Page 117 of Awakened

Fates… she’s afraid.

Maybe he doesn't see it. Maybe no one else sees it but me. But I know what she looks like when she’s scared, when she’s bracing for harsh words. For pain. I’ve always assumed the little tells were an act⁠—

But if I was wrong about Caelan…

That means the way she curls her shoulders and the way her fingers still right before they start to tremble and the way her eyes snap to the floor like she’s been trained to keep them there…

All those tells are real.

And right now, they’re all present.

And the way she looks at Caelan? It’s so obvious. He still doesn’t know what she can do. No idea about her blood and what her father is doing with it. No idea what she is or what her abilities are.

Fates, when did I learn to read her so perfectly? When did I memorize every one of her micro expressions and tuck them deep inside my soul the way I have with my Pack and my team?

And why the fuck is she asking me for help, of all people?

“What she’s trying to say is that your mind works differently than all of ours,” Branwen adds, choosing for once to use her powers for good instead of evil. “So sit your arse down so we can fill Caelan in on what the bloody hell has been happening around here. Also, this one,” she tosses a thumb over her shoulder at Riven, “is chomping at the bit to speak. So please, for the love of all that’s holy, have your emotional crisis later.”

“Aye, I agree with the lass,” Kane adds with all the gravity of an asshole casting his first vote in parliament.

I forgot the Scottish bastard was even here. Fuck, my head aches.

I exhale a frustrated breath and retake my seat with obvious reluctance. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to discuss any of this. I don’t want to sit between my Packmates—both of whom are pissed at me for the same, yet very different reasons—and feel their anger thrumming down the Bond.

There’s one thing I do want, though, and that’s answers.

So against my better judgment, I open my laptop and boot it up.

Like my body doesn’t care what my brain wants, my gaze slides to the left, toward Idril.

She’s curled into Caelan, Soren’s hand resting on her thigh. My Packmate is apparently fine with that because he’s not yet threatened to remove the mutt’s appendage.

Like she can feel my gaze on her, Idril glances up, peering at me through her lashes. When she notices I’m already looking at her, she stills.

Then she graces me with the softest, most gentle smile I’ve ever received. It's tentative. Wary.

Genuine.

I take the olive branch for what it is—aware that out of the two of us, I should be the one offering, not receiving—and incline my head the smallest amount.

Her rigid muscles relax on a soft exhale.

I turn from her to focus on my laptop. No matter how bad I want to look back, I don’t.

Because after everything that’s happened in the last hour, all the realizations and truths and upheavals, nothing has scared me—genuinely terrified me—more than the suddenly overwhelming desire to see more of those soft, gentle smiles.

Or just how selfishly I want to steal them for myself.

Chapter 14

Idril

Istudy my hands, lying flat on the table in front of me. They’re pale. Small. The worn oak under my palms was once smooth, but now it’s littered with dents and scratches that speak to its history.

I feel like an interloper—a spectator in my own life.

A mug appears in front of me. When I glance up, Caelan gives me a soft smile, which I return as he takes his seat and scoots it closer. Another hand—just as large as Caelan’s, but tan and covered in tattoos—nudges the mug, a silent encouragement to drink.