Page 40 of A Wolf for Winter

“O-oh,” Lilac stammered, glancing down at the mug clutched tightly against her chest. Her skin suddenly flushed crimson, the heat releasing pheromones like perfume. “I, um, already have some.”

He gave it a dubious look and an even more dubious sniff. Allen instantly regretted it, his wolf yipping with delight at the smell of her that seemed to drown out everything else. And not just that fresh waterfall scent, but her response to him. “N-never seen pink hot chocolate before,” he said, trying to concentrate.

“That’s because it’s ruby chocolate,” she said hastily.

It most certainly wasn’t. “Uh-huh. Is it supposed to be runny like that?”

“I like what I like! I’m entitled to my preferences, just as you are. Though I’ll never understand how you can call that oatmeal raw egg sludge you served us this morning breakfast.”

He grinned inwardly, enjoying her sass. “Ah, that’s right. No carbs. You’ll just get the raw eggs, spinach, and blueberries tomorrow. That suit your preferences?”

The witch actually stuck her tongue out at him. He just grinned, and his wolf yapped with happiness that the witch smiled back.

“I’ll have a cooked spinach omelet with blueberries on the side tomorrow, thank you very much,” she informed him airily. “But the rest of them will want something like biscuits and gravy. Something heavy.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s Family Ice Skating Day. We traditionally test out the pond to make sure it’s safe for the villagers who come up for the Hanging of the Green, but it’s mostly so we can laugh and throw snowballs at each other all day.” Lilac glanced over her shoulder at the second-floor balcony, at the rooms where her siblings presumably slept. Allen found his attention drifting to the way her hair cascaded down her shoulder. He fought the urge to reach out and run his fingers through the locks he knew had to feel like silk.

“Though, probably not,” she muttered. “We’re not feeling very familial right now.”

After the Craft Faire had ended, Boar had ripped down all the booths by himself, clearly needing a physical outlet for his anger and frustration—and a little fear—and the sisters had sequestered themselves in their rooms. Allen had heard Rose crying and Lilac’s shower running for an inordinate amount of time, probably drowning out her own expressions of grief and anger. None of them had shown for their dinner of roasted chicken and crispy-fried potatoes with garlic butter, about the fanciest fare Allen knew how to cook. He’d even made a salad for Lilac, the vegetables all hacked up like they’d seen the business end of a weed whacker, but he’d hoped it was the thought that counted.

“Do it anyway,” he urged. “You’ll get through this spat with Boar.”

She looked down at her mug of definitely not hot chocolate. “Will I?”

“Sure, because you all love each other.” There it was again, his toxic trait of eternal optimism talking again, but he couldn’t help it.

“Good intentions can be more damning than the bad ones,” she replied, hardening.

His wolf urged him to reach out and pull her into his arms. Not to take away her worries or smooth over her concerns, but to reassure her that she wasn’t alone. That he would be there in whatever capacity she needed him to be. “Setting boundaries is tough,” he said instead. “You need to stick with it or you’ll never become the person you are meant to be.”

Spirits above, how he wanted to touch her. To impress upon her the seriousness of his words, of his intentions. He kept his hands at his sides and insisted, “Don’t deny yourself, or them, of knowing that person.”

“What if they don’t accept me?” she whispered. “You saw how Boar reacted. How the villagers began to doubt me even after Landen was healed.”

“They might not accept you,” he agreed, turning away from the memories of that night in the desert cave. For a moment, he almost removed the contacts from his eyes so she could see the true color of them beneath. See him. “But more importantly, can you accept what you see in the mirror if you don’t try?”

She stilled as if she had been slapped, eyes large and glassy, her bottom lip trembling.

“Good night, sweet girl,” he murmured, tearing himself away and heading for the cellar.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I smell . . . French toast.

But it wasn’t just any French toast. It smelled exactly like the kind her Great-Aunt Fern used to make before she’d passed and Lilac’s mother had taken over as the family cook. No matter how hard Peony Hawthorne tried, she could never replicate how Fern had made it. Eventually, she’d just given up, and the family had gotten used to life without.

And now Lilac was smelling it again, just as her late great-aunt had made. It was nothing less than a siren’s song, evoking the memories of Lilac’s carefree days when she hadn’t been obsessed with how she looked or what she ate. Before Grandmother had discovered her talent.

As Lilac hurried down the stairs, nearly tripping over her feet in a very graceless manner, voices drifted up from the cellar. One in particular surprised her the most.

“Rose?” Lilac blurted. “What are you doing here?”

Her sister, who never saw the break of dawn if she could help it, sat on a bar stool at the trestle table, her brown hair piled into a messy bun. Her puffy pink robe swallowed her like some kind of carnivorous pastel cloud, allowing just her head and hands to poke free.

“Uh . . ..” Rose looked up from where she hunched over her plate like she was afraid someone was going to take it away from her. Her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Eating breakfast?”