Page 34 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
My heart stopped. Then restarted with a painful thud against my rib cage, sending me lightheaded. My fingers froze over the screen, suddenly numb.
Edina Thorne.
Otherwise known as “Mother” if I was feeling polite, which I definitely wasn’t.
I blinked, convinced I was hallucinating. Maybe the hangover was worse than I thought. Maybe I was still asleep in Maxwell’s bed, drooling on his shoulder. But no—her name remained on the screen, stark and unmistakable.
She hadn’t contacted me in years. Not when I was sleeping rough in Glasgow. Not when I moved to London. Not even a text on my birthday.
Why now?
There was no voicemail. Did she… butt dial me? The thought was almost laughable. Edina Thorne, with her calculated movements and rigid self-control, accidentally calling her disappointment of a son? Not bloody likely.
My thumb hovered over her name. I could call her back. Find out what she wanted after all this time.
My stomach twisted into knots. Had someone else died? What if she’d finally decided to apologise? What if—
No. I couldn’t think about her and what she may or may not have to say to me. I had an ex-boyfriend to find. Dead or alive, Dev was out there somewhere, and I was sitting in my car staring at my mother’s name like a lost puppy.
I tapped Priya's name.
be ready in 10, I’m picking you up
Priya replied almost immediately.
it’s a saturday and I don’t operate before noon
I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, considering my options. Flynn would be up for adventure, but he’d tell Seb straight away, the little snake.
A lump formed in my throat as Issac’s face flashed through my mind. My partner in crime would have been all over this—already formulating some fabulous plan involving disguises and possibly explosives. But Issac was gone. Dead. No matter how many times I insisted otherwise, the reality was that I’d never again get one of his three a.m. texts with some half-baked scheme.
I swallowed hard and started the car. Kit it was,then.
My brother had just gotten back from his Saturday run when I walked in the door, still in his ridiculous compression leggings and sweat-wicking top. Healthy bastard.
After the turbulent events of last night and this morning, it was a relief to be back with him. Our bond hummed between us, subtle but present. When I’d left my pack, all the bonds with my family members and everyone else had snapped like dry twigs, painful and final. But the thread between Kit and me had somehow survived, stretched thin but never breaking. Not a proper pack bond, but something else—fragile yet surprisingly resilient.
From the way Kit’s eyes widened, I must have looked a state. His gaze travelled from my dishevelled hair to Maxwell’s oversized shirt hanging off my frame.
“Maxwell texted me last night,” Kit said, crossing his arms.
I groaned, slumping against the wall. “What the fuck did he say? That I was a fucking moron, and he hates me?”
“No, that your phone was dead, and he’d brought you back to his flat because you were unwell.” Kit raised an eyebrow. “I can see he sugarcoated it. I take it spending an evening together hasn’t magically fixed your feelings towards him?”
I thought about waking up wrapped around him, how warm he’d been, the scent of his skin. My stomach did a weird little flip thing that had nothing to do with the hangover.
“He still despises me, yeah,” I muttered, looking away.
“Hold on… is thathisshirt?”
“I lost my one, so I borrowed his. He’s making me wash it for him. Because he hates me.”
“Rory, you’re the one who talks to him like he’s a piece of shit.”
“But he—”
“Stop. We’re not rehashing the night he arrested you for the millionth time. I’ll go grey.” Kit ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
