “No te preocupes, mi reina. Voy a cuidarte.”
The only thing I understood out of that was ‘my queen,’ but I don’t bother to ask for a translation. The words were spoken in tender contentment. He seems happy. That’s all I need to know.
I wrap my arms tight around his neck and bury my face into his shoulder. He’s ridiculously warm despite being dressed in nothing but a white t-shirt and jeans—he shed his flannel early in the celebrations—yet he still manages to smell of cool night air and the forest that surrounds us.
With the creak of our combined weight hitting the first stair, I squeeze my eyes shut and fight to keep from shaking. My extremely irritating and very real fear of stairs jumps to the front of my mixed up feelings. I have to assume that this empathy thing is one way, because if Connor could truly sense what I’m feeling, I doubt we’d still be climbing up. He sniffs the air, then tightens his grip around me, taking the stairs two at a time now.It seems he can still smell it. Yippee.
When we reach the top, two shifters I recognize from school stand as sentinels beside the door. An impish smile spreads across their features as they open the door for Connor and me. Connor nods at them, then carries me over the threshold.
Well, so much for the rumor that I’m dating all the guys dying off any time soon. I wonder how the pack feels about their Alpha sharing his girlfriend. Except, we’re not dating. Just friends. Yup. It’s perfectly normal for a friend to pledge a blood oath that relinquishes everything they own and are to said other friend for the rest of their life. Also completely normal to carry said friend over the threshold of their home like a bride. All very, very normal.
I take mental bug spray to the butterflies that won’t settle the hell down.
Connor places me on my feet, then he rests his hand on the back of my neck while giving me a chance to take in the room. It appears to be a great hall, richly furnished with handcrafted items and lit by several hanging chandeliers made of deer antlers. On the far wall is a short dais with an imposing throne that grabs the eye. The lustrous chair is a dark stained wood. Its back, arms, and legs are carved into thick forests with howling and imposing wolves woven into the design. This is a room fit for a king to meet his subjects—or in this case, an Alpha to meet his pack.
There are decorations made from the familiar foliage of pack grounds littering the walls and every flat surface. There are huge wreaths made of pine, fall leaves gathered and twisted to look like red and orange flowers, woven baskets made of dry sticks filled with plants that add a spice rich scent to the room, and more. It’s likely this was the room the ceremony was supposed to be held in.
On the surface, it’s truly stunning, but the same foreboding feeling that I had gazing up from the ground below twists in my gut. The things within this place were made with love and pride, but the rage that lived within the previous Alpha permeates its walls.
“I hate this place,” Connor admits quietly, his fingers digging into the muscles of my neck.
Wrapping an arm around his waist, I reply just as quietly, “I could burn it down. Don’t have the greatest relationship with fire, but for you, I’d do it.”
My necklace grows warm as if the magic inside has woken, excited to do my bidding—the leftovers of what I called into myself earlier. Apparently, I didn’t break the family heirloom, but it’s definitely different. It feels like the amount of magic it could hold is endless now.
Distracted by my magic being even more trigger-happy than I am, I startle when Connor presses his lips to the top of my head.
“Not tonight,” he teases, because oh, that’s right, I offered to burn his house down.
God, I’m such a head case.
He laces his fingers with mine and leads me toward the back of the room. On either side, hidden under staircases, are hallways. His face hardens as he looks at one of the staircases, his dislike wafting like fumes, before leading me through the hallway beneath it.
It’s so dark, I have a hard time seeing, and I’m left to navigate solely by the lead of Connor’s hand entangled with mine. I’m filled to nearly bursting with the monsoon of memories and emotions this damn tree house conjures, as Connor’s extreme hatred swirls in the air. The pieces of the previous Alpha that haunts my soul are so thick his very being feels like it paints the wall. I fear my not-so-fun new visions come from him. When I witnessed Connor suffering, choking on his father’s blood, the only emotions I experienced were the Alpha’s anger and twisted satisfaction. And if that wasn’t enough, all this tension is triggering memories of my own home from hell.
Desperate to break away from the emotions that threaten to drown me, I thoughtlessly joke, “Have a disagreement with that staircase back there? I thought that was my thing.”
Connor stops walking, and I bump into his back. “The Alpha’s rooms are upstairs.”
“Oh,” I murmur, kicking myself for not realizing that painful memories live up the stairs.
Our experiences are so similar, sometimes it feels like I’m looking into a funhouse mirror. The image is the same. It’s only the bending of the glass that makes it appear different.
Apparently, the real reason Connor stopped was because we reached his bedroom. He opens the door and flicks on the light, stepping aside so I can enter. My first thought is this room is way too small for a person Connor’s size. The doorway and ceiling are tall enough, but more than half of the room is filled by a large bed—touching three out of the four walls. In the remaining square of space are a closet, with pocket doors, and a small writing desk. There are no windows.
I hop up onto the edge of the bed, unzipping my boots and setting them aside. My eyes wander the walls, while Connor walks toward his closet. Someone should probably say something, since the silence is not as comfortable as it usually is. I’m with Connor, so despite being at a loss for words, it’s obvious that someone will have to be me.
“I really love your drawings,” I announce lamely, taking in a framed landscape that is composed to appear as if the viewer is looking out a window. I’d think it was real except it’s black and white.
He makes a kind of hum, grunting noise in acknowledgment, while pushing aside several flannels on hangers. Behind them is a small dresser, where he squats down and starts digging through one of the drawers.
I continue to look around, observing the drawings tacked to the walls, while trying not to explode over his very Connor-like answer. Annoyed at myself for being annoyed, I attempt to ignore the nervousness that skitters across my skin.
Some of the drawings on the walls are of the guys, resembling photographs of moments that are unfamiliar to me. There’s one of Felix that looks more impressionistic, with a bright aura highlighting his skin. Others are of more landscapes and wildlife. On his desk appears to be a sketchbook and a collection of loose papers covered in half-finished drawings.
