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I get to my feet, push open the closet door, and cross over to the bundle of clothes on the bed. After scooping them up, I dump them on the floor of the closet.
I eye the bed and the comforter covering it. Chewing my lip, I consider using it.
The whole point of using the closet is because it’s safe. The last thing I want is to leave any clues where I’m sleeping. Or worse, that I don’t trust them.
Someone who sleeps in their closet over their bed is someone who would run at the first opportunity. The last thing I want is to have them think that.
So, no comforter for me.
Hesitating for another long moment, I head for the bathroom to pick up the jacket I dumped on the floor. I inhale the rich alpha pheromones as I slip the coat on, a scent that soothes the hated part of me that will always crave an alpha’s touch.
Back in the closet, I shift around to find a position that almost feels comfortable on a pathetic nest made of clothes on a cold, hardwood floor. And I close my eyes, releasing a quiet sigh.
I’m away from Lawrence, and I have two doors separating me from the alphas in this house.
It’s not the safety I’d hoped to find when I ran from Lawrence, but for tonight, for right now, it will have to do.
Chapter9
Everleigh
“Everleigh. Come inside.” Mom’s voice rings out from the house, startling a bird, which releases a shrill chirp and takes off from its perch on a tree in a flash of flapping black feathers.
“I’m coming.” I chew my lip as my pen flies over my sketchpad, hurrying to finish.
No light in the garden is ever the same. If I lose these afternoon shadows, I lose them forever.
My back aches. My fingers are cramping, but I’m never happier than when I’m drawing.
“Ever!” Della yodels. “You’d better come before Mom whoops your ass.”
My little sister, the loud to my quieter disposition, makes me smile.
It widens when Mom yells, “Dellaney Lira Jackson. We donotyell in this house.”
Della snorts. “Never stopped you from shrieking like a banshee.”
Mom erupts at Della, as Della likely knew she would, buying me a few more precious seconds of drawing time.
“I owe you one, Della,” I murmur. “Again.”
I’m smiling as I shade. On my sketchpad, the tree in the back of our garden takes shape, adding a new dimension my drawing was missing before. This one is for Della, who has bought me so much drawing time. It’s a tree she liked to climb when we were both younger, and I know she’ll appreciate having something to frame in her room.
I don’t know where my creativity comes from. Della is the social butterfly, her mouth always in motion, her feet likewise.
Mom thinks my drawing is a waste of time, that I could be spending my time on other pursuits. I ask her what other pursuits she means, and she’s vague. Always so vague.
“Just something other than wasting your time drawing,” she says, frowning. “You’ll wind up with a back like a prawn curling up like that.”
She’s wrong, but I don’t argue with her. I nod and let Della do the arguing as I wait for the next time she’s distracted so I can grab my sketchpad and retreat to the bottom of our garden.
A door creaks open.
I shade faster. It’s only a matter of time before Mom comes to get me herself. If she does that, this will be the last I see of my sketchbook and pencils for a week. And that is no punishment I ever want to suffer through again.
I’m nearly finished with my shading when I smell it.
Tart cherry, black rum, and pepper.
