It makes no sense, but that makes me madder than the rest of it.
I shove the linens down into his trash can as hard as I can. I don’t want to make too many trips.
That’s what I’m doing when I scent Killian in the doorway.
I turn, chin high, ready to tell him to go fuck himself again.
He takes a step forward. He looks at the bare mattress. He looks at me. He glances behind me, down the hall, toward the kitchen. The washing machine is filling up.
Something happens to his face.
It hardens at the same time pain floods his blue eyes.
I’ve seen this expression before. In videos of fights. When he takes a blow that would lay a lesser shifter out, but he keeps his feet.
His nostrils flare. He balls his fists.
I don’t move.
He comes for me.
My wolf yelps and ducks. I don’t move. I let all my hate and hurt and pain and disappointment stream through the bond. He might not care, but he’s gonna know what he’s done.
He puts his hands on my shoulders. I brace myself. Then he gently moves me to the side.
He bends over, fishes a fitted sheet out of the hamper, and sighs. Then he goes to the bed, corner to corner, slipping the elastic on, lifting the mattress to tuck the sides tight.
He comes back to the hamper and grabs a sheet. He squints at it, considers the bed, and then he balls it up and puts it on the right side near the headboard.
It belongs a little further down.
Then he comes for a wool blanket. He folds it and puts it in the middle where I had it.
He goes back to the hamper, over and over, and despite myself, my anger flows out through the bond like sand through an hourglass, and eventually, I run out.
I can’t help but watch. He leaves for a minute and comes back with the bundle that didn’t fit in the washing machine. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at me while he remakes my nest.
Everything is more or less in the correct general area, but it’s also all wrong. Like a painting by Picasso.
When he finally finishes, he sits on the edge, forearms braced on his thighs, and bows his head.
“I was wrong,” he says.
I wait for the next part.
Down the hall, the washing machine’s agitator begins swishing. I squeeze my crossed arms tighter to my chest. I can feel the bond now. There’s hurt and pain and frustration and fear. None of it mine.
“You had no right acting like that.”
“I know.” He meets my eyes.
He knows I can feel what he feels.
His grasp of the bond is so much stronger than mine, and it’s unfair. All of this is unfair. I want my anger back. I want him to be the bad guy who fucked up beyond redemption.
‘Cause then I don’t have to forgive him.
And I’ll never get my heart ripped out again.
“I’m not a thing. I’m not ruined ‘cause I’ve been used.” My voice wobbles.
“I know that.” The bond flares, ugly and jagged. I hope he gets mad. I want him to stand and flex. Spout off like I’ve seen him do with his males a hundred times. I want his wolf to snarl.
But he just sits there in my shabbily repaired nest, gazing steadily up at me, and I realize something so big, my arms fall to my sides, and I blink in wonder.
To him, I am perfect. The most important thing in the world.
I do have his heart in my hands.
We’re both not safe.
Or only as safe as the other will keep us.
Killian frowns, sitting taller, scanning the room. “Why are you scared?”
I could lie.
I could refuse to answer.
I could turn my back on this thing between us.
But although I’ve been weak before, I’ve never been a coward.
“You could hurt me again.”
He rises to his feet, and I can see him searching for words. I can feel it, along with the pain and the hope and the guilt and the soaring, swooping, bright thing I can’t name.
And then there’s a boom, and a scream echoes from the hill.
Killian bolts from the room, making a beeline for the front. His phone is at his ear. He’s barking orders as he throws open the door, and above us, just below the ridge, a huge fire lights up the night. It’s my cabin.
My girls.
I run, but Killian’s got me around the waist, hauling me toward him. I fight. The phone falls and cracks. He drags me back into the house.
“Let me go.”
“Stop.” He pins me to the wall, grabs my chin. Over his shoulder, I see flames lick into the black sky. There are shouts. More screams. Mari.
“We have to go.”
“Listen.” His voice is so deep with alpha command, it rumbles. “You have to stay here.”
“No.”
“Listen!” He tightens his grip. “If you go, I’ll be worried about keeping you safe. I won’t be able to do what I have to do. Protect the pack. You have to stay here. Please, Una.” He kisses my forehead, over and over. “Please.”
An alarm sounds from the commons. Declan Kelly’s voice rings out from the grave. Emergency. All females and pups report to the lodge. All males to stations.
“Una, please.” Killian’s eyes are wild. There’s a pop, then a bang, and then the roof crashes down in flames.
“Go!”
He shifts as he sprints, bounding down the steps and up the path, disappearing in the dark and the smoke. There are shouts and howls, but no more screams. I pace the porch, straining to see more. Ivo and Gael rush past with bunker gear. I force myself not to call out and delay them.
Mari, Annie, and Kennedy are fine. They have to be. Their wolves are strong and quick.
I squeeze the railing, my claws splintering the wood.
Killian will do whatever needs to be done.
I expect comfort, and fear slaps me in the face. I can’t stay here, no matter what I promised. I can’t let him go.
I make for the steps, but as I do, a familiar husky voice calls from behind the cabin. “Una! Come here.”
“Fallon.” I rush toward him. “Are you hurt?”
“Come quick.”
He sounds like there’s something very wrong. I round the back, and out of the smoke, three ATVs roar up. Fallon. Alfie. And Lochlan Byrne.
15
UNA
My body hits the rock wall at force. Mari screams. Annie clutches Kennedy’s black coat, using her whole weight to hold the wolf back. There are too many—he can’t take them all. I stagger back to my feet, limp forward until I’m back in front of my girls.
My heart thuds, panic momentarily deafening me. I can’t show fear.
I’m surrounded by wolves and males. The males are ours. The wolves aren’t. They’re huge and shaggy and yellow-eyed. There’s only one of their kind in human form. He looks like a castaway. His long hair is matted, and there are claws jutting from his mud-encrusted hands and feet. I can’t make out his features behind his tangled brown beard, but I can see his fangs.
I’ve never seen one, but I have no doubt they’re Last Pack. On our land.
Terror skitters up my spine, but I stay stock still. If I show fear, they’ll attack. The air is thick with aggression.
Eamon sneers down at me. “Tell the freak of nature to shift back, Alpha.” The word drips with scorn.