Page 10 of Claiming the Shifter's Heart

She stood off to the side, a smile on her face at the festive lights and décor the staff had managed to put up in the barn during their breaks today.

Christmas carols were blasting from a couple of speakers and someone’s cell phone, and the mock dance floor they’d set up was getting a helluva workout.

She grinned like a loon, watching the younger staff members show up all the adults with their social media reel worthy moves.

“Wanna try it out?” a voice said beside her, and she gasped as she spun and came face to face with Kris.

“Um, I’m not a real good dancer,” she said, and felt her cheek grow hot.

“Me either. Let’s do it anyway,” he urged gently, offering his hand.

Her insides warmed. It was a slow, steady heat that spread through her chest and up to her face.

Kris was nothing like the men she’d known in the past. He wasn’t pushy or demanding. He didn’t rush her, didn’t pressure her. Certainly didn’t rage at her for taking a moment.

No. He simply asked for her consent, and then he waited—patiently, respectfully—while she made up her own mind.

That was something she wasn’t used to. Something that felt like a breath of fresh air.

It meant more to her than she could say. The fact that Kris trusted her enough to let her decide—to allow her to take her time.Oh, this man stirred something deep inside of her.

He made her feel strong.

Powerful.

Capable.

Too many times in the past few weeks, Della had felt like she was walking on glass. Surrounded by fake smiles and sympathetic eyes.

People always seemed to think they knew best. But they often overstepped. Like they tried to take over or told her how she should feel about it the second they knew her situation.

Then they’d get weird and start hiding stuff from her. Like they thought one wrong move would shatter her into a million tiny pieces. And she hated it.

Della hated the way some folks tiptoed around her, never treating her like an adult. Like they thought her weak for what she’d been through, or even worse, culpable.

Couldn’t they see? She was the only one who got her and her kids out of that bad situation. No one helped or stepped in.

Not her estranged family.

Not the rest of the Murder.

But Della was fine. She could manage her own choices. The people of Maccon City had been great, truly. But some of them were still so—so careful around her.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t appreciate their concern, but it felt suffocating. Worse, it felt patronizing.

Everyone seemed to expect her to just crack. They thought she would just fall apart at the slightest provocation.

And they didn’t just expect her to break not teeny, tiny little things. They expected those pieces to float away, to disappear into nothingness as though she wasn’t strong or worthy enough of keeping herself together.

Oh, they tried to hide it. They thought Della couldn’t see the pity in their eyes. The way they allowed an exchange of hellos at the daycare drop off to linger a little too long, as if they were waiting for her to collapse.

But she knew. She saw it on their faces every damn time.

The doubt.

The concern.

The silent but ever present judgment.

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