5
913 Words
She looked away so he wouldn’t see her stupid tears. He might be the pack’s class clown, but his meathead exterior hid a sensitive core. Somehow he sensed how brittle her confession made her feel. If he’d tsked and gathered her into his arms, she might have shattered. And because he knew her better than she liked to admit, he also knew she hated feeling vulnerable.
She scrubbed her hands over her face and shoved her hair behind her shoulders. With the threat of an emotional breakdown off the table, she could move on to the more immediate crisis in her life. She lowered her voice again. “Are you going to tell me what he wants?”
“Can’t.” Remy plopped on her bed, the springs squealing under his weight. He leaned on his hands behind him and bounced a few times. “This mattress sucks.”
“Remy.”
He sighed. “Max wants to talk to you himself. Even if I knew what he wanted...which, by the way, I do not admit to...I couldn’t tell you.”
He was rapidly losing his status as her favorite cousin—never mind that he was the only one she had.
Annoyed, she whirled to her dresser, where she caught a glimpse of her face in the framed mirror propped against the wall. She was pale, which was a bad look for someone with ivory-colored skin. Fine lines bracketed her mouth and lined her forehead. At twenty-four, she was a little young for wrinkles. She puffed out her cheeks and raised her eyebrows. Then she pinched her cheeks and bit her lips a few times to give them some color. After a couple of seconds, she smiled. Her dark blue eyes looked a little less haunted, and her cheeks were fuller—or at least less corpselike.
“Is this what women do when they’re alone? Make weird faces at themselves?”
She looked down at the assortment of bottles and makeup scattered across the top of her dresser. After a moment’s debate, she grabbed the cherry red train case sitting to one side and popped it open, then swept the whole mess into the case with an outstretched arm. “Not entirely,” she said, setting the train case on the bed next to her duffel. “We also think of ways to torment the annoying people in our lives.”
“Easy, killer.” He closed his eyes, and a frown puckered the smooth skin between his brows. He c****d his head like he was listening to a far-off sound. “Dom says hurry it up.”
She paused in the act of choosing which pajamas to pack. “He could have just talked through the door.”
Remy shrugged, as if telepathy was no big deal.
It reality, it was a very big deal. Although all wolves were blessed with certain abilities, more often referred to as Gifts, the ability to speak mind-tomind was rare. Dom and Remy were the only telepaths she knew. Most wolves inherited common Gifts like enhanced vision or accelerated speed— tools useful in battle or the hunt. Wolves with an advanced sense of smell were called Trackers for their ability to detect emotions and lies. Healers could mend wounds faster than any human doctor.
Lizette had heard it theorized that plenty of wolves were born with socalled rare Gifts. They were just vulnerable to wolves who were superior fighters and thus less likely to live long enough to pass on their genes. Some wolves with mental Gifts took great pains to hide their abilities for that reason.
Remy tapped the side of his head. “Besides, I need the practice.”
“For what?”
“Most of the time, I can only talk mind-to-mind with other telepaths, but lately I’ve been able to send to anyone.” He narrowed his eyes. “Pretty cool, huh?” His voice flooded her mind as if he’d shouted into her ear with a megaphone.
“Whoa.” She put a knee against the dresser to steady herself. “Warn me before you do that again, okay?” It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on her brain, even though she’d learned in freshman psychology class that the brain actually lacks nerve endings. Tell that to someone with chronic migraines.
“Sorry.” He didn’t look the least bit guilty. “I’m still learning to control the volume.”
“No worries.” She moved into the en suite bathroom to gather some toiletries. She crouched in front of her vanity and plucked a shampoo bottle off the bottom shelf.
“Ready?” Remy’s voice floated from the bedroom.
No. Never.
She stood and caught her reflection in the antique mirror above the vanity. White with scrolling green vines, the mirror was one of the first things she bought for the apartment when she moved in five years ago. I’m coming back, she told herself as she opened a drawer and grabbed her headache medication. She clutched the orange bottle as her heart started to pound.
She and Max had a deal. Five years ago, he sent her away.
And in doing so, he gave Lizette her freedom.
If he’d forgotten about their agreement, she’d just have to remind him.
“Lizette?”
In the mirror, her eyes lightened to wolf blue. She put her shoulders back.
“Yes. I’m ready.”
- Writer
