Blood & Wine

21 | Dasher

Iris ran her fingers through my curls, staring at Calla—who stared back at her with curiosity but nothing else.

I pleaded with Calla to be well-behaved, hoping she could hear the thoughts I was screaming along that thing that connected us together. I had to impress Iris, had to show her that, even though I lived with two people and didn't work, this was my apartment as much as it was theirs—Eden had told me as much.

Eden.

I had done what Fynley told me I would eventually do—hurt her. It hadn't been physical, though, and even though she had kept it off her face, I saw it. I had hurt her feelings—and, later, when I ran, I heard her sobbing, heard those grief-racked sobs. I wouldn't have been able to hear it if not for the Coven bond we shared. No other werwolf had heard it but Fynley, who paused and ran off, letting Jagger run the helm for us. I had followed his scent damn near a mile away, and when the time came for us to leave, I found him and Iris standing there, watching Eden in her car, reading.

Iris had nudged me with her nose, an affectionate gesture I was gathering, albeit one she only used with one other werewolf—her little cousin, fifteen year old Irene, who hated her name as much as she hated being fifteen. I'll drop you off home, Iris had said.

I had looked at Fynley, waiting for him to protest—I would never let a woman like her out of my sight—but he had shrugged it off. See you tonight, Iris, and the words were meant for me, to let me know that she was his and not mine, and it had made me so angry I had almost attacked him there.

Mine, mine, mine.

Even now the thought to claim her and keep her to myself was a chant in my heart.

Over the thought of protecting Eden's feelings, which I knew I had hurt.

Over the thought of spending time with Calla, which was my favorite thing to do.

Over the thought of my guilt, which I still hadn't let go of, even as I ran.

Mine, mine, mine.

Iris's touch on me was softer than anybody else's touch had ever been—and more damning, too. I wanted her, but she wasn't mine to want. Nothing good would come from encroaching on Fynley's Intended. Nothing good would happen if I continued to let her sit here and stroke my hair in an attempt to soothe me.

But I was powerless to stop her.

Mine, mine, mine.

I moved my head, adjusting so that the top of my head was fully in her palm. Her fingers tightened in my hair for a second, a tense second, before relaxing. I saw her face was red, her mouth pressed into a thin line. I wanted to smooth those furrows from her face, but I didn't dare push her incase she pulled away.

Calla spoke first. "There have been entirely too many damn werewolves in this house," she said, but she sounded resigned and not angry. She looked at the hand in my head, then back to Iris. "Don't you belong to Fynley?"

A prompting question, a curious one—not a baiting one. Calla was simply curious. I wanted to blurt out, No, she belongs to me, but I knew better. I clenched my teeth together. I wouldn't push Calla away like I had with Eden.

Although, if I pushed Calla away, she would be more willing to forgive me. Eden would not be.

Iris stilled, her fingertips on my skull. "I belong to myself. I am Intended for him."

Calla's eyebrow quirked. "And if you don't marry him?"

"That is not an option," she replied. "I have to marry him."