Page 97 of Roaring Flames

Is it possible that she…knows?

Questions rise on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t dare ask them. She’s obviously in a fragile state, and I’m not sure what her limits are. To be completely honest, I’m not even sure I should be here. She tried to attack me, not once but twice.

“You called my friend Delaney.” Ansel kneels before his mother and places his hands on her knees. She looks so much smaller than him. So fragile. “Why?”

“Ansel, you don’t need to do this,” I say softly.

Ansel ignores me. “Who’s Delaney, Mom?”

Mrs. Harthorne slowly tilts her face in my direction. Those vacant eyes roam over me without ever sticking for longer than a second. Her tongue snakes out to lick her dry upper lip.

“You… You look so much like her. But you’re not her, are you? She would be older. Much older.” She rubs at her arms as if to fend off a sudden gust of cold air.

Something occurs to me then, an idea so staggeringly impossible that I feel sick to my stomach, and I stumble forward a step. “Delaney. You don’t mean…? Could this be my mom?”

But no. That’s not possible. My mother’s name, according to Hale and Gerry, is Helena.

“You look so much like her,” Mrs. Harthorne whispers.

She extends her hands as if she means to touch me but drops them back to her lap.

“Is Delaney related to a woman named Helena? Helena…” I swallow the burning ember in my throat. “Helena Craft?”

Mrs. Harthorne keeps her gaze locked on her hands. Her fingers twist together repeatedly, the repetitive action seeming to soothe her.

When she doesn’t respond to my question, Ansel gives her knees a squeeze once more, garnering her attention.

“Who is Delaney, Mom?” he asks again. “Is she related to Helena Craft?”

Gratefulness envelops me instantly. I didn’t tell Ansel—or anyone else for that matter, besides Christian—about what Hale and Gerry told me concerning my birth parents. So for him to ask that question…

A bubbly sensation detonates in my stomach, buoying me up.

“I’m tired.” Mrs. Harthorne pulls away from her son and lies down on the bed, curled on her side. She folds her hands underneath her head. “I’m going to go to sleep.”

“Mom—” Ansel presses, but I grab his hand and shake my head.

It’s obvious that Mrs. Harthorne reached her limit for the day. I don’t want to push her past it, not with how fragile she is.

Ansel bites his lip but nods once in understanding.

As I watch, my heart battering my rib cage, Ansel pulls a blanket up to her chin and then kisses her forehead. The tenderness he exhibits with her…

Goose bumps erupt on my arms.

The four of us file out of her bedroom, an uneasy silence permeating the air. I can tell the twins are fixated on her use of the words “wolves” and “mate.” How did she know? Or was it merely a coincidence—the unhinged ramblings of a crazy woman?

In the living room, Shelby sweeps up the last of the glass.

She glances up when we arrive and shoots Ansel an indecipherable look. “How is she?”

“Sleeping.” Ansel tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “She seemed to have snapped out of it, but…”

“I’ll call her doctor as soon as I’m done cleaning up here.”

“Thank you, Shelby.”

The nurse waves away his praise. “You four should head back to school. Everything will be okay.”

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