Page 17 of All Saints Day
Quentin shoots me a warning glance as he feels my thoughts humming along the mating bond.
We should tell him. We should bring him into the bond!
Sébastien’s head whips around, his maroon eyes widening as he too feels my thoughts.
Searching his face, I can’t tell if his lips are tightened in anticipation of my confession or in condemnation of it; if his eyes glitter with zealous refusal or to urge me on.
Before I can hear Seb down the bond, Quentin’s strong resonant refusal brings me up short.
“And I’m not a fucking idiot, I have eyes,” he rankles, his lip curling back from his pearly canines as his eyes flit to the tiny bite mark scars on Seb’s earlobe, that searing sea-glass gaze landing on the orbit of silver-lavender half moons that circle my thumb like a ring. “I can see that she trusted you enough to make you pack.” His voice nearly breaks on the word ‘pack,’ forcing Dennis to clear his throat and regain his composure.
I give Quentin a pleading look. I can tell by the way he and Seb give a slight shudder that they’ve seen the momentary glimpse of my catastrophizing down the mating bond; Quentin in heat—desperate for a sigma or alpha our pack currently lacks.
It isn’t just my fears for Quentin’s well-being. Even though the bond hasn’t been open as wide between Dennis and the rest of the pack as it has been between us remaining Saints and Louise, I still feel the missing spaces where the others should be, I do my best to not let my mind dwell too long on the phantom limbs of Frank and Mike in our bonded chain; the desire to pull Dennis in nearly overwhelming.
Don’t do it, Cazzy. I hear Quentin down the bond, hisfinal futile attempt to stop me from doing what I’ve already decided I must.
“Dennis,” I begin, both my palms lying flat on the table.
Before I can say anything, Dennis is up and out of his chair—spine straight as an arrow, his hands closed into tense fists—knuckles bloodless white.
“Don’t say it,” he gasps—tears suddenly welling in his eyes. “If you say it, there’s no taking it back—and I don’t know if I—” he hiccups down a sob.
Quentin lets out a defeated sigh and folds his face into his hands, curling in on himself.
“Of course, he already knows,” Sébastien groans and slumps down in his chair—head lolled back as if someone gave him a good sock to the jaw.
“I don’t know shit—and no one’s ever been able to prove shit off of ‘a gut feeling.’” Dennis protests as his eyes press closed, shaking his head as if it will actually help him outrun the truth.
“Don’t say what, Dennis?” I press. Before I know what my body is doing, I’m out of my seat and closing in on him, unwilling to relent.
He screws his eyes shut, one hand clamping down on his chest over his heart—tears streaming from behind his closed eyes.
“It’s not real; it can’t be real,” he blubbers under his breath through ragged sobs.
My hands find the muscular rounds of Dennis’ shoulders—shaking him gently.
“It’s very real, Dennis. You already know it in your heart to be true.”
For a split second, it’s as if Frank is in the room—a sudden surge of wild violence tearing through Dennis as he windmills his arms—slapping my grip away as he stumbles backward.
“Fuck!” he screams—fingers knit behind the crown of his head as he lurches forward—face nearly purple, apoplectic with rage.
He stays bent double for several long moments—his chestrapidly heaving with gasping breaths before he snaps upright—eyes fixed on me with an accusatory glare.
“You knew—back in Boston,” Dennis stammers dumbly, his eyes swinging to Quentin and Sébastien hatefully before returning to meet mine.
“Dennis,” I hold up my hands, trying to calm him down before he blows his top.
“You knew long before Boston—didn’t you?” he snipes angrily, beginning to close the distance between us; drawing Seb and Quentin from their seats—both of them ready to lunge for Dennis before he can put hands on me.
“We found out during Q and Lou’s last heat!” I finally manage to blurt out, bringing Dennis up short less than an arm’s length away—close enough that his hyssop, thyme, and sea-salt scent fills my nose.
Dennis must be having a similar experience, because I can actually see his pupils dilate slightly—his breathing slowing and evening out as he catches wind of my soothing theta scent; dragon’s blood incense, sweet poppy, and smoked vanilla pods taking the edge off of his hot rage.
“None of us knew you were at the cottage until you’d already left the island—and Louise didn’t even know about the fated mates herself until after you were gone.” The words leave me in a deflating gust.
“We didn’t know for certain at first either,” Seb chimes in, looming large over Dennis’ shoulder—a reminder to make sure cooler heads prevail.
