Page 91 of The Delta's Rogue
I pinch the bridge of my nose and bite back my annoyance with her.
It’s not her fault I’m exhausted. It’s not her fault I can’t sleep well.
My brow furrows, and I inhale, leaning closer to her. “I can’t smell you.”
She snatches a bag of tea from the box between us and places it in her cup before pouring the water over it. “I took a scent blocker.”
I freeze, palms pressing into the cold countertop as I stare at her. “Why?”
She scoffs and turns away from me with her teacup in her hands, walking to the other side of the kitchen. “You can drop the ‘overbearing, protective big brother’ act. I had patrol duty.”
“I don’t remember scheduling you.”
“Dawson did the schedule for this week. Wesley asked him to since your focus is elsewhere right now.”
She leans against the counter opposite me, mimicking my stance with her teacup clasped between her hands. Her violet-blue eyes survey me over the rim, concern replacing the confident attitude she displays in public—an attitude I’m pretty sure she picked up from me.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
My shoulders curl in on themselves, and I run a hand over my face before placing them both on my hips.
My mouth opens to say “yes”, to brush off her concern so she’ll leave me in peace, but what I say instead is: “I don’t know.”
Maddie freezes mid sip, eyes widening.
My confession is unexpected, surprising both of us, but she’s the first person to ask after my state of mind. Everyone else is too scared of my reaction to check in with me.
“You’ll find her, Seb.” Her voice is steady and sure, filled with a conviction I wish I reciprocated.
“What if we don’t?” The broken and defeated words leave me before I can think about them or stop them, before I can hide my shattered soul behind my cocky, snarky mask.
She angles her head to the side. “What does your gut tell you? Your gut is usually right.”
“I’m too afraid to listen to it. I’m too afraid it will be wrong,” I admit. “This is the one time I can’t afford to be wrong.”
I wrap the blanket around my shoulders, and with my book in one hand and my steaming cup of tea in the other, I meander into the large living room on the main floor, ending our conversation before it gets too morbid.
The living room is empty at this time of night, but a fire glows in the fireplace, maintained by those who, like Maddie, are heading in from or out for their patrol shifts throughout the night.
A shiver runs down my spine as I toss an extra log into the fire after setting my tea on the coffee table. We’re well into spring, but for some reason, I can’t shake the chill off tonight. I don’t know if it’s from the temperature outside, the strange dream I had before I was thrown from sleep, from my unexpected conversation with Maddie, or from the overwhelming sense of wrong surrounding me since I learned of Sarina’s situation.
Maybe it’s all of the above.
But as I sink into an armchair in front of the fire, pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, and sip at my piping hot tea, the chill in the air sinks further into my veins and muscles instead of lifting. I scoot the chair closer to the flames and clasp the teacup in my hands to absorb more warmth as I drink it.
While the temperature of the tea doesn’t help, the calming herbs soothe my frazzled, fried nerves. I may not get any more sleep tonight, but at least my thundering heart is slower and my jumbled, racing thoughts settle.
I finish the tea and place the cup on the hearth, then settle back into the cushion of the armchair, resting my head on my fist.
The last few days have been nothing short of exhausting. We’ve made zero progress, even though we’ve worked almost nonstop. Most of our discussions have ended in arguments since Sarina’s pack and Dominic will only give us limited details about their mission. The only thing we can agree on is ensuring that whatever plan we make to rescue her takes her safety into consideration above all else.
There’s no point in rescuing someone who’s dead, after all.
My lycan growls at that, and I don’t blame him. None of us want to consider that possibility, but the longer we take to find her, the more likely it becomes.
I slam my head against the chair’s back and grip the arms, piercing the fabric with my claws and blinking away the tears of frustration in my eyes. Deep, focused breaths set my chest rising and falling—the only movement I make as I sit in the packhouse living room—preventing my mind from wandering any further down that twisted path.
As I sit there, I sense that tugging on my soul again, that itch at the back of my mind that sounds like my name being yelled across a vast canyon. I sit up straighter and open my eyes, and for the second time tonight, I find myself on that strange bridge.
