by Liza Street
He couldn’t bear to look at her beautiful eyes for a second longer, so he switched his focus to a spot past her shoulder. A bright red lunchbox sat opened on the edge of her bed, filled with papers.
Was that his handwriting?
“Oi, what are those?” His voice was sharper than he’d intended. He remembered getting her letters, and he had them all saved somewhere in his cabin in a metal ammunition box, although he never allowed himself to look at them. Too painful, too many memories of when he sat by the mailbox at the end of his drive as a teenager, waiting for letters. The elation he felt when he received one, followed by the despair when they stopped coming, and then two days later when he heard about her death, and he stopped waiting.
She leveled a glare at him. Now she smelled angry. “Your letters.”
He gripped his head in frustration. “None of this makes sense. Why would you go to Florida and start a new life and leave me behind when every single day I was mourning you?”
Her face softened, but her tone was sharp. “If you’d stop bitching at me for two seconds I think I could explain.”
“That would be fucking brilliant.”
“Don’t say it like that in your smug stupid accent—”
“Women like my accent.”
“Yes,” she deadpanned. “It’s fucking brilliant.”
He couldn’t help himself—he gathered her to him in the hug he’d wanted to give her since he first learned she was alive, the embrace that had only intensified in his mind until now. And when her head tilted up and he turned his head so his lips fit perfectly over hers, everything else, the foolish, meaningless existence he’d been living for the past nineteen years, faded away.
Her body softened against his as he licked lightly at her lips. She parted for him, and he slowly explored her mouth. She was shy at first, almost frozen, but then her tongue started moving against his.
He wrapped one arm around her waist, and his other hand was in her hair, holding her to him as he promised with kisses and touches that he never planned on letting her go. This was real, this was home, and he’d rather die than say goodbye to her again.
A phone chimed on the bed. She stiffened in his arms, but he tried to convince her to ignore it, pressing against her, his cock aching for her touch, his skin on fire for her.
She pulled away. “I have to get that.”
She wobbled on her legs, so he grabbed the phone for her.
“Don’t—” she said, but it was too late.
He didn’t mean to look, but the word “wedding” caught his eye. It was a text from “Mom.” Final wedding dress fitting at 4pm on Saturday. Text if your flight is delayed so I can reschedule.
“Is your mom getting married?” he growled.
“No.” He almost couldn’t hear her, her voice was so soft.
“Another relative? A close friend?”
“No.”
He thrust the phone at her. “Who’s getting married, then?”
Her phone chimed again and this time he didn’t even try to resist looking. This text was from “Erich.” I’m free now. Call me as soon as possible so we can discuss the guest list.
“Sounds like you’re getting married, then. To Erich.”
She nodded.
He wanted to shout at her. He wanted to change into his wolf and dismantle the entire bedroom, starting with her phone. But in the softest voice he could manage, he whispered, “Tell me what you’re doing, giving me the kiss of my lifetime when you’re promised to someone else.”
Tears filled her eyes, and her lips trembled as she said the words, “I can’t.”
He turned and walked swiftly from the room, his footsteps as hollow as the place where his heart used to be.
Chapter Seven
Starla thought maybe her first kiss could have gone better.
It certainly couldn’t have been worse.
No, that wasn’t true. If her first kiss had been with Erich, it definitely would have been worse.
She wanted to go after Rourke, to explain everything—the reason she hadn’t written to him, the reason she was getting married—but he was almost to his truck. She watched him shake Gabriel’s hand. She watched him drive away.
Her phone chimed again. Erich. Take your time, sweetheart.
It meant the exact opposite. She rushed to type. Sorry, it’s very busy here today. Lots of noise. Would you prefer to text or talk on the phone?
Leave the damn party if the noise is a problem.
I’m sorry, but I can’t. It’s a party for me.
Starla, I don’t have the fucking time for this. I know you want this marriage even more than I do.
She didn’t want it—she needed it. Her parents needed it, needed their position in the pride.
Erich texted again, before she had a chance to respond. Another meeting is starting. We’ll discuss this when you return. My driver will be there to take you to your dress fitting. Don’t fuck up.
I won’t.
She let out a shaky breath. She couldn’t mess this up, and if Erich knew about the kiss she’d shared with Rourke, the whole thing would fall apart. Her parents needed the promise of a family lineage in order to stay in the pride, and if Starla couldn’t provide a good match and kittens, all three of them would be kicked out. As rogues, they’d be fair game for the Everglades Pride to hunt down and murder.
Hunting the disgraced was one of the Everglades Pride’s favorite pastimes.
Not that she’d known about it when she first joined. She’d known something was very different about the way the Everglades operated their pride, though. Just a few months after she’d started living with Cynthia and Rob, her new parents, she’d been taken to a pride council meeting where she’d had her betrothal ceremony to Erich. He was twenty-one, and she was eleven.
She hadn’t understood at the time, but he promised to take care of her and condition her for marriage until it was time. In their case, it was taking close to twenty years. The only reason they hadn’t been married yet was that he was still amassing the steep bride price necessary to give to the pride council. Starla was highly desirable because she could shift at will.
Two weeks ago, Erich had finally collected the full amount of money, and as far as Starla was concerned, she’d be sacrificing herself for her parents’ lives. It was worth it, and it was fair. They’d saved her, and now she was saving them.
The shrieks and laughter of her family were a jarring counterpoint to her mood, but she’d been pretending long enough, so she could continue pretending. She slipped a single letter of Rourke’s into her pocket—that last one where he’d said he wasn’t interested in anyone. Squaring her shoulders, she marched downstairs again.
Blake stopped her at the bottom of the stairs. “Bummer Rourke had to go,” he said. “I wonder what his family emergency was.”
Starla frowned at him. Blake could smell a lie as easily as the rest of them, so he was pretending to believe Rourke’s story in order to be nice.
He was pitying her.
“I guess we both grew up,” she said, feeling too raw for a charade.
Blake pulled her into a hug. “Tell me what’s going on, sis.”
“The truth of it is, I’m getting married.” She pasted a big smile on her face.
“Congratulations!” Blake hugged her again. Pulling back, he said, “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”
She kept the unnatural smile on her face. “There wasn’t a right time. But I should announce it now, before I go, huh?”
“Hell yes!” He practically dragged her out to the patio. “Announcement, everybody! Ding ding ding!”
Everyone’s gaze immediately went to Hera’s middle.
“Oh, no,” Hera said with a laugh. “We’re not ready for that again so soon!”
“Starla has something to share,” Blake said.
The words felt like they were sticking in her throat, but Starla forced them out. “I’m getting married.”
Congratulations and que
stions rained down on her as they asked all about her fiancé and the date of the wedding, and whether they were invited. Shit. She hadn’t thought of that detail. Of course she had to invite her brothers and sisters and their families. Erich wouldn’t like it, but maybe she could appeal to the other Elders.
“He’s well-respected in the pride,” she said, leaving out the part that he was unable to shift into his lion form, “and he runs a matchmaking business.”
“Ooh,” someone said, “so he’s well-versed in the art of wooing.”
Starla smiled. She would hardly call his constant texts “wooing,” but maybe they’d work for someone.
A bottle of champagne was found, and Gabriel opened it while they all offered toasts to Starla and her marriage and looked up the cost of flights to Florida. Because, naturally, they all wanted to attend the wedding. They expected to be invited.
She smiled so hard she thought her face would crack in two and everyone would see the sorrow beneath.
Of course they assumed she was in love with her fiancé, because all of them were mated to the loves of their lives. Nobody would ever actually come out and ask how she felt about Erich.
The old Starla would have called an end to this ridiculous scene and confessed everything, but the old Starla died nearly twenty years ago when she thought she’d started a fire that killed her family.
That memory was upon her again, the false one of the burning house, Starla’s fingers singed from the matches she’d been lighting. The screams of her family, her struggles to help get them out of the house, but everyone was trapped and she was alone outside.
Her breathing grew ragged, and the party around her melted into a black pool in front of her—a pool of black fire and gray ashes—and she searched for a way out. She patted her clothes, trying to keep the fire off of her, and her fingers found a piece of paper. A single letter in her pocket. She touched it. Ran her fingers over the slightly curled corners.
The panting breaths lengthened, and the party around her grew clear again. Miranda had noticed Starla’s panic attack, or whatever it had been, and was instantly by her side. “Are you okay?”
“I am now,” Starla said. “Thank you. I think the champagne went to my head.”
She felt like the lowest of the low, lying to a human who couldn’t tell the difference, but she was relieved at the same time. It was exhausting, everyone knowing everyone’s business.
Miranda grimaced. “Happens to me sometimes, too. Do you want to go lie down?”
“Yeah, I think so. Thanks. Will you make my excuses?”
“Of course.”
On shaky legs, Starla walked upstairs. She pulled the letter from her pocket and held it close to her chest.
*
Hours later, darkness had fallen. Rourke’s scent enveloped her. He’d kissed her, here, in her bedroom, and everything had at once changed and remained the same.
Going to bed early had been a bad idea, because now she felt awake and sleepy at the same time. Usually that was when the fire memories hit her the hardest.
Fake memories, she reminded herself.
The house was silent, even though it was only ten. Everyone had gone to sleep early. She allowed herself to think about Rourke, his broad shoulders, the way she had fit into his embrace like he’d been sculpted around her form. It felt like they were created for each other.
She flipped onto her back, restless and uncomfortable. Her flight was in two days. Rourke’s scent was in this room, though, and she hated the thought of leaving it behind.
Absently, she trailed a hand over her stomach. That kiss. That kiss had awakened things inside her, and her touches grew less absent, more insistent. For the first time, she really wanted someone. She felt desire for Rourke, and it was the rawest, fiercest feeling she’d ever had.
She slid a hand into her pajama shorts. Her face and body felt hot, but this felt necessary. Sure, she’d touched herself down there before, many times, but nothing had been enough to deliver her to that place everyone talked about. She couldn’t resist trying, though, especially with the memory of Rourke’s arms around her, his tongue dipping into her mouth, his scent still curling around the room.
Something crested within her. She was nearly there—this time it would happen, as her finger drew delicate circles and the wetness she felt there increased—
Her phone chimed.
No, she thought. No. This was not acceptable. But she dragged her hand out of her shorts and through the sheets before picking up her phone.
The text was from Erich. Of course.
Working late. Are you asleep?
She could pretend she was asleep, but it wouldn’t matter. He’d keep texting until she woke up, no matter that it was after midnight where he was. He’d stay awake and keep texting to spite her.
I’m awake now
She’d pressed the “send” button too soon. Shit.
Erich’s response was immediate. You forgot the period. You know how I abhor abbreviations and inaccuracies in text messages.
Sorry. It was a mistake.
Be better next time, he wrote back. I have some ideas on the wedding, and on our house. Everything must be perfect. Tell me you’re not eating too much, because I’m going to ask for your dress to be taken in.
I’m not eating too much, she wrote.
You better be telling the truth. I don’t want to have to come out there.
The very thought made her nauseous and not ever want to eat again. Under no circumstances could he ever meet her family—she’d have to find a way to keep them from coming to the wedding. They’d see through this entire thing and try to stop her. I’m eating just enough, and I’m coming back to Florida in two days. Thank you.
I don’t like your tone. Don’t make me regret this wedding.
I’m sorry.
Her screen was ominously blank.
She needed to remember gratitude. Apologies. The Elders had coached her, and Erich had, too. A successful marriage relied on the woman’s gratitude and apologies, and her parents relied on her successful marriage.
But her parents thought she should stay here, in California. They’d said as much. She hadn’t considered it, because she was committed to seeing the marriage through and securing their place in the pride.
Now, though, Rourke was here. He’d kissed her in that way and said it was the kiss of his lifetime.
Her parents’ lives were at stake. This shouldn’t even be a question in her mind. She had thought she’d killed her birth family—she wasn’t going to be responsible for the real deaths of her adoptive parents.
Besides, Rourke was already gone.
In two days she would leave, as planned.
It would be different from the last time she left. The house burning behind her, the screams of her brothers and sisters. Lynn, her parents’ friend, helping her into a car, reassuring her that everything would be all right and she could forget her old life, start anew. But all she could think about was how she’d started the fire, how she’d been the one to kill her family…
This house smelled like the phantom smoke of false memories.
She needed to clear her head.
One last walk around the property, one last run as a lion here in the Sierra Pride territory. And maybe, if she closed her eyes, she could imagine Rourke running as a wolf at her side.
Chapter Eight
Rourke was still in the Sierra Pride territory. This was allowed, as the Pacific Coast Pack and the Sierra Pride had long ago exchanged roaming rights. He was off the Fournier property, though, because lingering without their knowledge would have been considered rude.
Walking the periphery might also be rude, but he somehow couldn’t go any farther. Every time he tried to take another step, his wolf felt like it was tearing him up inside.
Shit, someone was coming. He needed to get the hell out of here before Blake or Gabriel showed up to question him. He curled his hands into fists and forced himself to take a step back, away from
the property line.
Another step. His human was in control. He could do this.
Whoever was approaching was in lion form. Something in the air made him pause. The approaching lion didn’t have to be Gabriel or Blake—it could be any of them. It could be Starla.
No, Starla would be even worse. His heart felt shredded enough already.
The lion stepped closer, and he caught her scent.
Bollocks. Of course it was Starla.
She noticed him at the same time he figured out it was her, and she froze.
He sighed. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I’ll head out.”
Turning on his heel, he rushed back in the direction of his truck. This was so stupid. It had been stupid to come here, and Amelia could forget her smug “I told you so” because for once, Rourke’s instincts had been right—he should have kept far away from this place, kept far away from Starla. The second he knew she was alive and realized she hadn’t contacted him, that was when he knew he should leave the past where it belonged. In the past.
The mountain lion was quiet, but his hearing was sharp. She ran in front of him and stopped in his path.
He let out a breath of exasperation. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t be here now, and I shouldn’t have come to the party. I shouldn’t have kissed you. This was all one big fucking mistake.”
Starla shook her head and nudged up against him, marking him with her cheekbones, purring. He let his hand trail through her thick fur. Shimmering next to him, the lion became a woman who quickly stood up from the all-fours position she’d been in when she shifted.
“I’m glad you came.” Starla’s voice was thick with emotion. She tried to hide herself with her hands, as if she didn’t want him to see her.
“Nudity is no big deal.” Dammit; she would hear his lie. Her breasts were a huge deal. He was glad he had clothes on, otherwise she’d see his stiffening cock. Clearing his throat, he said, “What are you doing out here?”
