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“Liar,” he said softly. “Did you have one of those herbal drinks my mom gave you that smell like feet?”
They tasted like feet, too. Her nose wrinkled. “Too tired to make one.”
He left the bed without a word. When he reappeared a few minutes later, his scent was accompanied by the funky smell of, yeah, feet. Ugh.
“Sit up and drink this,” he said. Well, ordered. “I know you don’t like it, but it’ll help.”
Mumbling that he was a bossy bastard, she weakly sat up and downed the herbal drink in one go, barely resisting the urge to vomit it back up.
“Good girl.”
“Fuck off,” she uttered, which made him snort. She sank onto the mattress and curled up in a ball again. She thought he’d leave. He didn’t. He lay on his side and braced his elbow on the pillow next to hers.
She frowned. “What do you—”
“Shh.” He delved a hand into her hair and began to massage her head, digging his fingertips into her scalp with just the right amount of pressure. “Relax for me,” he whispered.
Okay, this was just weird. Where was the rude-ass, broody male she was used to?
“Woman, stop thinking and relax.”
Ah, there he was. “I’m just surprised you’re here. You don’t normally give a shit what’s happening with someone unless it directly affects you.”
He made a gruff sound. “I detest you a lot less than I detest the rest of the population.”
Bree felt one side of her mouth curve. “Be still, my heart.”
He snorted again. “I don’t like seeing you so wiped out. Don’t like that none of the other omegas have come to check on you. They’re assholes.”
She would have shrugged a nonchalant shoulder if she’d had the energy. “I’m good at taking care of myself.”
“You shouldn’t always have to,” he grumbled. “Now relax.”
Not so simple. But she concentrated on the feel of his fingertips massaging her scalp. It didn’t really do much to ease the pain, but the sensations were a welcome distraction from it. She focused on them, let them comfort her. Thought of nothing but the feel of his fingers moving up, down, clockwise, and anti-clockwise—kneading and gliding and stroking.
At some point, she must have fallen asleep.
He was gone when she woke the next morning.
Shimmying into her black strapless dress later that evening, Bree glanced at herself in the full-length mirror. The smoky eyeshadow worked well with the dress and black lace-up high heels. She’d also gone to work on her hair with the curler, giving it “a little sass,” as Elle referred to it.
Bree was due to meet the redhead in, like, ten minutes at The Tavern, the pride’s hangout. It was only a minute’s walk from her home, so there’d be no need for a cab tonight.
Honestly, she was a little tired after a full day of glossing doors, doorframes, and skirting boards. But as Elle had again helped on the agreement that Bree would meet her for drinks at The Tavern, she really couldn’t get out of it, no matter how exhausted she was.
Ready to leave, she nabbed her purse and headed downstairs. A frown marred her face when she noticed a brown envelope near the front door. After picking it up, her frown deepened. There was no address, no stamp. It didn’t even have her name written on it.
Curious, she tore it open and peeked inside. There was no letter. But something in the corner of the envelope glimmered. Something small.
She tipped the envelope, allowing the small object to fall into her hand. And then the bottom fell out of her stomach. Shock hit her first. Then a wave of anger surged through her, thick and hot. Fucking Bernadette.
Grinding her teeth, Bree clenched her hand tight around the piece of jewelry, tempted to sling it at the wall. She’d always wondered what Bernadette had done with the other half of the necklace that she’d pretended Paxton had in his possession. Well, apparently the woman had kept it. And now she’d given it to Bree.
So, was this a “fuck you for renouncing my son—and oh, by the way, he never really bought you that necklace” message? Had she thought that this would hurt Bree or come as a surprise to her? Or did the woman hope that Bree would believe it was from Paxton and then think he was still alive? Bree snorted. She didn’t believe that any more than she believed he’d bought her the piece of jewelry in the first place.
He’d given her gifts when she was a child on special occasions, but only because it was expected of him. He hadn’t ever seemed to care whether she liked the gifts, and she’d often wondered if his mother had been the one who’d picked them.
Bernadette had probably picked the cards, too. He’d always signed them, “To my little cat,” never, “To Bree.” He’d rarely used her name at all when speaking to her. He’d mostly called her “little cat.” People had thought it a term of affection. It hadn’t felt like one. No, it had felt more like he’d avoided using her name on purpose. Like it helped to keep a barrier between them.
