Lib Novel Page 32
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“No, I’m just saying,” Bernice says, leaning over with laughter, “If I didn’t already know you, Olivia, I might think the two of you were sisters!”
“The resemblance is not that close,” I say, rolling my eyes and taking a sip of my wine.
“I’m not sure if I should be offended,” Veronica says, laughing. Her glass of nonalcoholic wine is still practically full, and I laugh every time I look over at it. We’re all laughing, actually, because we’re all—except Veronica and Linnea—drunk.
“Don’t be,” I say, laughing and slinging an arm around her. “I love you!”
“Good,” she says, looking down into her glass. “I’m not sure I could handle another member of the pack not liking me.”
It sounds like she’s trying to joke from her tone, but there’s something real underneath. I pull back and look at her face as Linnea speaks.
“What? Veronica—nobody in the pack dislikes you.”
“Tell that to Byron.”
At just the sound of his name, shivers run over my skin, and I fight to maintain a neutral expression. Of course, I’ve noticed the weird look Byron gets whenever Veronica’s around, but I’d attributed that to her being an outsider, or just Byron’s lack of social skills.
“Honey,” Linnea says, clearing her throat and looking around the group. “It’s not you. You know, it’s just—what he’s been through.”
“What has he been through?” Rosa asks, crossing her legs and taking another sip of her wine. Linnea has our rapt attention now, and I get a sinking feeling in my chest at the fact that Linnea knows more about Byron than I do.
Of course, she’s the pack luna, and has known Byron for longer. But I’m his mate.
Rejected, mate, I remind myself. Of course, he’s told Linnea more about his history—they’re friends, while Byron doesn’t want anything to do with me.
“He—well, I’m not going to give you all the details, but Byron’s parents were murdered by vampires when he was young.”
I stare at her, mouth open. How could I not know something like that? I’d always assumed Byron’s parents were something like Bigby’s—just off, enjoying their retirement, sure to visit at some point down the line.
The realization hits me—Byron and I have more in common than I thought. Of course, I became an orphan as an adult, not a kid, which would have been much more tragic, but there’s a certain aimlessness to not having parents.
Sometimes, you just want to go to someone with more experience than you. Someone who knows you, and has known you forever, who can look inside you and help you figure out what it is that you want.
And when you don’t have parents, that option is gone. Even as an adult, it can be isolating to be without them. You get to watch everyone else celebrate their big moments with their mothers and fathers at their sides, while you settle for family, friends, and people your own age to celebrate yours.
“Oh, I—” Veronica says, clearing her throat. “I didn’t know that. I mean, my mother was also, technically, killed by vampires, even if it did take a few months for the attack to finally get her. Maybe there’s some way that I could—”
“Oh,” Linnea says, choking down a gulp of her drink and shaking her head. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t bring it up. He really doesn’t like talking about it, and I’m not sure it would solve anything, anyway. I feel like Bryon is just one of those people who needs some time to come to terms with things. He’s always felt like a bit of a lone wolf to me.”
“Ha,” Triste says, drily, and when we all look at her, she moves her glass, saying, “Was that not a shifter pun?”
“Oh!” Linnea says, laughing. “I guess so.”
“I have a suggestion,” Triste says, leaning forward and placing her glass on the coffee table. “We should order a pizza, and I’ll use some magic to finish this food prep. That way, when it gets here, we can all relax.”
“Use magic?” Maisie says, while Linnea says, “Triste, girl, this is something you lead with!”
Chapter 13 – Byron
This is my nightmare, and I tug at the collar of my sweatshirt, glancing around the room. It’s total chaos, with kids running around wildly, throwing toys, and squealing with delight. The kitchen is loud with laughter and the sound of clacking pots, and the guys in the living room are shouting at the TV, though I haven’t known a single one of them to talk about football outside of this holiday.
My hand itched for my laptop, but when I got there, Linnea had put her hand on my arm, willing me to be present. Be present for what?
“Uncle Byron!” I glance down to see a gaggle of kids staring up at me. Kaila, the oldest, Araya, just younger than her; and Bubba, with his mop of blonde curls, a full head shorter than the two of them. Kaila is still tan from her trip to California with Rosa and Bigby, and Araya has her copper hair in two thick braids. I don’t envy Linnea for having to brush through it every morning.
“Yes?” I ask, taking a sip of the drink in my hand—it’s some sort of spiced cider, and while the alcohol feels nice, I almost wish it was an energy drink.