Page 26 of The Lunatics

“Lizzy, this is Layla,” Michael said. “Layla, the youngest of my siblings.”

“Nice to meet you!” she said, taking the stairs down.

I grinned at her when she reached the bottom. She seemed sweet. Open in a way that Michael wasn’t. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Softer footfalls pricked my ears, the sound of someone moving toward us on stealthy feet. I turned to see a middle-aged woman appear around the bend of the hallway, which led deeper into the mansion. She wore a pink Chanel skirt suit with black piping and comfortable flats. Of average height, she was thin, with blond hair that fell to her shoulders in a straight sheet. Her features were waspish, her face heart shaped, her eyes a pale, cold blue that met mine in unblinking challenge.

With her came a wave of spiky scent and a pulse of energy I hadn’t expected. I looked away first, down at the floor in a sign of obvious submission. Michael could have told me his mother was their alpha.

“Welcome home, Michael,” she said, air kissing each of his cheeks when she reached us. She stepped back and studied me, head cocked slightly to the side, her hair falling away from her face to reveal a glimpse of multicarat diamond earrings. “And who are you?”

“This is Layla. My mate,” Michael said.

Oh, sweet Goddess. Couldn’t he have at least worked up to telling them?

Lizzy looked back and forth between us, wide-eyed, as though trying to commit this fiasco to memory. “Oh my god,” she kept saying, over and over again.

Her mother’s nostrils flared, and an alarming amount of anger wafted off her. I took a step back, trying to make myself a less obvious target. A heartbeat later, the scent was snuffed out. Just… gone, like she wasn’t even angry anymore, and the sudden shift made my head spin.

She looked up at her son. The smile on her face was terrifying. “You always have to push me, don’t you?”

Michael looked unaffected by it, bored even, but a mounting anger rose through the bond, mixed with a slight hint of alarm. “We’ve had a long and trying couple of days, Mother. You’ll have to excuse us while I settle Layla in.”

“Not without an explanation,” she said, her voice dangerously low. If she’d been in wolf form, the hair on the back of her neck would have bristled.

Tread carefully, I tried to tell Michael through the bond. Pissing off an alpha, regardless of the fact that she was your mom, never ended well.

Michael adjusted his cuffs like he had all the time in the world. “Later, after dinner and several glasses of wine, when we’re all together,” he said. “I don’t want to be forced to repeat the tale for every member of our family.”

Without a word, his mom turned on her heel and left us.

“I’ll be in my room,” Lizzy said, before racing upstairs. Smart girl.

“Can we please put several walls between us and your mother?” I whispered when the threat of her overhearing me had passed.

Michael nodded. “This way.”

He led me into the interior of the house, where the hall opened up in an oval shape, with several corridors branching off at right angles. We took the one on the left. I tried not to gape at my surroundings like some sort of country bumpkin, but it was hard not to stare. My bachelor’s degree was in art history, and I was acutely aware of the wealth on display around us. At one point we passed beneath a painting I had written a paper on, and I could tell from its frame and the protective glass that covered it that it wasn’t a print or a well-made copy. It was the original. Even their damask wallpaper looked designer, and I had a sinking suspicion that the metallic yellow accent in it was real gold leaf.

I felt like a bull in a china shop. This place was a museum, only without the guard ropes to keep the public at bay. What if I accidentally knocked over a vase from the Ming dynasty? The blood drained from my face at the thought. I tucked my elbows in tight to my sides and kept close to Michael from that point on.

I was awed, yes, but given the choice, I would never live in a place like this. It was too sterile. Too detached from the world around us. The windows were shut. Somewhere nearby an industrial-sized air-conditioning unit whirred to life, and the air pumping out of the vents smelled stale and recycled. Not even a hint of the surrounding forest reached my nose. It made me feel claustrophobic. How did the Kolbecks live like this?

Michael guided me up a flight of stairs, down a hallway that led to another wing of the house, and then in through a pair of double doors that he swiftly shut behind us.

“This is my suite,” he said. “We have this entire upper section to ourselves.”

We stood in what appeared to be another entryway, like this was an apartment within a house. The ceilings here, though not as grandiose as those on the first floor, still towered fifteen feetoverhead. Crown molding framed them. The walls were painted a neutral off-white.

I followed him down the short hallway, and a living room opened up ahead of us. The furniture looked expensive yet comfortable, the fabrics neutral colors with pops of deeper shades scattered throughout in the form of pillows and throw blankets. It was like something out of a magazine.

“The kitchen is here,” he said, raising his hand to the right.

I glanced around him. It was an open concept with white cabinets, a tiled backsplash, and pale marble countertops. The appliances were professional grade, large enough to cook for a small army. I wondered if they’d ever been used.

“Our rooms are just off the living room, mine to the left, and yours to the right. There’s a balcony through those doors,” he said, pointing to the diaphanous curtains straight ahead.

I beelined for them. They were locked. Of course. I flipped the latch and stepped from the air-controlled interior out into the warmth of the summer day. Several deck chairs sat scattered over the wide veranda, with comfortable-looking cushions. I bypassed them all, breathing deeply, and stopped when I reached the marble railing.