The Mirror (The Lost Bride Trilogy #2)

“Practicality works.” Sonya carried the bowl of hot water and her wineglass to the sink. “Plus, I think going back to sleep is like a thumb in her eye.”

“Let’s go put four thumbs in her eye.” Cleo wrapped an arm around Sonya’s waist. “And a number of paws.”

On the second floor as Sonya and Trey continued down the hall, Owen hesitated.

“Look, Jones and I can bunk in your sitting room if you’re nervous.”

Cleo gave him a long look with those tiger eyes, and smiled. “That’s a sweet offer, but we’re fine.” To prove she meant it, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Sweet dreams.”

In his own room, Owen stripped down, dropped into bed. And lulled by the sound of the sea, fell, in his habitual way, instantly asleep.

And did dream.

Of playing chess with Collin. Chess wasn’t his game, and he figured Collin dragged him into these occasional competitions just to kick his ass.

He didn’t mind.

Music played, which suited them both. Collin often filled the house with sound—music, an old movie playing in the background. It occurred to him he’d developed his own affection for old black and whites here at the manor.

He didn’t make it up here as often as he once had, before work and life crowded his time. But he tried to make a point of stopping in every couple of weeks, bringing up books Collin ordered from A Bookstore, or coming up with Trey.

Video games, conversation over a beer, an old flick in the movie room. Just time spent.

The connection mattered, family mattered. And he simply enjoyed Collin’s company.

After pondering his next move, Owen advanced his king’s pawn.

Collin sipped some of his evening brandy, and didn’t ponder his next move before choosing his bishop.

“How’s work?”

“It’s good.” Brows drawn together, Owen studied the board. “I’m working on one of Mike’s designs. Fancy pleasure yacht. Client’s more interested in the fancy than performance, but we’ll give him both.”

He moved to block the bishop, and opened his own to capture by Collin’s knight.

“Well, shit.”

“You have a gift.”

“Not for chess.”

“Not for chess,” Collin agreed. “For building. For seeing something on paper, even just in your head, and making it real. For animals,” Collin added with a glance to where Jones slept by the fire. “Not everyone would’ve taken on a wounded dog no one wanted.”

“Wounded but scrappy. Scrappy counts.”

Owen reached for his beer.

It didn’t seem odd, in the dream, Collin’s hair showed no gray, his face no lines. They sat at ease, the chess board between them, as contemporaries rather than relatives separated by a generation.

“You understand the value of friendship, as I do.”

“You and Deuce go back. Like all the way back.”

“We do, all the way back. You and Trey have the same sort of brotherhood, and that’s a precious thing, Owen. You’ll both need that precious thing to face what’s coming. She needs to stop it, my brother’s daughter, but you and Trey and the woman who stands as her sister have to play your parts.”

Owen captured a white pawn with a black. “Like pawns?”

“Not at all. Knights, capable of crafty moves in defense and offense.”