I’ve only ever envied one other woman, and I hated her unreasonably. But you…I hate you in the best possible way, because I’ve never wanted to be anyone so much in all my life. And you’ve given me a day.
It’s a gift I can never possibly repay, so instead, I hope you take a minute to do things just for you. No matter the consequences. No matter the cost. Do things just because it makes you happy, and to hell with everyone else for just a minute.
Then maybe, just perhaps, I can feel like I’ve given you the only thing I had that was better than you. Because you’re a soft bitch like that, just so you know.
Deuces, my favorite-ever person.
Hate you always and forever,
Anna.
PS—when in doubt, ask “What would Anna do?”
I crumple the paper in my hand as I struggle to catch my breath and swallow back the emotion. I pull it back to throw it in the fire, and change directions at the last second, hitting the wall with it instead, as I hiccup out a sob.
Whispering to nothing, I laugh a little bitterly as I let my head thump back against the wall, sitting on the floor. “I hate you too.”
Something thumps overhead, and I bounce to my feet as my heartbeat thuds in my chest. I didn’t lock those windows yet.
Batting away my tears, I silently chant the salt dance song as the remains of Anna skitter across the floor, slipping into the metallic red urn she picked out.
All the while, I carefully slip up the stairs, reaching for the shotgun I have there. When my fingers just brush the wall over and over, I finally dart a glance over, finding my shotgun gone.
A door swings open from the second floor, and I look up to see a familiar face and a knowing, unimpressed look.
“I’ve spent the day patching that hole in the roof, and decided to retire the shotgun, since your idea of handling that situation was to duct-tape a sheet of plastic over it.”
“It kept out the snow,” I say as if on autopilot, blinking at my father standing before me like it’s perfectly normal and we see each other daily.
He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head in disapproval. “Your house was like a block of ice. It took me hours just to get through the snow in town, or I’d have been here last night. Are you staying in a hotel or something?”
I blink again, still trying to process.
“No. I was…at a friend’s house for most of the evening. I’m sorry, but did I know you were coming?” I ask him, confused.
“No, but I figured I’d come inspect your new home, since you missed yesterday’s call. Then realized I needed to patch the hole before inspecting the home,” he goes on. “That wall in the bedroom is going to take me a day or two to fully repair, and then I’ll have to paint the room. Did it come like that?”
I think that’s more words than he’s used in our past three conversations combined.
“Hi, Dad,” I finally say, laughing under my breath.
His look softens, and he clears his throat. “Hey, kid. You don’t look so hot.”
“A friend of mine just sort of…left town,” I tell him, smiling tightly.
He nods like he gets it, and we both just stand awkwardly.
“So…I see you’re still trying to make your own clothes,” he finally says, and I glance down, reminded I’m inconveniently wearing my walk-of-shame outfit in front of my father—who’ve I’ve not seen in at least eight months—and am in desperate need of a post-sex shower. “Shouldn’t you have worn a jacket?” he adds.
“I left it in the car,” I answer without missing a beat. “Do you want tea?” I go on, making this even more awkward.
Normally, I’d love to have a visit from my father. Any other single day of the year.
This day? Not so much.
“Tea works,” he tells me, and I turn and start back down the stairs in Vance Van Helsing’s sheet-turned-terrible-toga to make my father tea.
I hope he doesn’t know I’ve been naked in a bed with two men today, one of whom I’ve mauled, and well…two of whom I’ve mauled in different ways. I can currently only really remember the one because a vampire alpha made me forget…
I blame Anna for this.
Now my heart hurts, and I can’t cry in front of him, so I keep my back turned to focus on the tea and try my best not to think about all my shit-storm gypsy stuff when we reach the kitchen.
“Smells like you’ve been brewing more than tea in here,” he states with a hint of dissatisfaction.
“I was trying to help out a friend,” I tell him.
“Why’d you miss Tuesday’s call?”
“What day is it?” Trying to talk to him and remember what I’m doing is getting a little hard to do, since my mind isn’t fully here as it is.
“Wednesday,” he says slowly, as if he’s worried about me.
I feel like I’ve missed a day. Maybe two?
“You called about that gypsy song, but I reminded you about Tuesday’s call because I was busy. Why’d you ask about the song?”
“What song?” I ask, really confused right now.
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Never mind. Do you need help with the tea?”
“No, I’ve got—”
“I’ll be back in a second. I have a call to take,” he says, looking down at his phone before he abruptly walks off.
Annnnd now it feels normal again. Fortunately, I really need normal right now, because a second alone would be great.
Tugging the toga tighter into place, I abandon the tea and pull on my boots over my cold, damp feet. Then I stalk right to Damien’s beautiful vehicle, swing open the doors, grab the keys, and glare.
Anna wanted me to do something just for me? To hell with everyone else and the consequences? Right now, I could seriously use some me-time in a really satisfying way.
Chapter 7
DAMIEN
“You were the one who baited me into being seduced by her,” I argue, gesturing at him.
“Are we still talking about Violet or about another girl?” Vance drawls, pretending to ‘trip’ over a stool that he actually punts into the only remaining mirror in my bedroom.
“These mirrors provided a spectacular view earlier. She either once saw me and is now faking it, since she’s clearly a crafty gypsy, or Arion has someone who has the ability to make people see through my illusions. Which sounds more likely?” I reasonably point out.
“She will hear you,” he says in a chastising tone.
“For fuck’s sake, she stole my car ages ago.”
He glances out the window, his lips twitching as he looks down.
“Well, that means she’s racing home to lock her windows and doors, possibly nail the things shut,” he quips.
I hesitate, wondering if I should end this maddening argument when I’m so close to winning, or if I should hurry over there before it’s too late to save myself a window or two.
I point a finger at him. “This isn’t over,” I warn as I start walking out. “I’m right. You’re the one who fucked up this time, and I’m not the one in the wrong. For once in our fucking lives, I’m right and you’re positively wrong, and there’s no real argument to the contrary.”
He narrows his eyes. “If you think she’s deliberately fucking with us, why are you in a hurry to get over there?”
I grin. “Because I positively love that in a woman.”
I turn and hurry out, and I decide to steal one of his cars—but the damn horns start blaring, and alarms start wailing, so I end up cursing and flipping him off when I see his silhouette above.
“Get the fuck out of my house before I get back, or you’ll be in breach of contract,” I call up to him.
Then I drape myself in illusion and sprint to Violet’s. My run turns into a slow jog, as I eye the work truck in her driveway with the Louisiana plate.
My brow furrows when I glance over at my vehicle, and I groan when I see all the streaks of paint missing down the sides of it. She keyed my fucking car?
I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t anticipate that.
Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I turn and walk toward one window, and pause when I see a short, stocky, slightly balding, middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard to match the color of what very little hair he has left.
Violet is sitting across from him, still—for whatever reason—wearing Vance’s sheet, and drinking what appears to be tea.
Sure.