Page 7

SINCLAIR

“Your daughters have a lot of energy.”

River slammed the front door after doing the school run. He was almost as noisy as triplets combined.

My head hurts, my dragon complained. Can he be quieter, please?

When the girls were at school and I was working, my beast snoozed because from pick-up time till lights out, there was pandemonium in our house.

“Everything okay?” If my daughters had pulled one of their tricks, River wasn’t bothered by it. I didn’t glance up from my tablet where I was reading the news headlines. If I did, my eyes would roam over his slender frame, the dark hair that curled around his ears, and his lips that were perfect for⁠—

“No.”

“Oh, how do you prefer I do it?”

I looked over my shoulder and immediately regretted it because River was putting cutlery in the dishwasher. What I preferred was him not bending over ever, at least not when he was so close that I could have reached out and fondled him.

“Sorry, I was talking about this local business man who… It doesn’t matter.”

I made myself stare at the device and not think about our manny’s every movement. He moved from the dishwasher to the sink and then to the pantry. My heart ached when he disappeared for a few seconds and celebrated when he appeared again. Getting through the next few months and dealing with the constant pain of being around my mate but unable to act on the pull was going to take more from me than a countdown.

I got up and poured myself another coffee before grabbing the tablet and heading toward the back entrance while cursing that I’d allowed the word “fondled” to slip to the forefront of my mind.

“So a stone mason, huh? That’s very old-world and kinda cool.”

I didn’t turn around. “It’s a dying art form.” But I pointed to the framed photo of my girls on the counter. “And unless any of my daughters takes over when I retire, there’ll be one less.” I mumbled, “See you later,” and escaped out of the house and River’s presence, despite the mating bond tugging at my heart and demanding I go back inside.

Running over the grass, I reached the workshop and gripped the handle as my hand shook, making the door rattle. Taking deep breaths to steady my nerves, I went into my sanctuary. This was the one place where River’s scent couldn’t reach me.

Inside it was cool and smelled of cut stone. To describe it to outsiders, I'd say it was a mineral smell, and to me, it signaled quiet, steady, slow, and mine. I glanced up at tiny specks of dust illuminated by the light from the high window and floating through the air.

After turning on the air-filtration unit, I sat at the workbench and ran my hands over the tools that were gritty with yesterday’s dust. The half-finished commission, a fireplace surround for a wolf shifter couple who lived further down the valley, was under a cloth. I was tempted to climb on the bench and hide under it too.

Unlike most mornings when I picked up my chisel and got to work, I gripped the cloth but didn’t remove it. My mind wandered back to the kitchen and River.

You’re hiding as you have been the past few days since he arrived. My beast was now wide awake thanks to the human omega.

Ridiculous. I’m here and I’m working. I wasn’t doing anything other than staring at the outline of the piece under the cloth.

This is the one room River hasn’t touched, so you can pretend he has no effect on you.

I didn’t respond. Ignoring a beast that lived inside me was almost impossible, but if I didn’t say anything, he’d give up and snooze, though he'd bug me again within the hour.

The workshop was my haven. The girls weren’t allowed in here except on special occasions and never while I was using power tools and wearing a mask.

“Right, I need to do this.” My clients wouldn’t accept that I was late with the commission because my mate was in the house and I was counting down the days until he left.

Because? My dragon wasn’t letting this go.

I sighed. Because I’m scared.

I was terrified of what might happen if I gave in to fate and to the pull. But that wasn’t happening, and I picked up two tools and I set the chisel on the stone and drove it in with the mallet. A chip cracked off, and my arm jolted as the sensation surged up my arm and made my teeth ring. Pale dust drifted up and landed on my forearms, whitening the hairs.

For a few strikes, there was nothing but me, the stone, and me chipping away, making something for everyday use out of an ancient material. But then there was a ticking in my head, like the doomsday clock, and I did my daily calculation. River had been with us three days, so that was 6,998,400 seconds remaining. It wasn’t a lot less, but the finish line was closer. That was supposed to be comforting because when something had an end, I could survive.

I had no memory of putting down the tools and crossing to the offcuts. After lifting a clean, pale piece of limestone onto another bench—it was a flawless piece and one I’d been saving—I used chalk to make a circle on the surface and began marking it out with even spaces all the way around.

I was making a piece for our garden, something old-world style as River would call it. My hands knew what they were doing even if I didn’t. The piece was marking out time, the same as the clock ticking in my head, though I didn’t stop to ask why.