Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92941 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92941 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Had Alan Davies picked her up after we’d left, or had he ignored her scratched feet and made her walk? They’d surely get infected. My hands clenched into fists.
“I think we should go over there for supper,” Zeke said after a few moments. “At least get to know them a little. Maybe she’s not as attached as she seemed. The man could be an awful husband.”
“No.”
“You know you want to.”
“It’s a bad idea,” I rasped, even as every part of me yearned to find her again.
The other half of my soul.
“I’m going,” Zeke said, watching me carefully. “You can stay here if you’d rather.”
He knew I’d never let him go alone.
By the time I pulled into the garage at our family estate, the shakes had stopped, and my stomach had mostly settled. It would be hours before I stopped sweating.
“Beaumont,” my mother called excitedly, her feet barely touching the cement as she raced for my car. “You found her.”
“No,” I said, putting up a hand to stop her. “No, something’s wrong.”
“What do you mean?” she asked in confusion. “I can feel it.” She paused. “I can smell it.”
“She’s not right,” I said desperately, my words curt. “It’s not her.”
“It is…”
My chest tightened, distant memories mixing with new ones in a kaleidoscope of confusion. It could never be her.
“Bjorn,” my dad barked in rebuke from the doorway.
“Sorry, Mama,” I murmured.
“Come inside,” she ordered, waving off my apology.
I followed her numbly into the house.
“It’s her,” my father said flatly as I passed him. “I can smell it.”
“I already told him that, my love,” my mother admonished. “He knows.”
“It can’t be,” I argued. “She’s…” I shook my head. She was everything I’d never wanted. Her eyes were wrong. Her face was wrong. Her body was wrong. Her personality was appalling. She bounced when she walked. She was too short. She was too small.
“Tell us,” my father ordered, crossing his arms.
“She’s wrong,” I replied. I didn’t know how else to explain it. My body told me that she was the one. It ached to get back in my car and race back to the bank. But my mind, my gut, said that a mistake had been made.
“What’s wrong with her?” my mom asked worriedly, chewing the inside of her cheek as she leaned against my father. “Is she ugly?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “No.”
“Which is it?” my father asked.
“Looks are just window dressing,” my mother said before he’d even finished speaking. “They don’t matter. Not really. It’s what’s inside that counts. The bond—”
“She’s not ugly.”
My parents stared at me.
“She’s not right.”
They continued to stare.
“Son,” my father said after a few minutes, his voice gentler than I’d heard since I was a child. “You knew she wouldn’t be exactly the same. You were warned back when—”
“I know that,” I snapped.
“Mordecai told you—”
“I know what Mordecai said.”
“It’s a blessing,” my mother reminded me quietly. “One you’ve been granted twice now.”
“I’ve waited before,” I said, a new wave of cold sweat dripping down my back as I thought of going through it all again. “I can do it once more.”
“You will not,” my father said sternly, glaring at me in admonishment. “How dare you defy the Gods again?”
“I’m not defying—”
“Quiet,” he ordered. “Your brothers have waited as long as you. Ambrose even longer. To throw away this chance after doing it once before would be the height of entitlement. You made your mother a promise.”
“She’s not right.”
“Who are you to decide that?” he thundered, losing the leash on his temper. “Do you question the Gods?”
“Erik,” my mother murmured as my back snapped straight.
“You will complete this bond with the mate of your soul,” my father ordered, pointing at me as his eyes flashed. “As you should have done before.”
“Don’t speak of my mate,” I shot back, getting to my feet, his aggression fueling my own.
“Which one?” he asked nastily.
“Beaumont,” my mother snapped, holding up her hand as I moved away from the counter. “Not another step.”
“Your selfishness ends now,” my father growled.
“My selfishness?” I argued in disbelief. “You believe it was selfish to allow my mate to live the life she’d chosen for herself?”
“If you’d allowed fate to unfold as it should’ve, you would’ve been living within your bond for the last eighty years,” he said flatly.
“This argument has grown tedious,” my mother said, her hand wrapping tightly around my father’s forearm. Her tone softened. “We urge you to give this considerable thought, Bjorn. You have been given a gift, one which our kind spend their entire lives waiting for. Don’t waste it.”
Without another word, she towed my father out of the room. Their low voices fell into an argument before they’d reached the other side of the house.
Pulling out my phone, I strode toward my wing of the house. I needed to change my clothes and find something to occupy my mind. I wished I could call Zeke. He remembered our time in London far better than I did. Fighting the bond had left spots in my memory that I was sure I’d never recover.