Page 105 of Heat Lightning

I cracked one eye open. From my spot reclined on the couch, I could barely see the top of his head peeking over the keyboard a few feet away. Adorable. “Of course,” I answered. “I think that was your best try yet.”

“Yes, but I can do better,” he replied matter-of-factly. He was always so serious. “Keep listening.” He began again, each note firing a precise ice pick through the soft tissue of my temple.

I contemplated plucking my head off and putting the whole thing in the deep freezer.

Blessedly, my brother stepped in and saved me. “Enz, baby, it’s time for your snack,” he said, leaning against the living room door frame.

“You don’t make it as good as Max.”

His name sat like a boulder on my chest. Enzo loved Max. My—that is, the—omega didn’t seem to be aware of how much my nephew looked up to him, but he was so highly regarded his name came up in almost every conversation I’d had with Enzo over the last two years.

That may or may not have been because I was all too eager to discuss him and the delicious food he made with my precocious nephew. According to Enzo, his dino nugget-to-ketchup ratio was unmatched and deserved all the Michelin stars, and the technique he used to remove the crust from peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches should be studied.

Now, though, his name was like a lance through my chest. I’d almost, almost, had everything I could’ve wanted in my grasp—my mate and my family, together, without secrets—and I blew it so spectacularly it would be comical if I wasn’t on the verge of a mental and physical breakdown.

“I know, baby. He’ll be back soon,” Saint replied, ushering Enzo off the stool and down the hall, shooting me a look like it was my responsibility to ensure he wasn’t lying to his child.

I huffed and closed my eyes again.

Saint came back a few minutes later and set Enzo up across the living room with a show about dogs from Australia on the television. The volume was just loud enough to drown out our conversation.

“This whole damn family is falling apart,” he grumbled under his breath, pushing my legs off the sofa to sit next to me. “You look like death. I’m calling your doctor.”

“M’fine,” I grunted back, throwing an arm over my eyes.

“Yeah, and I’m Goldilocks. You should at least get some sleep.”

I couldn’t. My alpha wouldn’t let me. Prowling around in my head, it was a constant litany of, Get up, you idiot. Go find him. Tell him you miss him. Tell him you’re sorry. Tell him he’s our mate and make him ours, forever.

Besides, what if Max called me while I was asleep and I didn’t pick up? “Trying to send me off for a nap?”

“If I could send you to bed like my child, I would. Don’t push me.”

I sighed. “I don’t need the doctor to tell me what’s wrong.”

I could feel the cold stare he sent me even without seeing it. To anyone else, he probably looked emotionless, but I knew he was concerned. He just hid it well. “Maybe not, but there’s a chance you might actually listen when he tells you to pull your head out of your ass and go talk to Max.”

“What would we talk about, exactly? I hid things from him. He wanted me anyway, and instead of fessing up like I should’ve, I chickened out, and it all went to hell. There’s nothing left to talk about.”

“That’s rather pathetic for a man who’s pined for the same omega for two whole years.”

I lifted my arm just enough to give him a flat look. “Yeah, because no one in this family does that.”

His responding stare was glacial. Right. We didn’t discuss that.

I rolled onto my side with a sigh, facing the back of the couch. “If I’d just approached him normally from the start, none of this would’ve happened.”

Saint was silent for so long I thought he’d given up on humoring my wallowing. “I’m not so sure,” he eventually said, unusually quiet.

I grunted, signaling for him to go on.

“You are who you are, and Max is who he is. You two are a good match, whether you want to let yourself believe it or not. Maybe you met under the exact circumstances you were meant to. Give him a few days to cool off, and then talk. Tell him everything. Apologize. And then please, for the love of God, stop dying.”

Days would be excruciating. Painful. Horrific. “Do you really think he’ll forgive me?” I asked quietly.

Before Saint could reply, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I scrambled for it.

It’s probably Gwen, I thought. What if something happened? What if he said he wanted to see me, or talk to me⁠—