Page 24 of Rejected Exile

It's childish and stupid, but exactly what seeing him makes me feel like again. A child. An idiot. And for a moment, I enjoy the burning irritation in his face, how he reflexively twitches like he's wondering if he reallydoessmell that bad.

Then Roarke says, in a quietly rebuking voice, "Delilah. That isn't necessary."

Suddenly, I feel two inches tall. Glancing at those summer blue eyes again, I take a step back, then another. Grabbing my keys, I press the button to unlock the car—then my eyes go to Kieran again. He's staring at me so hard you'd think he was trying to bore holes in my skull with his eyes.

"You know, maybe I'll change my mind." Raising my chin defiantly, I let seven years of anger coalesce inside me and force it all out with a dismissive tone of voice. "Since you want me gone so bad, clearly the best thing to do is stay. So maybe I'll do just that."

"Don't," he growls, the animalistic tone of his voice a reminder of what he has, and what I lack: a wolf.

"Just try to stop me."

Before he can, I slip into my car, press the engine start button, and get as far away from him as I possibly can.

Nine

Delilah

Ishould've come up with a better insult to spit in Kieran's face. Something less immature, more deadly. Maybe a comment about how thin and weak he's gotten, or something about... something about...

Wracking my mind for insults after I get back to the house, I come up with nothing and nearly explode in a ball of frustration. All I wanted was to get in and out of Juniper fast. To leave it in my rearview mirror like Niall left me on the side of the road.

Instead, I find myself with an ache in my chest and a gnawing in my stomach. What Kieran said echoes in my mind:you don't belong here.

I've never wanted to stick around more than I do now that I know he wants me gone.

"Fuck you Kieran Salt!" I shout in the empty house, my words echoing across the ceiling. "Fuck your stupid fucking face."

Stupid, still handsome, shadowed and hollowed-out face. I wonder if he looks that way because his mate died like all the others. Maybe he loved her in a way Lance never loved his mate, and now it's slowly killing him.

Maybe he loved her the way he never loved me.

Unable to sit still with my thoughts, I throw myself into work around the house. I've picked up enough cleaning supplies to last through the apocalypse, and I put them to good use.

The bathrooms get scrubbed, even the one with the leaky faucet. I scour the grout and tighten loose screws. Hang up a shower curtain in the one good bathroom, and throw the bedsheets in the washing machine. Scrub the oven until it shines again and turn on its auto-clean cycle.

Soon I've run out of things to clean. Tapping my toes, I survey the kitchen. A whistling sound catches my attention; wind whistles through the broken panel of the stained-glass transom. Grabbing a kitchen chair, I stand up on its seat and tape a panel of trash bag over the open spot—a solution for now.

But more is needed. So I pull out my laptop, hop on the slow ass Wi-Fi, and navigate to the local hardware store website. It's expanded since I lived here, back when Dad was always sending me on odd jobs and errands. They even have same day delivery and next day labor availability.

Grabbing a legal pad and a pen, I walk the whole house looking for things to repair. There's the leaky faucet in the half bathroom, the moldy tub in the hall bathroom, the damaged flooring in the dining room, a broken porch railing, all the issues with the siding, the roof, the gutters, and of course, the transom. I'm sure the HVAC also needs to be checked out and repaired, and a few of the pipes could probably use replacing.

Once I'm done, I have a list of work that would cost at least tens of thousands of dollars. My heart squeezes; I doubt I could get that much together even if I dove into my savings and my retirement fund. But I can at least get the place in working order, deal with the floors, the stained-glass, and the bathrooms. That's better than nothing.

List made, I find myself standing in the dining room in front of the bar cabinet. My eyes flick to the clock; it's almost after five. Since yesterday's total failure with Lance and the breakfast vodka, I haven't had a drop to drink, but right now I can't contemplate the money pit I'm standing in without one. So I grab some limes, simple syrup, and the moderately priced gin I picked up at the liquor store, and make myself a gimlet.

That task done, it's a little less painful to bring up the hardware website and put an order together. The money it'll take to fix the little things around the house is enough to make me blanch.

Maybe if I'm lucky an odd relative or pack member will step in to help with the rest—but only maybe. With the way things are around here, I doubt anyone still standing has the funds. Even if they do, they're unlikely to want to help me.

The shiftless werewolf in exile whose own mate didn't want her.

Dark thoughts make me reach up to scratch at my neck again. Blood seeps from the scar tissue, and I mutter a curse. Cat would scold me if she could see me now. Good thing she can't.

He had a mate. The thought nags at me as I put the order in for labor to swing by tomorrow and help out around the house. Just a few handymen is all I need, to help me pull the washer and dryer away from the wall and check the old connections.While you were all alone in the world, Kieran had a mate.

I could see it in his eyes. That hollowed-out look. There was a scent to him too, one even my shiftless nose could pick out.

The scent of loss.

---