But I can’t.
Today, I need to hunt down my feral mate then sit my birth fathers down and ask them all the questions that have been plaguing me since discovering the truth of the supernatural community.
After dressing casually in leggings and a sweatshirt, I hurry downstairs, where my foster fathers are already waiting for me. Hale zips up his backpack and tosses it over his shoulder.
“We’re meeting the others there,” he tells me, and I assume the “others” mean my mates and birth fathers. “When we arrive, Gerry will shift into his wolf form and try to track him. He’s the best tracker in town.”
A hint of pride seeps into his expression when he glances at his mate.
“It’s why the Council hired me,” Gerry tells me, throwing on his familiar leather jacket but leaving it unzipped.
“Is that what you were doing when I first moved in? Tracking someone?” I query, thinking of my first meeting with the rugged wolf shifter days after I arrived here.
He was gone—on business for the Council—and I never thought to ask where he’d been. It didn’t seem to be any of my business. Now the question niggles at me, scratching at my brain like poison-tipped talons.
Gerry and Hale exchange an unreadable look, and alarm bells go off simultaneously in my head. They’re not the type that scream DANGER, though, so I don’t press the issue.
For now.
“We should get going,” Hale says quickly. Too quickly, if you ask me, which only reinforces my theory that they’re hiding something. “I sent Jake ahead early to grab some supplies?—”
“What supplies are you talking about?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Listen, kid.” Gerry places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze, and my unease ratchets up a dozen notches at the sight of his grave expression. “You have to understand that Christian isn’t himself currently. The most important thing is to get him somewhere secure so he isn’t a danger to himself or anyone else. And to do that, we might need to…”
He releases my shoulder and heaves out a breath.
When he doesn’t immediately finish his sentence, I ask, my voice shaky, “We might need to what?”
“We’ll do what needs to be done,” Gerry tells me cryptically, already turning towards the door.
A mixture of panic and rage surges through my chest. “Wait. Wait. Wait. Slow the fuck down. We can’t hurt Christian! He’s my mate!”
“We’re not going to hurt Christian,” Hale reassures me. “Everything we’re having Jake pick up is non-lethal. Traps and tranquilizers and things like that.” Hale must see the mounting panic on my face because he takes a single step towards me. “I promise, Izzy, that no harm will come to your mate. But do you really think Christian will be okay if he accidentally hurts someone while he’s out of control? If he accidentally hurtsyou?”
The anger inside of me quickly morphs into grim understanding.
No. Christian would not be okay if he hurt someone, even accidentally. He would hate himself.
Forgive me, Christian.
Hale nods once—obviously seeing the reluctant acceptance on my face—and opens the door.
Only to immediately pause when he comes face-to-face with a familiar woman.
Her black hair has been haphazardly braided away from her face, though a few loose strands cascade limply down her cheeks. She wears an oversized sweater, loose sweatpants, and flip-flops. Dark circles rim her eyes, which look glassy and red.
Mrs. Harthorne.
Ansel’s mom.
Fuck.
She wrings her shaky hands together as her gaze flicks from Hale’s stunned face to Gerry’s stoic one. She doesn’t seem to notice me yet, standing just behind them.
“Is… Is Isabella here?”
“And who are you?” Hale’s voice is soft—almost coaxing.
