Brie
“He’s brash and… bossy.” I pace to the other side of my suite as warm morning air drifts through the windows, washing the room in tropical light.
Maeve chuckles through the phone. I imagine her sprawled out in her bed, hanging her head over the mattress while flipping through a magazine on the floor, kicking her legs. “Wow. That sounds like someone else I know.”
“Who?” I ask, running my fingertips along the wall. It’s morning, and we’re finally out in the open water, leagues from shore. I was asleep when the yacht finally left the port and woke up to waves all around me and no other vessel in sight.
“You, duh.” Her bed creaks like she just rolled over to her back. “It sounds like you’ve met your match, my dear.”
“Don’t ‘my dear’ me,” I grumble into the receiver, perching on the couch across from the windows. “You sound like Mom.”
“Oh, Brie, she’s so worried about you. Promise me you’re dropping this whole Alpha husband hunting scheme, please? Mom’s considering shipping you off to some Moon Goddess convent in Celestoria and has Dad half convinced it’s a good idea.”
I pale, rubbing my temples. “I–you have to understand why–”
“Why not just wait until you find your mate, Brie? I mean, Goddess, what if you marry an Alpha and meet your mate later on? What are you going to do then?”
I’m speechless. Not a single word materializes on the tip of my tongue. I stare at the endless waves, trying to come up with something to pacify my sister, and all I can say in the end is, “You’re right. It was a stupid idea.”
“And if you don’t find your mate,” she says excitedly, “that just means the two of us can be together forever, ruling Eastonia like it’s meant to be.”
“Sure, Maeve,” I smile, but my heart aches.
I hear Aris’s voice nearby, followed by Maeve grumbling about having to help him get ready for a date with his new, fancy girlfriend, and she hangs up, leaving me in total, all consuming silence where I can hear the yacht creaking against the waves.
I set my phone down. I’ve been in the habit of not checking the news or gossip tabloids that love to report about my family. I prefer to live in blissful ignorance of wht anyone has to say about me.
Still, I’m not sure what to do with my time on this boat. I haven’t seen Logan yet this morning, but I didn’t come up for breakfast. There’s a small gym on board, but I much prefer a nice, long walk or shifting into my wolf form over pumping iron or sweating on a treadmill.
I start rifling through the closets and cupboards in the room, finding a stash of romance novels my mom likes to pretend she doesn’t like, and choose one. When’s the last time I had time to read a book? Normally, my days are spent following my mom and sister around, delegating tasks to the court, and ensuring Maeve is staying on track with her training and education to one day be queen.
In fact, my entire life revolves around Maeve.
I stare at the wall instead of the book, wondering when I last took a single day for myself.
It must have been… never. Because I have no hobbies, nothing I can say is my passion–and my passion alone.
I crack the book open just as a knock sounds on the door.
“Come in,” I call out, expecting a stewardess with the coffee I ordered via the intercom twenty minutes ago.
But the shadow that passes over me can only belong to a man, and only one man in particular.
I stand, flustered, still wearing a lacy night dress and matching robe I didn’t expect anyone but the stewardesses to see me in, and whirl toward Logan at the same moment he shuts the door behind him.
A tray with a carafe of coffee and a couple of mugs rest in his hands. He stares at me, and I stare back, both of us seemingly in shock for two wholly different reasons.
He braves a glance down my body to my bare thighs and back up again. I blush deeply and pull my robe around my stomach.
“I’m sorry–”
“You shaved,” I blurt.
Logan holds my gaze. “I did.”
He sets the tray down on a table by the door and absently rubs his now clean shaven jaw. It makes him look younger, more polished. He’s wearing his glasses, too, which startled me almost as much as seeing him fresh-faced after a day spent directly in his company without them.
I notice the laptop bag hanging over his shoulder as he turns toward the coffee and pours two mugs, adding cream and sugar to mine. How he knows, I have no idea, but it’s the exact ratio I would serve myself.
“Are you planning on staying inside today?” he asks, not looking over his shoulder.
“This morning, at least. I don’t–I don’t have plans,” I manage to say without my voice shaking.
“I didn’t see you at breakfast.”
“I’m not a breakfast person,” I admit.
“Well, neither am I,” he replies as he turns to hand me my coffee, but he makes a point of not looking in my direction. “I’m just going to work for a while if you’re going to hang out here.”
He moves toward the far end of the room where a trio of armchairs faces the windows. I follow his progress, holding my mug like my life depends on it.
He’s obviously uncomfortable. I can see it in the way his shoulders tense as he sits down and pulls out his laptop. His gaze lingers on my bare feet for a fraction of a second before he clears his throat and settles his laptop in his lap.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” I whisper.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be wearing that,” he whispers back, glancing at me–my face this time. His eyes are dark and… heavy with something I can’t describe, but it makes me feel totally, completely exposed and all tingly….
“It’s just a nightgown.” Wait, why am I explaining myself to him? “And actually, you’re in my space right now, uninvited, again.”
“Would you like me to leave, Princess?”
I open my mouth with every intention of saying yes, but the word, “No!” rings through the room against my will.
I surprise myself by it, honestly, and feel that horrible blush creeping across my entire body once again. I quickly scurry to the bed and tug a new outfit out of the suitcase I failed to unpack right away and disappear into the bathroom to change, sipping my coffee while it’s still hot.
When I emerge, dressed in casual but comfortable pants and a tank top to beat the heat seeping into the boat, he’s still sitting in that armchair with his laptop propped on his thighs, his head bent and fingers occasionally clicking keys.
I peer at him, curious about what he’s working on–research, it looks like.
“Are you buying a boat?” I ask, and he immediately shuts his laptop. I purse my lips and look elsewhere, feeling that crazy, impossibly thick tension start to fizzle between us again, just like last night at dinner.
I can feel him watching me as I move toward the windows, sipping my coffee and pretending like I didn’t just totally pry into his business… but he is in my room, sitting in my chair…
When he doesn’t respond, I sit on the bed, toying with the book I almost started earlier until he interrupted, and… can’t help myself any longer. “I didn’t know you needed glasses.”
He sighs nearby–a sound etched with a flicker of annoyance.
“They’re readers, not really glasses–”
“So you need them to read?”
“Yes,” he deadpans. “Hence the name.”
I look at him, finding him staring directly at me with an expression dripping with exacerbation. So, I shrug, crossing my legs and settling on the edge of the mattress. “I didn’t mean anything by it. They look nice on you, just so you know.” I take another dramatic sip of my coffee and meet his gaze again, kind of loving the way his jaw tenses at my compliment.
This isn’t what I expected rejection to be like. It doesn’t feel like anything anymore. We didn’t know each other before the mate bond clicked into place–not in an intimate or even platonic, friendly way. Logan was just someone I knew of, someone who could, in a removed way, be considered a fringe member of my large circle of family. Rejecting him, and being rejected by him, hurt physically.
Not mentally. Not emotionally.
But now, I feel like we have an uncanny ability to get under each other’s skin in ways others can’t. Maybe that’s just a remnant of the mate bond that used to be there.
Or maybe I’m just reading too much into this–far too much.
“I had to learn to not only speak but read and write your language,” he explains, opening his laptop again. “As a teenager, I should add. It wasn’t easy, and… I struggled. Ryan told me I have something called dyslexia. Cole confirmed it and glasses with a specific type of lens seem to help.”
“They make the words stand out from the background?” I’ve heard a bit about this before.
“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “And they’re not bad when it comes to picking up women at a coffee shop.” He smirks right at me.
“You’re a pig.”
“Again, I’ve been called worse–”
“Give me an example.” I shift my position so I’m facing him, gracefully crossing my legs and blinking at him in anticipation. “What’s the worst thing you’ve been called?”
He lifts a brow, then smiles faintly, reaching up to remove his glasses. “I would have to say… well, I was interrogating a man once. It was the third day of it, and we were all exhausted, him included. He’d been calling me all sorts of names. Fucker being his favorite. I believe it might have been a term of endearment until I started breaking his–” He cuts himself off abruptly, running his tongue across his lower lip while throwing me an apologetic look. “Anyway, on the fourth day it became clear we had the wrong man. His cousin who bore an uncanny resemblance to him had thrown him under the bus, so to speak, and was picked up in Tarsian on other charges. I had to report all of this back to your father, who asked if I’d ever considered taking a day off from being an idiot, and I had no idea what to say, so I said no.”
My brows shoot up to my forehead. “My dad calling you an idiot is the worst thing someone has ever said to you?”
“Yes, by far.” A small smile touches his lips as he leans back, rubbing his temples like the memory pains him. “You see a very different version of your father than I do.”
“I’ve called you a prick and a pig within a twenty-four hour time frame. Do I even make the list?”
“I think if you spoke your mind and said what you actually thought of me, you probably would.”
He holds my gaze. I lose myself in his strange, hazel-green eyes for a moment, watching the way the sunlight reflects off the water and highlights flakes of gold and copper that weave throughout his irises.
“I’ve been called worthless,” I whisper. I didn’t mean to speak. It just came out, flowing like water. “And… useless.”
“By whom?” his voice drops, going all gravelly and deeper than I thought possible. I notice the shift in not only his tone but his body language. He sits up a little straighter, which makes me sit up in turn, my spine turning to steel.
“No one you know. Not–not my family,” I amend, laughing past the pain of the memory. “Just–just someone I was dating for a minute.”
“A boyfriend said that to you?”
“Not–not a boyfriend, no. He was–we were considering marriage. His uncle is an Alpha in the Roguelands–powerful. Connected. Exactly the kind of man I–” I cut myself off as my cheeks begin to burn. Saying the words out loud makes me realize how ridiculous they are… but…. “He was his uncle's heir, and having him as a husband, having his pack behind not only me but my family… it would have thrown an impressive amount of support behind my sister when she ascended the throne. Allies, you know, when the crown is passed.”
I look into my empty coffee mug to stop myself from looking at Logan, not wanting to know what kind of expression he’s currently wearing. I wait for him to laugh at me, but he doesn’t.
“He called you worthless?”
“He didn’t mean it like that.”
“What did he mean it like then? Exactly?” His tone is sharpened to a fine edge.
I risk meeting his eyes. They’re nearly black, even in the sunlight. I shrug. “I don’t have powers, Logan.”
He holds my gaze with an intensity that makes me feel things I’ve never been able to put into words. It’s like I’m under a microscope, and he’s taking me apart piece by piece, studying places I’ve never allowed anyone to come near. My soul, for one. The pain and fear of rejection from those I love. The idea I won’t live up to their unspoken expectations–expectations I’m not sure exist but can’t move past.
“I don’t have powers,” I repeat, curling my hands around my mug. “I don't have anything to add to a bloodline other than my connections to my family. He had no idea I was adopted, and that mattered to him. I didn’t blame him, you know. It’s something to consider–”
“He rejected you because you didn’t have powers to pass on to your future, theoretical children?”
“Yes,” I whisper, turning my eyes back to the windows, to the ocean. “They all have.”
I hear him rise, grunting softly under his breath. He doesn’t move in my direction. His steps are soft on the carpet as he walks to one of the windows and braces his hands on either side of it.
“How many, Brie? How many have there been?”