Chapter 68
Yet before I beat my brother, my Mother’s voice grows closer, laced with authority and the saccharine sweetness reserved for wedding talk. “Has anyone seen Soren?” she asks one of the passing staff. She dives into a conversation with them about the wedding, her words clawing at the air, reaching out for me.
“God knows who she’s enlisted now,” I mutter under my breath.
“Have fun,” Damian’s laughter needles at my back. The desire to turn around and wipe that smug look off his face is almost overwhelming–but I know better. I dart away, leaving him
behind.
I race towards the staircase, each step taking me further from the dreaded wedding plans. My mother’s voice swells, tugging at the edges of my sanity. “…and the linens, they simply must match the drapery!”
Panic, sharp and acrid, fills my throat. She’s getting closer, probably armed with fabric samples and more scratch and sniff floral catalogs, where she got those overnight is beyond me. I bolt for the stairs, skipping two at a time, praying for a few moments of peace. The cool relief of escape washes over me briefly–until Damian’s traitorous timbre reaches my ears
once more.
“I just saw him head upstairs, Mother. He told me to tell you he was getting some more catalogs, he has an idea for the reception.” His words drip with feigned innocence. I’m going
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to strangle the life from him and hang him by his tail when I see him next!
Noticing a door ahead, I lunge for the handle, yanking it open only to find shelves lined with sheets and towels–a linen closet. No time to curse my luck; another door, just a few desperate strides away, opens to reveal mops and buckets, the tang of bleach, and a cleaner’s cupboard. Useless.
Her steps echo on the stairwell, a steady march toward me. I can’t let her find me, not now when every fiber of my being screams to keep running. There’s only one place left which is also the most obvious, the last place in this game of hide and seek, my room.
I slip through the door, heart hammering against my rib cage, and press my back to its solid comfort. Safe, for the moment.
“Please, just keep walking…” I whisper to the empty air, to the walls, to any deity that might be listening. They aren’t fucking listening.
Damian’s voice, sharp and betraying, slices through the silence. “I think I saw him head towards his room!” he
broadcasts with that smug tone I know too well. He might as well be handing me over on a silver platter.
The click–clack of my mother’s heels is like a countdown to my doom, each step another tick on the clock of my waning sanity. I’m one scratch and sniff away from losing my sense of smell. With panic nipping at my heels, I rush into the closet, hands frantically searching the hanging clothes for a hideout, where is an invisibility cloak when I need one, anything.
Crap! I think when I hear the shower running, mom won’t walk in on her showering, but I bloody damn will to escape her! I
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rush into the bathroom, and burst through the door, heart thundering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape the cage of my chest. The shower tiles are slick beneath my feet as I nearly slide into Bree, who’s just a silhouette behind the fogged–up frosted glass.
“Hide me!” I blurt like an idiot.
“Soren!” she shrieks, her voice climbing an octave before my hand lands over her mouth, silencing her mid–scream. I shut the shower door, ignoring the way the water lashes at my clothes, plastering them to my skin.
“Shh,” I hiss, barely audible above the drumming of water on the tile. “It’s just me.”
Water cascades down, masking our frantic breaths as the droplets pelt my already drenched shirt. The tension coils in my chest, a spring wound too tight, ready to snap. “If she asks, I am not here!” I hiss at Bree, my voice barely above the
rush of water.
Her gaze locks onto mine, confusion and a hint of irritation flickering across her features. “If who asks?” Her question pierces the steamy haze of the bathroom, and suddenly, I’m acutely aware of the heat–not from the shower but from her, so close and startlingly bare.
Instinctively, my eyes drop, tracing the rivulets that run over her skin, mapping a path along her curves. It’s a moment suspended in time, the primal part of me awakened by her vulnerability, my Lycan side stirs by her proximity. Bree’s fingers are ice and fire against my jaw, forcing my gaze back to hers. “Soren!” she snaps, frustration etched in every line of her face. “Who?”
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“My mother!”
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“You’re hiding from your mother in my damn shower!” She shrieks and I try to hush her, holding a finger to my lips. “You can’t hide in here!” I slap a hand over her mouth, hearing the bedroom open.
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