Page 5 of Wolves of the Rising Moon

“I’m sorry.” I give her a shrug and tug on the bottom of my sleep shirt, stretching the screen print of Marilyn’s face to comic proportions.

Yeah, I have a lot of Marilyn pop art. What can I say? I spent a lot of lonely nights living vicariously through her many on-screen love affairs when I thought I couldn’t have one of my own.

Mari shoves a hot mug in my hand and nods at me to drink it before I explode her head with all my internal chatter. Wolves don’t have psychic links or the ability to speak mind to mind. At least ours don’t. But twins? That’s a whole different story.

The swirling hot steam brings the light roasted aroma to my nose, inviting me to inhale deeply. For as much flavored creamer I put in it, I’m not convinced I actually like coffee. It’s likely I grew attached to the way the scent reminded me of Rafe. A fact I can only now admit since I no longer need a reminder.

My gaze travels to my alpha’s sleeping form.

No reminders needed when you have the real thing.

And that little realization makes me smile.

Mari clears her throat and eyeballs the mug that still hasn’t made its way to my lips.

She’s complained about my buzzing head for forever.

As kids, she would always complain I was too loud. And of course, Mom wouldn’t take her seriously because usually I was just sitting there playing with my Malibu Barbie and thinking about the fabulous life my Barbie might have. All the fun she’d have with Ken, and how annoying her little sister Skipper must be, if my sister was any indication.

As we grew older, she wouldn’t accuse me of thinking too loudly as much, which I guess meant I’d gotten a handle on projecting my thoughts, even though I hadn’t ever tried to project them, much lessnotproject.

I always chalked it up to weird twin stuff.

We had a lot of that.

I’d get a booster shot, and she’d cry.

She’d have a fever, but I’d be tired and lethargic.

I always knew when she had bad dreams and vice versa.

But with time and age and space, those things hardly happen anymore.

Except the buzzing bees in the morning, apparently.

She tips the mug to my lips and again nods for me to drink up. And I think as loudly as I possibly can,It’s hot! Burn your mouth on it if you want a distraction from my thoughts.

“I heard that,” she stage-whispers with a grimace. Then she breaks into our old sign language, moving a hand to her lips with her finger and thumb pinched together.

I nod and eye-point to the fridge, shocked we both still remember the gesture.

We were barely toddlers when we used that made-up sign language.

But it’s quite handy when trying not to wake a pile of wolves in a nine hundred square-foot cottage.

She rummages through the fridge, pulling out all the makings of a big breakfast, and I fall into a stool at the island, happy not to have to make it myself and finally take a sip of coffee.

Chapter3

Ostrich-ing

Mom always said ignoringproblems only makes them worse.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t ignore the fuck outta the Drago situation. A feat made infinitely easier when he’s on a whole other mountain range.

Over the next few weeks, I keep myself busy and not thinking about Drago by showing Mari how to impart her intention into herbs and tinctures.

She’s not the best student.

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