Page 10 of Rejected Exile

So I pull myself together, straighten my shoulders, and wave him away. "You've caught me up. Get back to your search. Whatever my dad has in here, it's yours—just let me know what you take before you take it, so I can make copies."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course."

I force myself up off the sofa, which only brings me closer to him as he springs from the chair. Inhaling sharply, I catch a whiff of his scent: pine needles, fresh snowfall, sharp mint, and the undeniable warm musk of werewolf.

It's enough to make me dizzy. I sway a little, and try to step past Lance to give myself some distance. Instead I stumble forward—and his arms come up, steadying me.

My hands fall against his chest, fingers brushing his warm sweater.

Our eyes collide, and I swear for a moment I see his black pupils dilate. Everything inside me yearns for werewolf senses. If I had them, I would know if he's attracted to me.

That thought is like a bucket of cold water because it reminds me that A) he can totally smell how stupidly I'm crushing on him right now, and B) I'll never be able to have him, not really, not the way a werewolf female would.

Though if there really is a curse that's killed all the Glass Pack females, my mind whispers, that means he doesn't have a mate.

What a terrible thing to think. I force myself away from Lance, stumbling back, hating that I even thought that.

"Sorry," I mumble, shooting past him and out towards the hallway.

"Hey—are you okay? Delilah?"

My name in his mouth just makes me want to melt into the floorboards. He sounds so warm as he says it, so melodic and smooth. Dark desires fill me at the sound, and I want to make him say it again.

"I'm okay!" I barely manage to squeak out a response. "Just, uh, have some errands to do! Look through the files without me."

"Okay."

I glance back to see him hovering near the doorway of the office, his brows drawn slightly together, a small frown on his plush lips. I swear he looks more handsome by the second.

"Well—bye!"

I flee from his eyes, going through the first door I find, and slip to the other side with my heart beating double time. It's so ridiculous; my cheeks are heated, and I feel as giddy as a schoolgirl, but nothing happened. I just got a little clumsy. He did what anyone would do: he held his hands out to catch me before I smacked right into him.

I'm making a fool of myself for nothing. It's not like I'm some preteen girl anymore. I've dated around. I've had sex. Hell, just last week I went on a dinner date, and if I weren't on the other side of the west coast by now, I'd be preparing for date number three, which would've probably meant an overnight.

Sex with human men, a little part of me knows, is nothing like the kind of sex that happens when two werewolves consummate their relationship in the Mating Circle.

Shaking that delirious thought off, I look around me—and realize with a start that I've gone into my father's bedroom without even realizing it.

Most of the room is much like I remember it, though the bed has been moved, and there are new sheets and a new headboard. Unlike most of the house, there's carpet in here; a plush shag that was put in shortly before my exile, which is now a little worn down but still smooth beneath my toes.

On one wall, thick oak closets take up much of the space. On another, double doors lead to a large master bath. That's all the way it used to be.

What has changed is everything else. The bedroom is a musty, horrifying, terrible mess, the space between the bed and one wall covered in stacks of newspaper and crumpled takeout food trash. There are empty liquor bottles and beer cans on every free surface that can take them. Two of the closet doors are hanging off their hinges, and an ashtray on the nightstand is overflowing, stubby cigarettes put out everywhere. The old leather recliner in one corner is covered in dirty laundry that spills out onto the floor and into the master bathroom.

The worst part, though, is the wide horizontal window above the bed. Below it is a mahogany shelf that spans the width of the room. It used to be full of things my father was proud of, like little league trophies, photos of my mom, and pictures of me as a kid.

All of that is gone now. Instead, the entire shelf is covered in objects that make me recoil. Bits of things in jars; skulls and leather bat wings and dried up lizards. Bundles of dried herbs, crushed and torn. Several old bottles full of mysterious liquids that glint in the light through the window. I don't know what the liquids are, but I can guess. Witches only work with dead things, and there's nothing more dead than a creature drained of its blood.

Horror fills me. I want to back out of the room and away, but instead I approach, climbing up onto the bed and walking across it, so I can look down at the contents of the shelf.

"Witch shit." I wipe my fingers across the mahogany wood, and shudder at the tingle of magic that follows. "Nothing but witch shit as far as the eye can see."

Behind the jars, bottles, and various bits of things, is a pile of framed photographs, stacked and forgotten.

On top of the pile is a picture of me, gap-toothed and achingly joyful, my hair the golden blonde of childhoods spent out in the sun, my father's hand clasped on my shoulder as I hold up a trophy from my own little league game.

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