“God, Ansel. I don’t even know what to say.” I shake my head ruefully. “Are you okay?”
Ansel chuckles mirthlessly. “I just discovered that my entire life is a lie and that I have parents out there who actually wanted me. So no, I’m not okay.” His eyes soften as he stares at me. “But I will be.”
Unable to help myself, I breach the distance between us and wrap my arms around his waist. He tenses automatically, his muscles going rigid, before he sighs and holds me back, resting his cheek in my hair. For a long moment, we simply hold each other, and I take comfort in the rhythmic thumping of his heart.
“I don’t know what to do, Iz,” he whispers, the words stirring the hairs on my head. “I don’t think I can go back home, but…she’s my mother. I love her, and I don’t think I should.”
“You’re allowed to love her and be horrified of her past at the same time,” I assure him, rubbing his back. “I would understand one hundred percent if you want to hear your mother out. But I would also understand if you choose to never speak to her again.”
“She hurt so many people…” Ansel’s mournful voice punctures my heart.
All I can do is hold him.
It takes him a minute, but he finally regains control of his emotions. He releases me, though the reluctance on his face no doubt matches what’s on my own. I could stay in his arms forever.
“Enough about me.” Ansel offers me a shaky smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “How did you end up here?”
At the reminder of all that transpired, an icy chill careens down my spine. Fear coagulates in my chest.
Quickly, knowing that our time together is almost over, I recount everything that happened at the party.
The attack.
Christian.
The discovery that the gunmen were vampires not humans.
The witches’ arrival.
The mention of someone named Travan.
“Travan?” Ansel arches an eyebrow. “Who the hell is that?”
“No idea.” I shake my head. “But whoever it is, the witches seem to think I can lure him out of hiding.”
“This is all so fucked up.” Ansel begins to pace in agitation, his hands on his hips and his head lowered.
“Tell me about it. At least I can leave this hellhole on the weekends.”
Ansel whirls on me. “You get to leave on the weekends?”
“Yeah. A deal I made with?—”
“You have ten seconds to get dressed!” a familiar masculine voice calls from just outside the door. “One, two, three, four, five, six…ten.”
The door is flung open, and Dyson dominates the entryway, that irritating smirk pasted firmly in place.
“What happened to seven, eight, and nine?” I quip.
Dyson waggles his eyebrows. “Haven’t you heard? Seven ate nine.”
He begins to chuckle at his own joke.
“What’s the punishment for murder, do you think?” I whisper to Ansel out of the corner of my mouth.
“Nothing if you don’t get caught,” he responds, the two of us squeezing by the annoying warlock to exit the bathroom.
“Excellent point.” I nod. “But fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—I’m not in the mood to bury a body today. I don’t want to get dirt under my nails.”
