Page 88 of A Bloom in Winter

Apex poked it a couple of times, making sure the base kept the top stable. Then he just stared over his shoulder.

Callum rose and walked forward, the pain in his ankle nothing but an echo. Standing in front of the hearth, standing . . . next to the male who had been with him all these years, just as that female had as well . . . he became sad to the point of tears.

The two had become what he and his wolf were. Separate, yet trapped together. Inseparable, even though unalike.

Apex was nothing like that malevolent bitch.

Abruptly, Callum thought of his other side—and how much he had worried for its suffering, too. He had tried, back in the beginning, to just let the wolf part of him take over. Surely, if all he was was the background consciousness of that predator,it would be easier because the abuse had been done to another body.

The trauma had been a poison, however, infecting them both.

Just like it had gone toxic for Apex, too.

“You’re allowed to let the past go,” the vampire said on a rasp. “It’s all right.”

Callum stared into the flames, and fell into the struggle that was starting to feel familiar: He wanted to move on, but couldn’t fight the emotions, the fear, the memories, that kept him prisoner.

At leastwantingto move on was a new thing. A good thing.

And he had Apex to thank for it.

“But like burning a shirt will really make a difference?” he heard himself say.

“So then just toast it because it takes up space in your suitcase.” Apex shrugged. “If there’s a larger meaning, let it come to you later. Or not at all. But you may as well start here—”

Callum’s hand flicked forward, and justlikethat, the shirt went into the hearth. There was a split second of a pause, and then came a bright flare. As the flames licked even higher, he could have sworn he saw the female’s face in them, the precise composition of her features dulled by time, the impact of his brain’s conjuring them immediate as his heart rate tripled.

And then . . .

It was gone.

The shirt and the vision.

Wiping his face with his palm, his eyesight got wavy. And wavier. And—

He started crying. Not in a discreet way, not in a manly fashion where most of the shit was kept in. He wept. Openly. Until his eyes and his lungs burned, and his throat was raw, and his brain finally went quiet.

And as the emotion was let out, he felt himself cradled in strong arms, pulled up against a solid chest. Like a young, he was gently rocked, as a broad hand stroked his back.

In the midst of his storm, he was sheltered by the male who had always been with him, even if they hadn’t been side by side.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Right before the aristocrat was brought into the Audience Room, Tohr positioned himself behind Wrath. Not too close, because that would be inappropriate. But he wanted to make things perfectly clear to Whestmorel as soon as the male came in. Wrath was the King, and there was muscle all around the throne.

And after Qhuinn and V were in position in the other corners, he texted Saxton to bring the male in.

“Time to go back to work,” Wrath said as he put George down at his feet.

While the golden got settled, tucking his tail in, laying his blond muzzle on his master’s shitkicker, Saxton knocked once—and after Wrath barked an “enter,” the door was opened and the solicitor stepped aside so that the interloper could pass through first.

Staring over Wrath’s shoulder, Tohr gritted his molars. He had a short temper with people who demanded special treatment, as if the fact that the guy was living and breathing was enough to velvet-rope the whole world.

But then there was his reason for coming.

“My Lord,” Whestmorel said as he inclined his head.

Tohr glanced at a low growl that percolated up. Qhuinn’s upper lip was peeled off his fangs, the brother’s blue and green peepers narrowed into slits.

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