Two for clean, two for dirty, lights and darks separated.
A sartorial barricade, as it were.
She hadn’t been in that closet since the night Wrath died, and she sure as hell wasn’t going in now. No way she could stand to see the clothes on the left, hanging behind back-lit glass doors that had once felt like a fancy department store but were now just museum cases full of relics: Black leathers, black muscle shirts, and black leather jackets. Shitkickers. The black suit that he’d worn on their first proper date. A ritual black drape for when he went to the Tomb. And a single Hawaiian shirt given to him by Rhage for a movie night—
Pulling a desperate pivot, her eyes locked on the bassinet. “Icantdothisanymore.”
The next thing she knew, she was striding out, passing through the vault door, descending the short-stack stairway.
Emerging on the second-story landing.
Instantly, the scents of Last Meal, of roasted turkey and beef, stuffing and fresh bread, wine and cocktails and candle flames, bombarded her nose. Next, the voices registered. The pastiche of tones, inflections, and syllables felt like something she’d known all her life, but that was emotion, not facts.
She’d spent the vast majority of her years alone. At the orphanage first, then on a series of trial runs with adoptive parents that hadn’t worked out, and finally, as an adult on her own in the world, with only Boo, her black cat, for a roommate.
And then…Wrath had come and found her, sent by her father to help her through her transition. Her futurehellrenhad not only told her the truth of what she really was, he’d seen her through the change, given her an extended family and community, and made her amahmen.
That had been the start of the golden years, as she’d come to think of them. So good, too short. Now, only a memory.
“Do you need something?”
Her head jerked to the male voice. Wrath’s second-in-command was sitting in one of the gilded armchairs by the Hall of Statues, and as Tohr rose to his feet, he towered over her. His military haircut was newly trimmed, the white strip in front a contrast to the rest of his dark hair, and as always, his navy blue eyes were grave.
She cleared her throat. “You should be down eating with your family.”
“I’m just having a rest. Feet were tired.”
Bullshit, she thought.And God, she loved him.
In the silence that followed, she remembered the first night she’d met Tohrment. Wrath had sent him to watch over her because the guy was the steady Freddy of the Brotherhood, the hypothetically reasonable male in a sea of hotheaded warriors. He’d also had ashellanhe’d loved very much.
She had served him some Sam Adams beer and oatmeal cookies, and they’d watched aGodzillamovie together. As they’d both agreed rooting for the monster was the vibe, there’d been no way of knowing that they’d lose their mates in such a short time. And in some ways, his tragedy was worse than hers. His pregnant female had been gunned down by alesser, and after that, he’d disappeared for a long time. He had learned to love again, though, and his Autumn had saved him in all the ways that counted.
He’d been very lucky with that.
“You need to eat,” Beth heard herself say.
“Nah. I’m not hungry.”
As his stomach growled, she shook her head. “You’re coming down with me. L.W. is sleeping, George is with him, and you know damn well this place will light up like a Christmas tree if anybody tries to get in.”
Also, the Lessening Society couldn’t find the mansion. Themhisprotected them up on this mountain as it always had, always would.
“That’s an order,” she said with exhaustion.
Tohr stared down at his shitkickers like he was sifting through possible responses and finding that none of them were going to work. “All right.”
“Good decision.”
Heading for the top of the grand staircase, she was careful not to look at the closed doors of the pale blue study Wrath had used so often for meetings with the Brotherhood. There was never a greater mismatch than all those fighters sitting on all that toothpick-legged French furniture, and that had been part of the charm, at least for her. No one went in there anymore, though. Part of it was the memories, no doubt. The other half was the fact that it was where the throne was.
Yet another thing nobody needed to see anytime soon.
After descending the blood red runner, she bottomed out at the imperial foyer’s mosaic depiction of an apple tree in bloom. As the grandeur registered, she tried not to see anything of the marble and malachite columns, the crystal sconces, the ceiling far, far overhead with its charging warriors and stallions. She didn’t want to look into the billiard room, either, or stare at the entry into the vestibule, or take note of the beautiful blossoming branches under her feet.
Memories. Everywhere.
And all of them hurt.
