Page 60 of Ruthless Moon

Rachel’s living room is a delightful blend of her vibrant personality and what seems like centuries of accumulated knowledge. Bold colors—especially the rich purple walls—serve as the backdrop to rustic wooden bookshelves, overloaded with more than just books. Old leather-bound grimoires mingle with modern gardening manuals, hinting at an interest in herbology. Which makes a lot of sense now that I know Rachel is a witch. Dried herbs hang from the ceiling in a corner, alongside bundles of white sage and braids of sweetgrass. The strong scents of lavender and another herb I can’t identify tickle my nose.

“Rachel, this is...surreal, but in a fantastic way. It’s so you,” I say, caught in a whirlwind of fascination.

She offers a wistful smile. “Thanks. I know it’s weird you’ve never been up here before, but there would’ve been questions I wasn’t ready to answer.”

“It’s like an ancient apothecary met a punk-rock goth. It’s perfect. And yes, I agree. I would’ve had many questions.”

My gaze floats around the room, taking in the trinkets and crystals, their facets catching the sunlight streaming in through the window and refracting it into a myriad of dancing colors.

Below the window, an array of potted plants thrive. I recognize the aloe vera, but the others are a mystery to me. Nearby, a mortar and pestle sit next to fresh plant cuttings. My eyes follow the trail of unfamiliar herbs, leading me to the heart of the apartment.

In front of the stove stands a tall, elegant redhead, her long hair cascading like a fiery waterfall down her back. I squint, taking a second to register the face that accompanies the mane.

Emma Banfield—Meredith’s daughter.

I blink, surprise catching me by the throat.

My mind goes into overdrive. Why the hell is Finn’s mate here? The woman is practically a stranger to me, our interactions limited to curt nods and half-hearted attempts at weather chitchat.

I’m about to unleash the storm of questions brewing inside me when Rachel swiftly presses her hand against my mouth, silencing me.

Her eyes are wide and insistent, communicatingstay quiet. I nod, the gears in my brain grinding to a temporary halt.

Rachel drops her hand from my mouth and starts muttering in old Gaelic. The cadence is musical, flowing around me like a magickal fog. I can almost taste the charged energy in the air.

“Cone of silence?” I ask, once her incantation finally ceases.

She snorts out a laugh. “Yes. I had Emma get here way before us so Noah wouldn’t know. And we need privacy for the conversation we’re about to have.”

My gaze drifts back to Emma, who’s now perched against the kitchen counter, her arms defensively crossed. Her frown carves deep lines into her forehead as she scrutinizes me. I stare at the striking green Celtic tattoos encircling her wrists—mate bond marks.

The sight strikes me like a punch to the gut. Confirmation.

Their bond... I’d suspected it, but never had concrete proof. Both of them are always so careful to keep their arms covered, their secrets hidden in shadow. Yet here she is today, the marks of her and my brother’s unity in plain sight.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “What’s going on?” The words stumble out of me. “I thought we were drinking today, Rachel. I want to drown my feelings in alcohol.” My voice pitches into a whine as I navigate through the apartment to the kitchen, feeling the weight of uncertainty press on me.

“She’s right,” Emma adds, her attention back on the sizzling pan of bacon. “We really should have alcohol before we tackle this discussion.”

I snatch a glance at her over the refrigerator door, frustration prickling at my insides and inciting a spark of fury. How dare sheagreewith me? “What’s going on? Why the hell are you here, Emma? You’ve barely spoken two words to me since...well, ever!”

Emma doesn’t look at me. Just keeps poking the bacon with her tongs. But her feelings are so loud they’re hitting me like a nuclear wave of radiation.

Fear...My wolf knows the smell intimately—bitter and acidic.

I grab the bottle of champagne from Rachel’s fridge and take it to the table. Popping the cork off with a soft hiss, I pour a meager splash of orange juice into a flute, then drown it in champagne. I empty the glass in a few swallows, the sharp bite of the carbonation tangling with the sweet citrus of the juice, then proceed to refill it.

“Anyone else?” I hold the champagne ready near the other two flutes on the table.

Both women give silent nods, so I fill their glasses and hand them out. I sink deeper into my chair at the table, my grip on my second mimosa tightening.

“All right, Rachel. Spill,” I murmur, barely audible over the chaotic drumming inside my chest.

But Emma speaks first. “First of all, your father is a horrible man. I’m...sorry.” She hesitates, her words punctuated with apprehension.

I don’t make a face or try to stop her in any way. Mostly, I’m surprised she’s even admitting it out loud. I always assumed she didn’t have a hard time because my father doesn’t hate Finn the way he hates me.

“I didn’t reach out to you because... I didn’t know if you were trustworthy. Mom wasn’t sure either.”

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