Page 32 of Rejected Exile

I swallow, the sting of an old memory lashing at me. This wound used to be the only one inside me, the one that festered in my core, until the rejection.

Considering my words, I tell Cat, "My mother loved me, I'm sure of it. But she didn't really seem to...bondwith me. At least that's how my dad explained it. The pregnancy was tough for her."

"How so?"

"I don't know," I admit. "He says she burned every photo taken of her while she was pregnant so she wouldn't have to remember it. Then, after I was brought home, she never bonded—probably postpartum depression, though as far as I know she was never diagnosed. Apparently, my dad had to hire a human nanny to raise me on formula."

"Oh." Cat's brows rise. "That's... I'm so sorry, Lilah. I had no idea."

"Yeah, well, I guess that's one reason why I'm able to call you 'Mom,' since I never called anyone else that," I tell her, bumping my shoulder against her. "My mom always insisted I called her Laura. She was funny like that. Even my stepmother had me call her Mom, and I was too old to want to. But Laura was... she was different."

"Well, you turned out great, if you ask me," Cat says, squeezing my shoulder as she searches for a way to change the subject. "Should we move this thing somewhere better?"

"Let's do it on three."

"One, two.."

"Three!"

Together we grab the bookshelf and slide it over. Once it's done, I grab a rag to dust everything off with, and Cat carefully puts the photographs back. Glancing at them, I spot a few others of long-ago times that bring up memories of a childhood full of light and warmth, despite my mother's death, or maybe because of it.

Once she was gone my father and I bonded like two peas in a pod. We shared the same grief, but we also had space for something new without her, a life without the kind of rules an overbearing mother insists on. He let me eat ice cream for breakfast on Saturdays, taught me how to skin a rabbit and clean a fish, and he was there for me for every moment of my life—until he wasn't.

Cat's words from this morning echo through my mind. She thinks my father had to have a reason for everything he did—that there must be an explanation, both for the chip and for my banishment. Maybe she and Lance are right; maybe he wanted to keep me safe from the curse. But if that's true, it makes no sense—because surely he would've just told me, and not thrown me to the wild like I was nothing.

Unless there's something else he had to keep me safe from. A secret brimming beneath the surface of our little world, one that would destroy everything. I shake the dark thought off as soon as it crosses my mind—there can't be a good justification for what my father did. I may have had a good childhood, but the day that ended, it nearly broke me. I just have to accept that the father who filled my early life with such warmth is also the same one who cast me out. There's nothing else to it.

Grabbing the dust cloth and a step stool, I busy myself in the corners of the rooms, gathering a few cobwebs. Cat declares that she's going to fix a few issues with the pipes in the guest bathroom.

"Wait for the hardware delivery," I call out to her, twisting around on the step stool. "It'll be here later today."

"There's plenty to do before it arrives. Like clean the clog out of this p-trap."

"Suit yourself. But I bet assoonas you're done, the order will arrive, and we'll have to replace the whole thing."

As if my words were some kind of premonition, the end of my sentence is punctuated by the ring of the doorbell chime. Jumping off the stool, I set my cleaning supplies down, pull my messy hair behind my head, and do a quick face check in the hallway mirror.

There's a smudge of dust on my cheek that I wipe away, but other than that—well, I look about as okay as can be expected, given the night I had. Nothing about my dark circles or dry skin can be fixed before I make it to the front door, so I just resign myself to looking messy. The delivery man won't mind.

The doorbell rings again. "Coming!" I hop to it, spotting a silhouette in the leaded glass window beside the door. "Just a sec."

Grabbing the knob, I twist it and fling wide the door, expecting to see a balding middle-aged man with a few boxes and a checklist—normally Herb delivers from the local hardware store—but instead I come face-to-face with my own personal nightmare.

Lance is standing on one side of the door, looking impeccably handsome, absolutely unruffled, and somehow taller than I remember.

He's not the only one, though. Every hottie from yesterday has made it their personal mission to stand on my front porch with a ladder or a package of pipe repair material under their arm.

Roarke is leaning up against the busted porch railing, his summer blond hair rimmed by the late morning light, that muscular frame and soft face making him look like some kind of angelic Adonis.

And Finn is on the other side of the porch, raising an eyebrow in my direction, a bucket in one of his hands and a toolbox in the other. Somehow he wears the casual clothing of a working man with the same poise he wore his button-up silk shirt; his tan slacks are pressed, leather boots supple, and the white T-shirt he wears only accentuates his brown skin and corded muscles.

My only saving grace is that Kieran is nowhere in sight. If he were, I'd probably sink through the floor and into the earth. It would be my only choice other than death.

Helplessly looking up into Lance's honey brown eyes, I stammer, "Wh-where is Herb?"

"The old man needs to retire," Finn calls out, answering for Lance, who shoots him an annoyed look. "He nearly broke his back at his last house call. So do-gooder Lance over here signed us up to help him out."

Lance makes atsknoise in Finn's direction, then glances back at me. I swear a thousand butterflies grow in my stomach the instant he meets my eyes. "You put in a work order to have some repairs done around the house, along with getting the supplies delivered, correct?"

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