by Casey Hagen
Chapter 2
“Cleona?” Leander said, turning to glance at her over his shoulder.
Cleona shoved him to the side, but only because he let her, and the look he gave her said they both knew it.
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t have a sister,” Cleona said.
“That you knew of. My name is Maeve Brennan. This is my fiance, Orion Murdoch,” she said, laying her hand on his chest. “Can we come in, just for a moment? I’ll explain and if I can’t convince you, we’ll leave,” Maeve said, giving her a soft smile before reaching out and twirling a lock of her hair that lay over her breast.
This is what Cleona got for minding her own business. Everyone and their damn mother showing up on her doorstep at exactly the wrong time. “Fine, but Leander stays,” Cleona said, curling her hand over his forearm.
Leander held the door and let them in. The room that already seemed tiny, shrunk down to nothing as Maeve’s claim sucked out what little air was in the room.
Or maybe that was Cleona having a panic attack.
It was anyone’s guess.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t ask you to sit and instead insist that you hurry the hell up and say what you have to say,” Cleona said as she rested her hand on the towel wrapped around her other hand.
“We have the same eyes,” Maeve said, taking a small step toward Cleona, her gaze searching, her eyes hopeful.
“Lots of people have green eyes,” Cleona muttered, forcing herself to stand still when all she wanted to do was tuck herself behind Leander.
They caught her in a weak moment, and she didn’t appreciate it.
“True,” Maeve murmured. “I know it sounds crazy, but a few weeks ago, I had a vision of a meadow with a twisted, twenty-foot tree at the edge,” Maeve said quietly. She took a ragged breath, and Orion stepped up next to her, slipping his large hand into hers and giving her fingers a squeeze.
For a moment, just a moment, a flash of jealousy tore through Cleona. She wanted that. She wanted a man who just knew instinctually or with a look just what she needed and did it. Someone strong and steady so when she gave into a weak moment, someone stood strong behind her.
Even in her previous relationships, she’d never found a man capable of being that in tune with her, even when she did find a man that gave a shit about someone other than himself.
Maeve glanced up at Orion and leaned into him just a bit. “The roots grew in the form of a braid before sinking into the ground. A woman with a long, flowery skirt, tank top, and strawberry-blond hair, long and wavy like mine—like yours, sat at the base, leaning against the tree. Dying.”
Goosebumps rose up on Cleona’s skin. Leander took a step in her direction, right up behind her, the front of his biceps brushing her back. She closed her eyes and let herself absorb his heat, knowing that even though he showed her the care and concern she was just yearning for, she could never be with him, despite the attraction that lingered.
She had been a lot of things in her short past, but she’d never be the tenant doing her landlord. It was just too damn demeaning. “What does this have to do with me?”
“She was our mother,” Maeve said quietly.
Cleona crossed her arms, tucking her wounded hand under her bicep, and tapped her foot. “I have a mother.”
Maeve took a step toward her, lifted her hand, met Cleona’s eyes, and let it drop. “I do, too, but our mothers aren’t our birth mothers.”
Cleona looked Maeve up and down and raised her eyebrows. “And you want me to believe we’re twins?”
“We’re quadruplets. Fraternal quadruplets,” Maeve said, her hand going to some sort of Celtic symbol hanging from her neck that was too small for Cleona to identify.
“Is that even possible?” Leander said, finally breaking his silence, glancing between Maeve and Orion.
Maeve wrung her hands before her and glanced away. “It’s rare in humans. Extremely rare. But we’re not human,” she said, meeting their eyes.
“Okay, I’ve heard enough. Get out.” Cleona took a step toward the door just to have Maeve jump out in front of her.
She reached out and laid a soft hand on Cleona’s arm. “We’re wolf shifters, Cleona. The final four of the Moonstone Guardians Pack.”
Okay, so it’s not like Cleona hadn’t heard about magical creatures and shifters living among humans. There were whispers, but she’d never put much stock in any of it since she’d never seen it. Not that she saw it now.
What she saw was a pretty woman who could have a hell of a career writing children’s stories if she put her imagination to good use.
But something about her…the earnest look in her eyes that plead to Cleona to listen, as though she believed without a doubt every word she said. That’s the look that had Cleona hesitating to throw her out and curious for more despite every part of her that railed against the possibility.
Cleona had never been anything special. A hard worker, sometimes misguided, with more than her fair share of trials and tribulations, but most problems she brought on herself when she rushed headlong into situations before thinking about the possible negative outcomes.
Something niggled at her not to rush into dismissing Maeve. Just in case. “And how do you know that?”
“I realized I was something different when I fell and cut myself just to speed-heal a few moments later.”
So sometimes she should trust her instincts. Good to know. “You’re insane.”
“She’s telling you the truth,” Orion said, stepping up next to Maeve and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “She only just found out when she awakened on her twenty-fifth birthday. Your twenty-fifth birthday. March sixteenth,” he said quietly.
Cleona scoffed. “Oh, you guys are good. I have to hand it to you. So, how did you know that? What did you do, go through my trash or something?”
“Listen, it’s a lot, we know it’s a lot, but—” Maeve started.
“How do I know you aren’t just stalkers trying to get something out of me?” Cleona interrupted.
Maeve glanced around and raised an eyebrow.
“Conning me and insulting. Awesome.”
“I haven’t come just to uproot your life. We’re in danger. Our mates, they’re in danger, too, and as each of us awakens, the danger grows.”
Cleona flicked a glance over her shoulder to Leander whose mouth thinned into a grim line before glaring at Maeve. “Our mates?”
“Well…” Maeve winced. “Our kind mates with warlocks.”
Cleona shot a look to Orion. “So you’re a witch? Is that what she’s saying?” Cleona said, gesturing to Maeve.
“Yes,” Orion said with a nod.
Cleona pushed past them. “Okay, I think I’ve heard enough. My interest in fairy tales stopped when I hit double digits. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave,” Cleona said, opening the door and nodding toward the opening.
“I’m sorry. I know this is a lot, but please, talk to your parents. And if you notice anything out of the ordinary around you, or even physically, please contact me. We don’t have much time,” Maeve said, handing Cleona a business card.
Cleona glanced down at the lavender card stock for Crystal’s Closet and the cell number scrawled on the back. “Yeah, whatever,” she muttered before tossing the card on the table next to the door.
Leander rested a hand on her shoulder and with the briefest squeeze, he kneaded the tight muscles there.
Maeve stepped out first and Orion followed, but turned to them one last time, his gaze landing on Leander’s wrist. His eyes narrowed, his eyebrows snapping low over his eyes, and his mouth pinched. “Where did you get your cuff?”
Leander lowered his hand. “What business is it of yours?”
Orion held up his own leather latched around his wrist, with his moonstone set in the center. “Because there’s only one kind of man that wears the moonstone and these are handed down from ancestors. So I ask you, where did you get your cuff?”
“It belonged to my father,” Leander said. “Now go.”
Orion scowled, but dropped it and took a step onto the tiny porch.
Leander shut the door with a resounding thud and threw the dead bolt.
“Did I enter the damn twilight zone at some point on my walk home?” she said, unable to contain herself any longer and instead tore up the length of the living room to pace off her nervous energy.
“If so, it was you and me both,” Leander said, sliding the curtain over a fraction and watching out the window. “How’s the hand?” he asked, letting the lace flutter back into place.
She flipped her hair back over her shoulder. All of a sudden she had the desire to chop it off which was totally unreasonable. She’d loved her thick, auburn waves, but now it seemed a bit too coincidental that she had the same hairstyle as the woman claiming to be her sister. “I’m so mad, it doesn’t even hurt at the moment, but I better get burn gel on it and take some Advil before the pain rears its ugly head.”
“Come here,” he said, grabbing the first aid kit and dropping onto the couch, patting the cushion.
She took a seat next to him, but tried to maintain some distance between her bare leg and his hand. Too many lines had been blurred already and although the encounter with Maeve and Orion had been like a Gatorade cooler full of ice-cold water dumped on her libido, all it would take was one touch to send her back in the direction of heat and sex.
She missed both desperately.
Attraction and slow burn had been her and Leander’s dance for months, and it felt like the past ten minutes might have just driven them close enough that it might be impossible to find distance again.
“Here, let me see that,” he said, gently taking her wrapped hand and resting it on his thigh.
His rock-hard thigh.
She gulped.
Just a couple inches from—
“I asked you if you’re ready,” he said, his lips twitching at where her gaze had landed.
“As I’ll ever be.” she said, his words pulling her from her sex-deprived haze. She needed a distraction other than their chemistry.
Something.
Anything.
Her gaze landed on his wrist and the worn carved leather tied around it with the oval stone set in the center swirling with a golden hue. The thought of seeing her skin bubbled up had her stomach pitching so she grasped for the change of subject. “Did you really get that cuff from your dad?”
His hands froze as he’d just unwound the first layer. He glanced up at her. “It was my dad’s. He didn’t stick around long enough to give it to me.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried,” she said, biting her lip.
“I expected you to ask. I have questions myself, but the answers might be a bit harder to find.”
“Why?”
“No father and my mother is dead,” he said quietly.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” she said with a sigh.
“Don’t be. You ready to see the damage?” he asked with a quick glance.
“It might not be that bad,” she said, flinching.
He grazed her cheek with his thumb. “You’re not feeling pain which is a good thing, but Sam said you caught it on that burner good.”
She shook her head and straightened her spine. “Ugh, I’m being a baby. I’m not five. Just take the damn thing off and let’s see how much I’m going to hate the dinner shift.”
“You have to work again later?”
“I work the dinner shift five days a week,” she said, watching as he unwrapped another layer of towel.
“I didn’t know that,” he said, his dark brows rising on his forehead, his eyes widening.
“And why would you? You’re my landlord. It doesn’t matter how I make the money as long as I can pay the rent, right?”
He pursed his lips, glared, and unfolded the towel the rest of the way.
She didn’t look at her hand, and instead decided she would gauge how bad it was from the look on his face.
His shoulders flexed and grew rigid as he turned her hand back and forth, his eyes narrowing.
“Is it bad? Be honest. I can take it.”
“You better take a look yourself.”
She blew out a breath and forced herself to glance down.
Her jaw fell open.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes roamed over and over her palm.
She blinked.
And when she opened her eyes, the skin still looked as it had when she first looked.
Like nothing ever happened.
“It’s healed,” she whispered.
He traced his fingers over her palm. “Yeah. You might use that number Maeve gave you after all.”
Chapter 3
Leander dragged out the boxes of his mother’s belongings that he’d stored for the past three years since her death. He’d done this before, in a weak moment, and wondering about his father, he’d gone through her personal items looking for clues: letters, pictures, some shred of evidence that the man existed, and he’d once loved them.
Twenty-eight years old and he was still swimming in the shithole of doubt. Enough so that he’d never been serious about a woman, and sure as hell never planned to have kids of his own just in case whatever piece of shit gene his father carried had made its way to him.
And then he’d bought the trailer park and watched Cleona move in with her mother, taking care of the frail woman who’d filled in the empty space his mother had left behind, and watched how hard she worked to give her the best care.
Only hours earlier did her confession about working the night shift, too, really tell him just how far her desire went to make a better life for her ailing mom.
She’d shown a commitment to family that he envied. One he wasn’t so sure he had himself.
He gravitated toward the loyalty and resolve she’d shown day in and day out.
At least that’s what he assumed it was.
Unless he was a warlock and didn’t know it.
How would he not know? Wouldn’t he feel it? Wouldn’t magic be flowing through him right at this very moment?
He’d met all kinds of men, shifters, warlocks, healers, the possibilities were endless when you were the only Harley restoration specialist in two hundred miles. Most were loners, they’d shunned their place in their families and the expectations that came with their abilities, trading it all for the open road.
Lone wolves.
He longed to be one at times, but the thought of a life with no deep human connection—no, it wasn’t for him.
And he wouldn’t be the second man to leave his mother.
A chill filled the air, and his eyes burned. The moonstone at his wrist shimmered.
His vision blurred.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and shook his head. When he opened his eyes again, the chill had fled, his eyes cleared, and the moonstone had returned to its golden hue.
Clearly, he needed some sleep.
He slid open the cardboard flaps of the first box and dug through the contents. His mother had a sentimental streak and had kept every report card for not only her twelve years of school, but his, too. He pushed past the envelopes she’d stored them in, and the small box holding his baby teeth.
That part skeeved him out.
Had to be a woman thing.
In the bottom lay the photo albums. He laid the first over his knee and flipped the pages, the flood of pictures all of him and his mom when he’d been a baby and toddler. Then the pictures shifted. Lone pictures of him or shots where he played with friends and distant cousins.
The change came at about three years old when his mother ended up behind the camera, where he suspected his father had been before that.
He slammed the book shut, hating that abandonment still had the power to slice through him and lay him bare.
He knew he should have waited on this box. He knew it every single time, yet it’s the first he opened.
Always.
He tore through the next, and the next, and the one after that. Every knickknack, the teacups she cherished, and the handmade candles all screaming reminders of a childhood incomplete, no matter how much his mother had loved him.
There had been a gaping hole.
He shoved off the couch and headed for the fridge. Yanking open the door harder than necessary, the bottles in the door rattled from the force.
Sliding a longneck bottle from the six-pack case, he kicked the door shut, popped the top, and sipped down several gulps of the cold brew, wishing it was something a whole lot stronger.
He snaked a few slices of ham from the deli bag, staving off the hunger and his own desire to walk to the diner for something more satisfying. The dinner rush had likely ended an hour before, if Cleona had even gone in.
The night had cooled and chased the humidity of the day away so he took his beer out to the front porch and sat on the steps and stretched his legs, enjoying the silence of the night.
State route forty-four quieted down considerably after seven thirty. So quiet that one could forget they lived in a trailer park next to a run-down diner in the void most people forgot that lay between two small towns.
His mind played through the moments after they’d discovered nothing other than a normal, supple hand nestled in the white bar towel. She’d paced that living room of hers muttering all kinds of reasons why none of this was true. She’d even had him convinced that maybe the burn hadn’t been as bad as she and Sam had thought and the cold water took care of it so when he unraveled the towel, there really wasn’t anything to see.
But his gut screamed that he was buying that shit because the truth might send them down a road they didn’t want to go.
Maeve said they were in danger. All of them. If the story was true.
How much time did they have before fate forced their hand?
He wanted her. She’d been a living, breathing fantasy calling to him with her lush curves, her thick hair just made for a man to sink his hands into, and her smart mouth.
She’d give as good as she got in bed. Of that he was sure to his core. Someone like Cleona didn’t just lay back and take it. She gave it right back.
