Page 58 of Rejected Exile

So for now, I just type something slightly brusque and non-personal to all three of them:I've got an appointment to make first thing this morning. We'll have to push back work on the house until noon or later.

A couple of bubbles pop up, one from Roarke and one from Lance. Lance's goes through first.Anything we should be worried about?

Roarke's bubble hovers for a moment, then subsides. I type back:Nothing of concern.That's a lie, so I add,I'll tell you if anything serious comes up.

Will I? Do I have to? I can't help but feel that Ishould.These past days with the guys, we've developed a kind of camaraderie. It's barely been a week since I got to town, but I still feel as if we're at least alittlebit friends. And obviously, quite possibly, more than that.

A new message pops up on my phone, this time from Roarke. Surprised to see that he didn't text me through the group chat, I tap on it and read his words with a racing heartbeat.

Is this about that microchip in your neck?A moment, then,I haven't told Finn or Lance about it yet.

Or Kieran? I assume he hasn't, but I still feel the urge to ask:Did you tell Kieran?

A bubble pops up. I wait anxiously for the message to follow. Glancing at my reflection, I realize that I've only done half my eyeshadow, so I quickly swipe a monotone color onto the empty lid. In the time it takes to perfect that, Roarke's bubble still hovers without conclusion.

He should be done typing up a sentence by now. Unless he's writing a few paragraphs. Or erasing just to retype again and again. Oh god—he didn't tell Kieran, did he? I was mostly half-joking about that, anxious at the thought ofhimfinding out, but it didn't actually occur to me that he might say anything.

If Kieran knows, it changes everything.

But it shouldn't. So it doesn't. Because he doesn't matter—he never has, and he never will.Lies.Maybe if I tell myself that, it'll eventually be true.

Finally a message pops up from Roarke, one shockingly succinct.I didn't tell him. Assume you didn't want me to. Right?

Right,I type back immediately. Then,I just don't know what will happen next. It may not end well. Maybe I don't have a wolf at all.

Would that disappoint you?

Yes. Obviously.

A long, hovering bubble. It disappears. I stare at the screen, waiting for it to pop back up again—but Roarke's side just stays blank. Meanwhile, my thoughts race around and around, desperately trying to figure out what he wasaboutto say but didn't.

Maybe he doesn't want me to find my wolf. That makes no sense, though. It wouldn't be bad for him—would it? While it's true that female werewolves have died of the curse here in Juniper, I have every reason to believe that I'm safe from sharing their fate.

I'm not a member of the pack, with the bonds that bind us to the land. If there's a curse on the territory it won't affect me. All I'll have to do to avoid dying is refuse to join the pack and share in its bonds until the new alpha reverses the curse. That shouldn't be more than a month away—and if he fails, or if Roarke is right and the pack has no future, I'll just join another pack.

Would that disappoint you?

I don't know why it wouldn't. Having my wolf means being free, and being accepted by the very land I was born on. There's nothing more than that to it.

"Delilah!" Cat's voice calls around the corner, far too chipper considering the hour. "We've only got fifteen minutes before we have to go. Are you ready?"

"Is the coffee warm and fresh?"

"Always."

"I'll be there in a sec."

Grabbing my mascara wand, I give my eyelashes a good once-over, and decide to ignore Roarke's mysterious question and even more mysterious unsent text message. Whatever he was going to send to me, it doesn't matter.

Because I have better things to do than worry about a man.

As I'm heading around the corner with my socks on and my hair pulled back, my phone chirps. It's a text from Finn—another one outside the group chat.

I hope whatever your appointment is, it goes well.Followed by a more clearly flirtatious,Make sure you don't change too much, if this mysterious conflict is in fact a hair appointment. I like... purplish red? Whatever your hair color is.

A little smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I sweep a coffee mug off the kitchen counter and fill it from the pot.It's not a hair appointment, though if it were, I'd pick whatever color and style I want and you'd deal with it.

Now I'm intrigued.Pause.You wouldn't happen to be pregnant with my baby, would you? Because I'm good, but even I'm notthatgood.

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