Page 80 of Sight of Fate

I laugh. I didn’t hear it buzz. Sweeping a shaky hand through my hair, I move to get off him, but he stops me.

“Seeing you in my lap, head thrown back, riding my cock… My control is the only thing keeping me from bonding to you right here, right now,” he says in a gravelly voice. He opens the door and steps out, setting my feet on the ground, then hands me the box of desserts, ignoring the fact that I’m staring at him, mouth open in shock.

“You—”

He reaches back in and picks up my purse and phone. Sliding his hand into mine, he shuts the door and tugs me toward the elevator.

My lips twitch at the sight of this big man carrying my little purse.

When we walk in a few minutes later, Teague’s on the phone. “We’ll be there in an hour.” He hangs up and turns to us, his infamous broad grin stretched wide across his handsome face. “About damn time.”

I blush, and Macklin glares at him, but I feel the contentment and happiness they both feel.

“Who was on the phone?” Macklin asks, setting my stuff down on the kitchen island.

“MacKenzie. She says Andros is recovering better than she anticipated and can go home today,” Teague replies, exchanging a glance with Macklin. “We need to figure out where he’s going to go and who’s going to stay with him.”

“Where’s he been staying?” I ask.

“Hotel,” Teague replies.

Macklin looks at me. “I think we should test his reaction to your blood. If Ronan is right and he can’t hurt you, would you be opposed to him returning home?”

I bite my lip, thinking about the last two times I saw him and the fact that, whether we like it or not, he is my mate. At least until we figure a way out. “He can return here.”

Macklin and Teague share a glance, and he nods. “We’ll make sure it’s safe.”

I twist my fingers and study the two men standing in front of me. “Before we leave, we need to talk. Wait here.”

Ignoring the concerned expressions on their faces, I head to the bedroom and grab the envelope. After a deep breath, I tear it open and peer inside, seeing an official report as well as several articles. Returning to the living room, I hand the envelope to Teague.

“While we were out, I told Macklin my real name is Audrey. Before we move forward with us, I want you to know who I am and what happened to me. Andros isn’t the only one who has triggers.” My voice trails off.

Teague studies me for a second. “Audrey is a beautiful name.”

“My mother was pregnant with me when she watched The Little Shop of Horrors,” I say wryly. “She had a quirky sense of humor.”

Teague laughs. “Do you want us to call you Audrey?”

“No. She belongs in the past,” I tell him, and he nods. “Go ahead.”

Teague and Macklin take a seat on the couch. Opening the envelope, Teague pulls everything out and sets it on the coffee table.

He picks up the report and begins to read out loud. “Audrey Wittington. Born February 25, 2003. Age twenty-three. Grew up in a town outside Nashville, Tennessee, called Columbia. Population a little over forty-eight thousand.” He looks at me. “I think I’ll wait a few decades before I tell you how old we are.”

Macklin chuckles. “Maybe a few centuries.”

Returning to the report, Teague continues. “Mother, Anna Wittington Coalfield. Father, never listed on the birth certificate. Married Hank Coalfield in 2010.”

I close my eyes when I hear him say Hank’s name out loud.

“Susan included a few newspaper clippings,” Macklin says, picking one up and skimming through it. He sucks in a breath and, in a hoarse voice, reads the headline, then summarizes it. “‘Teenager Burned In Alleged Attack.’ Audrey Wittington, thirteen, was burned when her stepfather, Hank Coalfield, dumped a fire pit on her. Your mother was arrested the same day. Apparently, she shot him when he advanced on you, yelling ‘burn, witch, burn.’” He clears his throat. “Good for her.” I smile, and he continues. “There’s a substantial paragraph dedicated to his innocence. The bastard. Along with a quote from Hank about how Audrey tripped and pulled the fire pit down on top of her.”

Abruptly standing, Macklin growls and strides over to the patio door, shoulders vibrating with anger. Fury filters through the connection, and I press a hand against my chest, feeling the full force of it even though I know it’s not directed at me.

“Damn it, Macklin. Cut it off,” Teague spits out.

He swivels around, his brows furrowed and sees the expression on my face. A blank wall descends between us, shutting off the barrage of feeling.