Page 21 of Owl’s Cherished Mate

There were no headlights or lanky shadows coming up the driveway.

Ten o’clock came.

Then eleven.

Where the hell was he?

I sat on the couch with my phone in hand, refreshing the tracking app out of habit even though I knew it was pointless. The blue dot sat on our address, mocking me.

At eleven thirty, I moved to the kitchen and sat at the table with my head in my hands. The house was so quiet I could hear the fridge humming and the faucet dripping.

Was he with Cade? With Darren? Was he safe? Was he in trouble?

Was he ever coming back?

The front door opened at twelve twenty.

I was on my feet before the sound finished registering. Lawson stepped inside, and the smell hit me first—cigarette smoke and sweat. He looked wired and keyed up. His green eyes were too bright, and his movements were too jerky as he kicked his sneakers off by the door.

“Where have you been?” My voice came out steadier than I expected.

He didn’t look at me. “Out.”

“It’s after midnight.”

“So?”

“So you’re fourteen. You left your phone here on purpose. I had no way to reach you, no way to find you. Do you understand how⁠—”

“How what?” He faced me, and his expression stopped me cold. It wasn’t the sullen indifference I’d gotten used to. It was pure defiance. “How scared you were? How worried? How you didn’t know where I was or what I was doing?”

“Yes. All of that.”

“Good.” The word came out sharp. “Now you know how it felt.”

The air left my lungs. He wasn’t talking about tonight. He was talking about the two years I was gone.

“Lawson—”

“Don’t.” He dropped his backpack on the floor. Something inside it clanked—heavy and metallic sounding. “Don’t give me the speech about how you came back and you’re trying and I should be grateful. I’ve heard it.”

“What’s in the bag?”

His jaw tensed. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“It’s my stuff.”

I stepped toward the backpack. He snatched it off the floor and clutched it to his chest.

“Lawson, what’s in that bag?”

“None of your business!” His voice cracked on the last word, and for a second the defiance slipped, showing something raw underneath—something scared. Then it was gone, buried under anger again in two seconds flat. “You don’t get to control every part of my life. You don’t get to track my phone and search my stuff and decide who I’m allowed to hang out with.”

“I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“From what? From my friends? From the only people who actually give a shit about me?”