Page 19 of Halloween With the Siren
“If she wants us here, we’ll be here,” I promise, hoping we can find a way to support her with the party too.
Doc Calla leans forward as she toys with one of her earrings. “How good are you and your pack with your hands?” At the blush creeping up my cheeks, she laughs and quickly amends, “I mean, Marisol might need some help around the pub, though she’d never explicitly ask for it. Could be smart to make yourself useful.”
I’m not quite sure if she was simply teasing me with her question or if she genuinely didn’t mean for the innuendo, but I thank her nonetheless with an incline of my head. “We don’t shy away from hard work. Anything to make Marisol’s life easier and happier, you can count us in.”
The ladies exchange sly little smirks before wrapping up the conversation and shooing me in the direction of Marisol’s island just off the coast of Starry Hill.
Striding back toward the dock where I left my boat, I catch sight of the cottages dotting the undulating hills. Each front door is painted in a different color and I can’t help but wonder what Marisol picked for her home.
Since saying goodbye to Marisol at Nesting Grounds, not a single hour has gone by where she wasn’t on my mind, or Killian’s, or Bash’s. She’s been at the center of every single conversation, thought, and feeling.
Images of how good she looked in the middle of our pack, of all four of us cuddled together, of her ass stretched around my cock as Killian fucked her cunt, of her lips wrapped around Bash’s cock… No, now isn’t the time to be thinking of that. I’m here to show her there’s more between us than a fiery sexual connection—it goes deeper than that. We want to know her on a soul level too.
I bid my filthy thoughts farewell and leave them on Starry Hill’s main island as I jump into my boat and set sail for the smaller neighboring island that Marisol calls home.
My heart drums at a thousand beats per minute as I sail closer, Marisol’s stone cottage coming into view against a small hill. Her door is painted a deep red, the color of a leaf bidding summer farewell and welcoming fall. It’s perfect for Marisol.
I jump out of my boat when I’m close to shore, wading through the shallows to secure the line to an anchor point between some rocks. When I look up, Marisol stands out on her porch, one hand clasped to her mouth as she stares down at me.
Dressed in an oversized sweater and dark leggings, her hair hanging loosely down her back, she looks soft, rested, and relaxed. Beautiful.
Part of me wants to run up to her, throw her over my shoulder and carry her home, but I shove that desire deep down, knowing that won’t impress her much. But the ache to feel her in myarms, to see her sprawled between all three of us, gnaws at my insides and pushes me into action.
Grabbing the box of goodies we prepared for her, I climb up toward her cottage and come to a stop a couple of feet away, not sure how my unannounced arrival will be received.
Uncharacteristically nervous, I shift from foot to foot as I stare up toward her. “Doc Calla and Lucille told me where to find you. I hope that’s okay.”
“You came,” she states disbelievingly in a small voice.
“You doubted we would?” I don’t wait for her answer, seeing it clearly in her scrunched brow. “Oh,a chuisle mo chroí,” I breathe out, setting down the box and stepping onto the porch so I can finally wrap her in my arms. “We tried to give you space,” I say into her hair, “but we clearly couldn’t last very long without seeing you.”
Marisol leans back, her eyes glassy as she jokes, “Missed me already, then?”
I frame her face between my hands and let her see the truth and sincerity in my eyes. “Like you wouldn’t believe. I almost had to restrain Bash from coming out here at the break of dawn to search the waters for you.”
A pleased smile crinkles her eyes. “Oh, yeah?”
“In a perfect world you’d have never walked out of Nesting Grounds on your own. We either would’ve gone with you or taken you home with us,” I admit, maybe a little too honestly.
The minute wince in Marisol’s expression is barely noticeable but over the past week I’ve studied every twitch of her brow and every hint of a smile, so that fleeting expression isn’t lost on me.
I lower myself onto the porch steps and Marisol takes a seat next to me while I figure out how to phrase our intentions. “Look,” I say, taking Marisol’s hand and lacing our fingers together. “We are very aware that you don’tneedus, but we want you towantus.”
Marisol traces the veins on the back of my hand as she says almost timidly, “I like you guys. All of you. You each have something so unique about you that makes me feel all sorts of ways. But I’m also nervous. I’m not good with change.”
I wait for her to look up before I explain gently, “We want to take things slowly. That’s why I convinced the guys to let me come out here by myself first. We’re hoping to take turns to simply spend time with you, to slide into your life however and wherever you want us to fit in.”
Marisol’s brows furrow and she whispers, “You’d do that for me?”
Cupping her jaw tenderly, my voice almost cracks as I say, “So much more than that. If you’ll give us some time, we want to prove it to you. Let us show you how good life can be if we do it together. Learn to trust us, rely on us.” With anyone else, I might be embarrassed at the pleading quality in my voice, but my pride has no place here. I’m fighting for my pack and our future, our happiness, our fate.
Marisol leans into my hand, an affectionate smile pulling tenderly on the corners of her mouth. “I’d really like that.”
Unable to resist, I press my lips to her forehead and exhale the full force of my relief, my shoulders dropping with the immense weight they just shed. “A chuisle mo chroí, that makes me so happy to hear.”
Marisol gets comfortable, cuddling into my side as I wrap an arm around her, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore washing over us as we stare out at the ocean’s rhythmic breaths. “I still wanted to ask you, what does that nickname mean? You used it a couple of times at Nesting Grounds too.”
Leaning my head against hers, I give her the truth. “I call Killianmo ghrá, which means my love. Your nickname loosely translates to darling, or more accurately, pulse of my heart.Because you’re our missing piece, Marisol. When we met you, it felt like all our hearts aligned to beat for you.”
