by Liza Street
“Whatever it was, sweetheart, I forgive you.”
That forgiveness was the only thing Starla had been able to use to get through the next nineteen years. That, and the love that had slowly grown around their family like a thicket of protective vines.
Starla wasn’t ready for her mom and dad to leave her here, with the family she didn’t know anymore.
Her dad came around to give her a hug. “You have your plane ticket?”
“Yeah. But it’s an e-ticket.”
“Good,” he said. Then his face got very serious, his soft blue eyes wide and intent. He touched her chin, tilting her head up so she looked at him more fully. “You don’t need to come back,” he whispered. “You can stay here. We’ll figure it out.”
“Too dangerous,” Starla said. The fact that he was even saying these things…she shuddered and resisted the urge to check her phone in her pocket, to make sure it wasn’t transmitting their words back to Florida. “I’ll be home on Saturday. Tell the Elders.”
He closed his eyes. “It’s your choice, but Starla-girl, I wish you would tear up that plane ticket. Your mom agrees with me.”
“It’s an e-ticket. Can’t tear it up. Don’t want to, anyway.”
Her phone chimed with a text, and she held it up in front of her dad. “See? It’s Erich. He misses me.”
Her dad frowned. “Think about it, okay?”
She stood by herself in the driveway of her childhood home, watching her adoptive parents drive away. The way her throat closed up made her feel much younger than thirty. She wondered if being with the Everglades Pride for so long had stunted her emotional development somehow. Her parents were great, but even Starla could recognize the strange ways of the Everglades Pride. It was simultaneously a relief to be away from them, and an uncertainty. With her adoptive parents leaving her behind, she was even less sure of herself.
When she turned to look at the house, Gabriel’s mate, Miranda, waved at her from the open living room window. “Come in for some pancakes?” she called.
“Sure.” Starla forced herself to grin. Only a couple more days of all-family, all-the-time. Only a couple more days of pretending to be happy with the life she’d be going back to in Florida. Luckily, there were so many brothers and sisters and mates and children, that all the questions she’d been answering about her life since her disappearance had been superficial. She talked about her job as a tour guide through the Everglades, and her adoptive parents who had treated her so well.
She sat down at the giant farmhouse table and snagged a piece of bacon before Maverick could claim it all—she’d already figured out his tactics. So far at the table it was only her, Gabriel, Miranda, and Maverick.
“What do you want to eat for the party tonight?” Gabriel asked her.
“Party? Tonight?”
“Yeah, your welcome home party,” Maverick said around a mouthful.
Starla made a point of chewing her bacon carefully; maybe Maverick would learn some manners by example. “I thought that was last night, when my mom and dad were here.”
There was a brief quiet, probably from her saying “mom and dad” but not talking about her birth parents.
“Sorry,” she said, feeling small again.
“They’re still your parents,” Miranda said in a voice of understanding. “It’s okay to call them your mom and dad.”
“They love you just like Mom and Dad would have wanted. They deserve the titles,” Gabriel said. “Anyway, that was just dinner last night. We’re going to have a proper thing. Quentin and Emma will be here, plus Mateo’s parents and brother are going to fly in from Montana. I called Rourke, but he can’t come. Amelia lives in Maryland now, so she can’t make it either on short notice. But we want to properly celebrate that we’re all here and together, at least for now.”
Starla had forgotten to pay attention as soon as he said the name “Rourke.” She forced herself to concentrate. “That’s a lot of people.”
“Well,” Miranda said, “even though you live in Florida, we’re hoping you’ll come back and visit us as much as possible, and this way you won’t feel like a stranger when you do. We know how hard this must be for you.”
Starla blinked back tears, hoping no one noticed. If they did, they didn’t say anything.
*
“She’s so shy now,” Jude whispered.
He and a few others were down on the patio. They thought Starla was taking a nap up in her old room, but she couldn’t sleep. Instead, she was eavesdropping on her family. Great way to repay their kindness, but she couldn’t make herself stop.
“Do you think her new family…hurt her, or something?” Ava asked.
“No,” Gabriel said, and Starla wanted to cheer. Her adoptive parents were loving and wonderful. Gabriel continued, “Maybe Miranda’s right, and this is just really hard for her.”
Jude said, “I don’t like seeing her so skittish. She used to lead the charge when we were kids.”
Starla closed her eyes and stepped away from the window. She wanted to close and lock it so she wouldn’t hear any more. Back when they were kids, she had led the charge. Her birth dad had told her she had the makings of an alpha, that she could lead her own pride someday. “Dominant through and through,” he’d said about her.
Well, no more.
Although her family had grown up, her room, at least, was the same. She wondered if it had been some kind of shrine, untouched for all these years, but a few things had been moved around. Her bed had been slept in at some point, because the sheets were different and it smelled faintly of Chloe. Maybe Chloe had played in here, with Starla’s childhood things. The thought made Starla feel lighter.
There was one thing she wouldn’t want Chloe to find, though. Something that was only meant for Starla.
She looked under her bed—there. The box of letters from Rourke. The two of them had been pen pals since she was seven and he was twelve. Despite their age difference, they’d had a lot to say to each other, and the seasons between their family get-togethers always felt too long.
It was too bad he wasn’t coming tonight, but Starla was relieved at the same time. Better to let him remain perfect in her mind, like he’d been when he was fifteen, when they’d gone on long walks or runs through the forest. Starla hadn’t been able to shift yet, but Rourke sometimes ran alongside her as a wolf. Almost twenty years later, he would have changed a lot, and the thought of him being any different made her heart ache.
Lying on her stomach, she worked to wiggle the box forward. She caught the edge with her hand and pulled it out. It was an old Hello Kitty lunchbox, and she felt herself smiling at the familiar, cartoonish forms.
Just as she was about to open it, Chloe called for her from downstairs. Rourke’s letters had waited nineteen years—she’d thought they all burned up, anyway. They could wait a little longer.
And this time, when she went back to Florida, she’d be able to take them with her.
Chapter Four
Damn Amelia.
She called about five minutes after he hung up with Gabriel.
“I knew it,” she said, in that gleeful tone she always used when she’d figured something out before him. “I knew it, and Gabriel just rang to confirm it. He says you’re not going. If you don’t get your arse over to the Sierras, I will personally flay you. Square inch of fur by square inch of fur. I’ll turn your pelt into a Davy Crockett hat. And that is nothing to the pain you will endure if you let her out of your life for a second time—”
“I had nothing to do with the first time, and Davy Crockett’s hat was made from a raccoon or a beaver or something, not a wolf.”
“As if I know the American legends. Shut up, I’m on a roll.”
“No, you shut up,” he growled. “I’m going. Okay? Happy? I’m going to the bloody party, if for nothing else than to show my wolf what we have not been missing all these years.”
“Fantastic,” she said, and hung up.
Seconds later, his p
hone buzzed with a new text. The only person you’re fooling is no one.
He wanted to strangle her.
*
He jabbed the dial on his truck radio, because every song and every announcer voice made him want to growl out his frustration. He was on the road to the Fournier ranch, on his way to a party he had no good reason to attend.
When he pulled up in front of the farmhouse, he could already hear the loud chatter of people having fun. Fun. His idea of fun was a cold drink and a hot woman. When was the last time you were happy? Amelia’s text, in his head.
Nineteen years ago, he thought. Walking the Fournier property with Starla, laughing at how she described imaginary dramas for the Steller’s jays.
But he hadn’t mattered to her, not the way she’d mattered to him. He tried to put himself in her shoes. She believed her family was dead, she was whisked off to another state for adoption. She must have been lonely and missed everything and everyone she’d loved. But she hadn’t missed Rourke. He hadn’t mattered enough. If he’d mattered, she would have written to him. She would have confided in him, and the whole tragedy of her disappearance would have been avoided.
With a growl in his throat, he surveyed the party before him.
The women wore bathing suits, and the guys were all in swim trunks, and everyone held a giant water gun. Hell. This was not what he’d signed up for.
There was a kid running around, and he saw a couple of babies, barely walking. Fuck. What if Starla was married? What if she had a baby? Gabriel hadn’t said anything when he’d called. And why had Gabriel called—why hadn’t Starla made the call? Why the hell hadn’t she ever written to him once in all these years?
He got out of his truck and slammed the door. Nobody had noticed him yet, so he took another moment to scope out the people.
His breath caught in his throat. There was Starla. He hadn’t seen her in nineteen years, but he’d know her anywhere. She was wearing sunglasses that hid her soft brown eyes, but her hair was the same—brown, with natural highlights in all different shades. Mesmerizing.
They’d been the best of friends. He’d never been turned on by her before, but now, seeing her grown up, seeing her as a woman, in a modest tankini that should have been less than thrilling—now he had to lean back and take deep breaths to get his cock under control. He wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere at this rate, and if they expected him to put on a pair of unconstraining swim trunks, well, that wasn’t bloody likely.
There was the boner-killer—Starla laughing at something an unfamiliar guy said.
“Rourke!” Gabriel called, striding forward. “You ugly dog, you made it after all!”
He forced a smile onto his face. Manners. He could do manners. “Yeah. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Come have a beer, then,” Gabriel said, “and say hi to Starla.”
He didn’t remember walking forward, he didn’t remember wading through the sea of people. He didn’t remember anything until Starla was suddenly in front of him and he felt a tightness in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Was he having a fucking heart attack at age thirty-five?
Then Starla was hugging him.
He felt immediately better.
Feeling better was awful, though. All these people. He had to get out of here. He mumbled something to her, maybe a hello, or a welcome back—some kind of generic statement.
He hated that he couldn’t see her eyes. He hated that he didn’t know what he was doing, that he was more confused now than he’d ever been in his life, more adrift than he’d been when he’d learned she was gone.
Despite her warm body against his, he held his arms rigidly to his sides. She let him go abruptly and took a step back as if he’d slapped her.
Chapter Five
He hadn’t hugged her back.
Of all the strange blows and the fantastical nature of this homecoming, Rourke not hugging her back felt the worst.
He still looked like the boy she remembered. He wore his dark brown hair in short spikes now, instead of the military-esque buzz cut he’d had at fifteen. His eyes were the same brilliant green, though, and framed by long lashes she’d need at least a full tube of mascara to replicate on herself.
There was a hardness to him now, but it wasn’t limited to those delicious muscles. He hadn’t hugged her back, and he looked so damn uncomfortable here. She felt like she could practically read his mind, exactly like when they were kids, and she didn’t like what she was reading off of him. A desire to go, to be as far away from here as possible.
Good thing he was so standoffish, or she might have been in danger of resuming her childhood crush on him.
She was glad for her sunglasses, because he’d be less likely to see how much that not-hug had hurt.
Then Jude and Blake swept in and claimed him, giving him a mega squirt gun.
“No better smell than wet dog, huh?” Blake said with a laugh.
Boys. Same jokes they’d always made around Rourke and Amelia when they’d come to visit. It wasn’t exactly usual for different shifter species to get along so well, but the Sierra Pride had made a special effort with the Pacific Coast Pack when Rourke’s family had moved from England and swelled the pack’s ranks. Through their association, they learned that it paid to be friendly, and there was safety in numbers, and in mutually guarding their territories.
Rourke and Amelia had been twelve years old, Starla seven. The idea had been for Starla and Amelia to become pen pals, but it soon became evident that Starla and Rourke had made a connection, and it was the two of them who exchanged letters for years.
But it seemed that years of exchanging letters wasn’t enough to keep his friendship.
Starla’s squirt gun was on one of the benches where she’d dropped it as soon as she saw Rourke. She went back to retrieve it, then changed her mind. The water fight had been fun, and it had done a lot to loosen her up around her family, but now with Rourke here, she felt too vulnerable in her borrowed bathing suit. She needed a moment of quiet.
Slipping inside the house, she went up to her room and changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a black tank top.
Her phone chimed on her bed. She shouldn’t have left it up here for so long—Erich hated waiting for her to reply to his texts—but she figured having the phone safe and dry was better than ruining it altogether in a water fight.
There was a string of texts and two missed calls.
Thinking of you.
My driver will be at the airport tomorrow to pick you up.
Call me.
Call me.
Call me.
Where the hell are you?
You can’t call now, I’m busy. What the fuck, Starla?
She rushed to text back, in such a hurry that her hands were shaking, making it harder to hit the right letters. She read it over again to make sure there weren’t any errors. So sorry. Was outside. Here now. What’s up?
No response, not even the little ellipsis indicator showing he was typing a message.
Typical.
She sighed and spotted the Hello Kitty lunchbox on her nightstand. Rourke’s letters. This was the friend she had missed, pined for. This was the real Rourke, not that angry imposter outside who wouldn’t even hug her back. She found that, more than anything, she needed to remember him as he was, as he still should be.
She flicked open the latch of the lunch box. She pulled out the top letter—the last one he’d sent her. She remembered waiting for this one especially, because she hoped he’d answer her last question, which had been Do you have a girlfriend?
Opening the folded page, she felt like a girl again. The faint scent of Rourke wafted up—hazelnut and coffee. She hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but she hadn’t allowed herself to think of how he smelled. She grinned. Childhood crushes were powerful; this probably explained why she preferred her coffee with a dash of hazelnut syrup.
Too bad he hadn’t smelled like any of that when she saw him a few minutes ago. He’d smelled like smoke an
d anger, nothing else. Further proof he wasn’t the boy he used to be.
She looked down at the letter again. His answer had delighted her eleven-year-old self. She traced the scrawled letters with a fingertip. I’m not interested in anyone around here. She wondered if it was still true, and cursed herself for caring.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, probably one of the brothers searching for a free bathroom. The footsteps stopped outside her door for a half-beat, and then Rourke walked in.
Chapter Six
Starla’s room was much smaller than he remembered. He’d been fourteen the last time he’d been here, and his growth spurts throughout his late teens and early twenties had nearly doubled his body weight since then, and added a foot to his height.
Starla had grown, too. Her face was still round, but the chubbiness of her cheeks had thinned out, and her eyes looked sharper, older. Devil take him, now he could see her eyes, dive into their dark chocolate color.
It was too bad his preoccupation with her was one-sided.
“What do you want?” she asked.
She looked sad and wistful. He wanted her to smile, suddenly. He’d never been good with jokes, though—that had been her. So he opted for honesty. “I’m sorry if I seemed rude out there. I’m glad you’re back.”
“Why were you rude?” She took a step toward him.
She smelled so damn good, it made it hard to think. He couldn’t even come up with a good lie—something that was the truth but not the truth. Words. He needed to speak words. “I’m angry.”
“Yes, I can smell that. Smoke and electricity. What’s going on, Rourke?”
His name on her lips seemed to loosen something inside of him. He took a step toward her, and now they were mere inches from each other. “You were alive. All this time, you were alive. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I thought my family was dead.”
He sliced the air with his hand, dismissing it. “But not me. You didn’t think I was dead.”
“No.” Her voice was a whisper.
“Starla, why didn’t you write to me? Why didn’t you tell me you were okay? You disappeared, I thought you were dead, and all this time I’ve been—” He broke off, unable to say that all this time he’d been pining. For her. His wolf had been restless and angry and he hadn’t known how to appease it. Fighting fires. Drinking. Fucking. It only worked for brief moments, before he was consumed by sadness again, and every single time, the sadness was deeper.
