I exhale some of the stress I’ve been carrying. While she’s always been lovely to me, I wasn’t certain how Adeline would have reacted to my silence since Armin’s death. And then the reveal of Rian. That I’m with the child her dead husband had with another woman while they were still together. Or at least that’s the story as far as I know.
Adeline might still care for me, cared for Armin, but she loves her children fiercely. She might view Rian as some sort of interloper, just as she might see me as betraying her family.
Dramatic, I know.
But those thoughts have been haunting me, just a little.
There are no wards on the estate, no wards on the house. Which made the royal guard nervous when we visited. But despite Bolan’s fame, he’s been adamant about keeping his family sheltered from the public. Adeline, his sister, and his half-sisters are all wolf shifters and more than capable of taking care of themselves and each other.
“Mirth!” Adeline cries, tucking the tea towel in the back pocket of her jeans and spreading her arms out in greeting as she traverses the wood front steps and then the gravel drive in bare feet.
Roz is barely out of the car before I’m barreling straight into Adeline’s arms. Bolan’s mother is only slightly taller than me, but her arms band around me tightly. She kisses my temple as if my energy doesn’t bother her in the least. She smells like fresh bread. I’ve come on a baking day.
“Are you just with Roz?” she asks.
I nod, still holding her almost as tightly as she holds me. “I’m sorry for not calling ahead —”
“You never need to call,” she says. “Though I …” She pulls back from me slightly, trying to look me in the eyes despite the shading of my sunglasses. “I’ve been worried.”
I nod again, feeling like a complete asshole. Not only for not being in touch for over seven months, but because I doubted my welcome. “I’m so, so sorry … I just … haven’t been able to …”
Adeline nods, almost briskly. A flicker of her aged but still deep-seated grief filters through to me — picked up inadvertently because of our close contact.
I don’t think about how I could take that flicker of grief, twist my essence around it, and transform it into a false joy.
Not any longer than it takes me to step back from her hold, at least.
That’s the problem with me letting my power have even just a little give. It makes me aware. Aware of everything I could wreck and ruin. But if I don’t have Armin to balance me, and if I have the intersection point to take more responsibility for, then this state of awareness is going to have to be my new normal.
“Will you … stay?” Adeline asks almost tentatively. “The girls aren’t up yet, but they’d love to see you. For a late breakfast at least, darling girl?” She clears her throat quietly, uncomfortably. “Bolan isn’t here.”
I smile. I can’t remember Adeline ever treating Armin and me any differently than her own children. I suppose if we’d ever been in public together, she would have been forced to use more formality when addressing us, but that wasn’t what our visits here were about.
We could be almost normal here.
The royal guard still patrolled the property, of course. And the neighbors to the east were encouraged to take vacations — not that I knew about that when we were young — so that the guards could use their home as an outpost.“Pancakes? Or …?”
Adeline laughs, sliding her hands up my arms and squeezing my shoulders gently. “I have leftover sourdough starter. Come inside. I’ll get you some juice. And I’ll whip up some pancakes.”
“Do you mind if I take a walk first?”
Adeline tilts her head thoughtfully, quirking an eyebrow. “Alone?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not …” But she hesitates, glancing over at Roz. My guard has remained by the car, her eyes on the house, her body language relaxed. Adeline lowers her voice. “Is there somethingyou need to tell me, Mirth? About … Bolan? Or the matchmaking event?”
I shake my head, attempting to ignore the sinking feeling that Bolan hasn’t spoken to his mother. About Rian. “No. I haven’t seen Bolan for a couple of days. And … I ended the matchmaking fiasco.”
“You’ve made a decision?”
“Not … formally.”
“But … not Bolan?”
My chest tightens. With anxiety? Or trepidation? “You haven’t heard from him?”
“Should I have? I thought you were … did you reject his suit?”
