Page 106 of The Turning of the Tables

“I hate it,” I whined.

“I remember,” he replied.

“You remember me hating it?”

That got me a barked laugh. “No, baby. I remember what it was like.”

Right. Because he was a shifter, too.

“Isn’t your brother also a shifter?” Elliot asked me.

“Yeah, but he’s at work right now.”

He was quiet for a moment. “But you could talk to him?”

I sighed. “I could,” I agreed, but the way I said it obviously made it clear that I hadn’t talked to him. Not about these sorts of things, anyway.

“But…?” Elliot prodded. He was clearly curious, but there was a lot less judgment in his tone than I’d been expecting.

“I don’t want to dump this on him, too,” I mumbled.

“Too?”

“He’s taken care of me. Took time off work, has made me food, driven me around… He doesn’t need my psychological shit, too,” I explained.

“I get that?” Elliot asked me, and I could hear just a teasing edge in the question.

I felt my neck and cheeks flame. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Seth—please don’t apologize.” He sounded… I wasn’t sure. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I—I shouldn’t be making you deal with my shit,” I muttered.

“It’s okay, baby,” he said gently.

Don’t think I hadn’t noticed how it had started asbaby shifterand become justbaby. I liked it. Of course I did. It let my brain and my heart pretend that I meant more to him than I almost certainly did—that I meant something different to him than what we’d agreed. Rule Two.

I wasn’t sure what to say to him. There wasn’t a good way to thank someone for being your psychological life-line when they have absolutely no obligation to do so.

“What can I do?” he asked, then, and I broke down. Thick, heavy sobs that came up from the bottom of my stomach.

Elliot stayedon the phone with me for the three hours it took before Noah got home, his footsteps rushed because he knew I wasn’t supposed to be home before him. My brother is nobody’s fool.

I’d just put the warm phone down when Noah’s knock came at my door.

“Sethy?” He sounded worried, scared.

And I was only going to add to it. “Yeah, I’m here,” I answered him.

“Can I come in?” There was less worry this time—probably because I’d been capable of answering him, which meant I wasn’t violently ill or covered in fur.

“Yeah.”

The knob clicked as he turned it, then gently eased openthe door. He leaned in the doorway, his shorter, more slender frame tense, blond hair messy, the same way mine always got when I let it grow too long. His brows, a brown that was darker than his hair—also like mine—drew together over eyes that were the same blue that looked back at me in the morning. About the only differences in our appearance besides height and build was the fact that my skin saw more sun than his, my cheeks, arms, and shoulders were usually lightly dusted with freckles, and I was now sporting a beard that Noah was insanely jealous of. He complained constantly that all he could manage was some peach fuzz, even with the T. I’d told him that I’d take not being able to grow a beard for his perfect vision, as mine was shit and he didn’t need glasses or contacts.

“What happened?” he asked softly. There was still worry there, but since I was in front of him and not any visibly more battered than when I’d left, it was less.

“They fired me,” I replied.