"I laughed. Then Gregor carried her to bed and Artem banned reading in the bathroom for a week."
Mary had considered this. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard."
"That's the most Russian thing you've ever heard. The romance is incidental."
She'd hugged Maeve in the foyer for a long time when she first arrived, then she'd scooped up Mac, and cried again when he grabbed her necklace. Then she announced that England looked "weirdly small" after Boston, which made Artem blink like she'd insulted the concept of landmass.
Within a day, she'd restored the east wing to its previous state of controlled chaos. Within two, she'd taught Mac to clap, which he now did at random intervals like a tiny approving dictator. Within three, she'd convinced one of the guards to try iced coffee, pronounced it "mid," and then told me my version was "actually good, like, genuinely," which made me smile so hard from pride, because making food taste nice was still beyond me.
"She's lying," Gregor said after the coffee conversation.
"She's not lying. She said ‘genuinely.’"
"She's American now. They say everything genuinely."
"You're jealous because she hasn't complimented your coffee."
"I don't make coffee."
"Exactly. You have nothing to be complimented on."
Maeve relaxed with her sister under our roof. That was the part I watched most closely. The way her shoulders dropped incrementally over the first few days. The way she laughed. The way she and Mary sat on the kitchen floor with Mac between them, whispering about Dublin and childhood and things they could finally remember without the memories winning.
I wanted that for her forever. The ease of it. The certainty.
So naturally, Maeve’s heat arrived and nearly killed us.
It was mid-morning. Mary was in the family room attempting her version of yoga. Mac was in his bouncy chair. I was leaning against the kitchen counter with a coffee, watching Gregor watch Maeve with more intensity than needed.
Maeve was on a stool, bouncing Mac on her knee. Her face was flushed and a sheen of sweat made her skin glisten in the morning light. Fergus was glued to her side, whining weirdly.
"You're unwell," Gregor said.
"I'm fine. Someone turned the heating up."
"The heating is off."
She fanned herself with a burp cloth. "Then it's warm outside."
"It's fifty-two degrees."
"Fifty-two is practically tropical for Edinburgh. My body is confused by the southern climate."
I set my coffee down. “It’s the south of England, not Spain.”
I was about to respond when I noticed the scent rolling off her wasn't just caramel and champagne anymore. The storm-cloud note had gone thick and heavy and sweet in a way that made my alpha instincts sit up and take notice.
"You smell like Prague," Gregor said.
"I do not."
"You're in heat," I said.
"Iam notin heat." She wriggled on the stool, clearly uncomfortable. "It hasn't even been long enough since Prague. And Mac is still a baby. My cycle isn't due."
"You said the same in Prague. And now we have Mac."
She glared at me. Her eyes were hazy and slightly unfocused, which undermined the glare considerably. "That was different."
