Page 63 of Lycan Prey
The knot in my chest tightens further as conflicting emotions crash onto me like waves on a stormy night. Relief and sorrow, gratitude for Bree’s sensitivity and regret for the way Max’s question must have made her feel.
“Okay,” Max murmurs after a moment, and I imagine he’s nodding in acceptance. “It’s okay, Bree. I just like having you here.”
“And I’m here, Max. As long as you want me around.”
Their conversation ends with the soft rustle of sheets and a final goodnight. I want to move away from the door but find myself frozen in place.
Bree’s silhouette emerges from Max’s room, the door closing. She doesn’t see me at first, her gaze fixed on the floor as if the weight of her conversation with Max still presses down upon her. It’s when she takes a step forward, her foot catching the edge of the rug, that our worlds collide. Instinctively, I reach out, my hand wrapping around her arm to steady her. Her eyes snap up, meeting mine, surprise flickering within them.
She startles when she walks into me. “Max is asleep,” she blurts.
“Sorry.” I release her as if burned by the contact. “You almost fell.” I stand awkwardly, my words lodging in my throat, threatening to suffocate me. Bree watches me back just as intently as an awkward silence moves between us.
“How long have you been standing there?” Bree asks, her voice threaded with a mix of curiosity and concern.
I can’t bring myself to look directly at her, the weight of guilt and longing heavy in my chest. “Not long,” I answer tersely, my response clipped and colder than I intend. She seems taken aback but doesn’t comment on it.
Without another word, I turn on my heel, the sound of my footsteps louder than the drumming of my heart as I stomp away, leaving her alone in the dimly lit hallway.
Chapter 25
• Aubrey •
I stride behind Soren; his shoulders are tense, and the usual ease of his stride is replaced by a stiffness that makes my stomach churn. As we ascend the staircase to our room, I can’t help but replay Max’s innocent words in my head, words that seemed to hang in the air long after I tucked him into bed and switched off his dinosaur lamp.
The silence between us feels heavy, a weight that presses down on my chest. With every step, I glance at Soren’s profile, searching for a hint of emotion, but he’s a mask of neutrality. Still, something about the way he hasn’t so much as glanced my way since we left Max’s room tells me he heard more than enough.
Did Max’s words stir some dormant feelings within Soren? Or perhaps it’s the opposite—maybe he’s upset, thinking I’ve overstepped boundaries with his son.
We enter the bedroom, and the familiar space suddenly feels foreign and too small; I suddenly feel unwelcome. Soren moves around, his actions deliberate and precise. There’s a methodical nature to the way he removes his jacket and places it over the back of a chair, a routine that seems to exclude me tonight as he gets ready for bed.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, my voice a whisper against the thick silence.
He pauses for a moment, his back still turned to me. I wait, holding my breath, but he doesn’t speak. Instead, he resumes his nightly ritual, leaving my question to dissipate into the quiet room.
The room’s silence stretches taut as I linger by the door, my fingers twisting together at the uncertainty. Soren’s shoulders are rigid as he pulls back the duvet. His jaw is set, and even from behind, I can sense the walls he’s erected.
“Listen, Soren,” I start, edging closer, my voice barely above a murmur, “I’m sorry if what Max said earlier caused any discomfort. It wasn’t my intention to—”
My words hang incomplete as he slides into bed without acknowledging me, pulling the covers up in a smooth motion that doesn’t betray a single ripple of emotion. I stand there, a figure rooted in place, my apology dissolving into the cool air of the room. “I can stay in my room if you prefer?”
“Not necessary,” he answers, and I chew my lip, feeling out of place as he switches his lamp on and grabs his book. “Can you turn the light off?” he asks, opening the book but not glancing at me.
I flick the light off, so the only light remaining comes from his dim lamp beside the bed. Retrieving my pajamas, I move to the bathroom to get changed. As I slip into my soft cotton nightwear, I steal a glance at him through the slightly ajar bathroom door. His attention is lost in the cream pages of his book.
Returning to the room, I hesitantly approach the bed, careful not to disturb him. The floor creaks under my weight and his eyes flicker toward me for a brief second before returning to his book.
The pages rustle as he flicks them. I hesitate, wondering if I should sleep on the sofa by the window. Without lifting his gaze, he pats the empty place beside him. His silent invitationcauses an awkward flutter in my stomach. I quietly climb into bed, tugging at the duvet.
A silent sigh escapes me as I watch him, the moonlight casting a pale glow over his form. The stillness between us is a chasm I’m hesitant to bridge.
“Max... he misses having a mom around, despite not remembering what having one around is like,” Soren finally says, his voice low and even. It’s the first acknowledgment of the elephant in the room, and it catches me off guard. He doesn’t look at me, staring instead at the book in his hand, but there’s a softness in his tone that wasn’t there before.
I swallow, feeling the weight of Max’s innocent words from bedtime. “I know,” I reply softly. “And I want you to understand, Soren, I’m not trying to step into her shoes. I’m here for Max, to care for him, but I’m not trying to replace your wife.”
For a moment, he’s motionless, then he nods once, an almost imperceptible movement. Without a word, he sets his book aside and flicks the lamp off. He then rolls over, turning his back to me again. I nod, knowing it is the end of the conversation, and wiggle back down under the covers, trying to get comfortable.
There’s a sickening echo to the painful knots twisting in my gut. The room sinks into gloomy darkness, the only light a lone sliver from the ensuite seeping through the minute gap under the door. Shadows flicker and dance on the walls as the wind outside sways the leafless branches of an old maple tree. Its long branches scratch against the window, producing a soft, eerie music that adds to the chill creeping into my bones.
