Page 80 of Trick Knot Treat

The idea of kissing him is…gross.

Who would have thought I’d come to some cute little town and find my pack? Who would have thought I’d be stuck in a situation this messed up. I can break my dad and family’s hearts, or I can hurt my pack. I can’t have both.

Dad is not the kind of alpha who lets you change lanes.

For a moment, it’s on the tip of my tongue to try to explain, to make Dad see, but then I remember how much he hates outsiders and how distrustful he is of everyone. That distrust is rivaled only by his extreme protectiveness of me.

I am actually surprised he let me come here.

“Dad, I…thank you. I have loved this year, and I can’t wait to come home. I miss you.” That is all true.

“We’re going to have big celebrations when you get back, sweetheart. A homecoming party, a bonding party. We might just celebrate for another year.”

I chuckle, shoving that pang of panic back down again.

“It’s late. You need to go get some sleep if you are going to get those rocks painted.”

“I know. I just really needed to hear your voice.”

“Are you sure everything’s all right?”

“Yes, of course. It’s all fine. I’m just missing home. Don’t say it!” I say because he can suggest the obvious.

“My lips are sealed. Well, since you’re fine, and it is so late, I’m going to say goodnight to you.”

“Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight, sweet girl. Get some sleep, and paint those rocks. I will see you soon.”

I sit on the beach for another hour until the cold has seeped into my bones and I have more questions than answers. When I get into my house, I notice the lights off in Zaire’s house and feel another one of those dual conflicting emotions. I am thrilled he’s not home, and he’s with one of the pack, that’s exactly what I want for him. I just also kinda wish that he was still just mine, too.

I wander through my little house, looking at all the temporary pieces of me that aren’t mine. The house came furnished. All I’ve added are my clothes, a few pieces of art and photos I’ve taken. It’s bare, except for one corner, where, on my kitchen table, which I’ve shoved against the wall, sits all my art gear. A massive carry box of paints is open, showing off my pride and joy: a rainbow array of tubes. In the drawer below that, half open, are my expensive paintbrushes. Some of them cost me a small fortune. There’s a handful of rags with paint smeared on them, a tiny jar of oil, a clear cup of water with a towel folded up and placed in front of it, and all my rocks.

They have been washed, cleaned, and air-dried. Some sit with completed art on them, some have rough sketches. Others are set aside because they aren’t quite good enough for this project.

Some people might consider this a hobby, but for me, it’s an obsession. I sit down and swivel the magnifying glass with its light, switching it on, and start painting. Each delicate stroke is considered, planned, and executed.

By the time the sun rises, I’ve added five more designs to the finished pile, and my body is tight. I stand up and crawl onto the couch, collapsing and yanking a blanket over my shoulder.

At least when I’m painting, I don’t think. Even though I’m exhausted, my eyes prickle with tears, and I try to force my brain into a place of calm where I don’t think about what’s going to happen.

In the end, I sit up and dial another number. One I know like the back of my hand.

“Harvest?”

“Sup, little artist?”

“I need you.”

I hear him sit up. “I’m on my way.”

And that’s that.

However this unfolds, and whatever happens…I’ve set the ball rolling. Nothing will undo it now.

When I wake up, it’s dark, and for a long moment, I’m confused. How long have I slept? I reach for my phone and realise it’s early evening, which means I’ve slept the day away. I also instantly realise I’m not alone in my house.

I sit up and find the very muscular and strong shape of an alpha sitting in my armchair.