Page 41 of Waltzing With Witches

“Why?” Thea’s voice is edged with steel. “She should be in jail.”

Moira turns to my triplet. “I can’t say for sure, but it’s my suspicion that the Keeper living outside the haven system seemed like a slap in the face to her. They’ve never been close, but he was always well regarded before he left to live with the humans.”

“Did you know him then?” Wren asks.

Moira shakes her head. “I didn’t meet him until he began Keeper training.” Her eyes fall, and she ruffles both wings before settling them against her side. After a long, silent moment, her gaze finds me again. “I know his behavior has been off-putting, and you’ve struggled to understand why he is the way he is, Morgan. Keepers need to lack emotion to operate from the logical place they do. And I’m not saying it’s right for him to push you away. I don’t believe he should and we’ve had many conversations about it. But I do think it’s helpful for you to understand where he came from.”

“But he called us here,” Thea says indignantly. “He literally called us with the map.”

“Yes,” Moira says with a fresh shake of her head. She glances back at me. “When your parents died, he raged for weeks on end. He was distraught. Keepers aren’t meant to feel that level of emotion, but he was always more emotional than other Keepers, even after that initial session we just watched. It’s my theory that it’s because he went through the training much later than other monsters do. That, and—”

She looks up at me.

Heartache hits me swift and fast, cutting me to my very core.

“Because our connection was so instant, so strong,” I whisper, looking up at my sisters. “He told me vampire mate bonds cement immediately. So, this whole time, he’s been able to feel my emotions.”

My stomach drops as I sink forward, putting my head in my hands. “I don’t know what to make of all this,” I whisper.

My sisters join me, wrapping me up in a tight hug.

“Give yourself a day or two to process it,” Wren says. “Come stay with Ohken and me, or go to Thea and Shepherd’s. Chill with us while you think this through. You’re right that none of this excuses his behavior, but it’s not like…a normal human situation. I’m all fucked up trying to sort it out myself, to be honest.”

Thea huffs. “I swear to God, I don’t know how that bitch runs Hearth HQ when she’s such a villain. How does she get away with it?”

I look up at Moira. “That’s a good question. How does Evenia get away with all this shit?”

Moira sighs. “The haven system was her idea in the first place. While I agree that her approach leaves a lot to be desired, she’s done wonderful things for monster safety.”

I stand, yanking my hair out of the loose bun. As I retie it, I look at my sisters.

“Raincheck on the food, okay? I need to talk to the Keeper ASAP.”

Thea’s eyes soften, and Wren nods stoically.

“Go get him, girl. And then call us to tell us everything!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

KEEPER

Ipace the kitchen as I mull over what happened with Morgan last night. Truth be told, I’ve been thinking about it nonstop. When I called her, I knew it would come to this—that I’d tell her about our history, and she’d be beyond angry.

She has every right to feel that.

I feel it too now that I’m fully off Moira’s dulling potion: blind, raging fury for the loss of what we could have been. But now? I’m a husk of who I was. She deserves who I was before in my full, joyful glory.

Growling, I rip the fridge door open and grab a beer. It’s early in the day, but my body hums with the need to do something. I could handle the discord between Morgan and me before she was in my damn castle. But having her here, watching the castle fall so quickly in love with her? I’m undone.

My comm watch pings. When I glance down, Betmal’s name hovers above the thin blue strap.

I direct the watch to answer. My father’s silky deep voice echoes through it. Somehow he always manages to sound like he’s in the room with me. He’s the only monster whose voice doesn’t sound tinny through the system. I suspect it’s something to do with his power of influence.

“My son, how are things?”

How are things? I debate how much to tell him. He’s been on the receiving end of my complaints for nearly a century.

“The situation is not ideal,” I mutter.

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