Chapter 25 Briar #2
“Then shift,” I challenge. “We both know you need to be able to do this. You won’t get through the veil otherwise.”
Her irises flash at that. I’ve hooked her resolve.
Her determination is admirable, though I’ll admit I’m concerned what she might try once she’s in the mortal realm.
Selfishly, I don’t want her to go. Managing the searing strand of our bond without her knowledge is hard enough without her being a world away.
She pivots toward the door, and for a moment, I wonder if she will tell me to fuck off and walk out. But instead, she takes a few slow breaths, shrinking down as gray and white patches of fur burst from her skin.
I drop to the ground and sit back on my heels. Monroe’s big bunny eyes blink up at me. A polar ice cap could melt from that stare.
“You’re beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself. But fuck it, she is. “Knew you could do it.” The temptation to scratch those delicate ears almost overtakes me, but I slip a hand into my pocket and summon a fuzzy robe with the other. “When you’re ready to shift back—”
Her nose twitches a few times, and with a pop, she reemerges. I turn my head, holding the robe out for her.
“Well done—”
“Shit.” The back of the robe wriggles as she finishes slipping her arms through the sleeves. I contain the smirk threatening the corner of my mouth. Monroe groans in annoyance, one gray ear flopping over the side of her head, the other perked straight up. “I knew this would happen.”
“It’s okay,” I reassure her, swallowing thickly at the memory of the inked stem that should be curving out from between the robe’s lapels. Wonder how she’s managed to conceal it. “You still shifted. Give yourself a moment to take that in before you give it another try.”
With a half-hearted huff, she snaps her eyes shut.
This time, though, she doesn’t need my help.
A few moments of focus and a wiggle of her nose and both ears roll back into place.
Presumably the tail disappears as well, though I keep my attention upward, fighting my instincts.
No one is immune to a fluffy tail—not even me.
Monroe bounces on her heels at the accomplishment, joy bubbling along our minimally tended bond. Mint irises meet my gaze and pearly teeth nip her bottom lip. The air sweetens.
I clear my throat, tugging the collar of my black button-up. “Well done, Dr. Tanner.”
“Thank you, Professor Briar.” She gives me a small curtsy, and we both chuckle until the moment is sliced by silence.
Is this the first time I’ve heard her truly laugh?
Warmth swims through my veins, the hum of my magic amplified through simply enjoying a moment of shared joy.
With her.
“Show me again,” I rasp, suddenly parched.
That earns another glare that I commit to memory. And though she grumbles a curse under her breath, that’s exactly what she does.
After our session, I head toward the Sprouts School to pick up my girls.
The hour with Monroe is time I don’t take for granted.
I’m surprised she didn’t insist on working with someone else when she was told she needed private lessons to graduate.
Selfishly, I hope some part of her, even a subconscious one, wants the time with me.
It would only make sense that she would, despite not wanting to claim the bond.
The alternative, allowing it to wilt and wither, is a painful process.
The longer she rejects it, the farther the distance between us, the worse it will get.
And while I am resigned to my suffering, when the unsatisfied bond’s sharp craving twists beneath my ribs, I’m sprung into action, hating the thought of Monroe in pain.
She’s been through enough in her short stint here. Hurting even more because of me.
Squeals and the thud of tiny feet against soil thunder from the school’s entrance, and one by one my girls run into my arms with a force that punches the oxygen out of me. Not that I mind. Their boundless joy radiates from them, filling me with the warmth of four small suns.
“Daddy!” their sweet voices ripple from within our family tangle, and I press a kiss atop each of their heads.
As we head for home, they tell me about their day, and I play moderator, ensuring they each get an equal turn to share.
When we get to the house, I make a tray of apple nachos topped with chocolate chips and an almond butter drizzle.
Taylor grabs a pitcher of lemonade and pours her younger sisters’ glasses, setting them out before getting one for herself.
Within minutes, the tray is empty and they bolt for the backyard, their laughter filtering into the kitchen while I wash the dishes.
I twitch my nose to dry them and return them to their cabinets, then spin myself into a dark-gray T-shirt and sweats.
Pivoting, I sprint outside for a quick game of tag.
The girls giggle wildly and scatter in all directions.
Taylor bounces with her hand pressed to the siding of the small storage shed, our makeshift home base.
Lilliana and Juniper peek from behind tree trunks, and to my left, Millie dashes across the grass. “Ready or not, here I come!”
Stalking forward, I grin and take off after them.
Twenty minutes later, as I’m about to tag Millie, a pinch of discomfort wriggles between my ribs.
Shit.
“Daddy, are you okay?” she asks, brows nudged together. Her eyes are on my chest where I’m clutching my shirt, but the rest of her is poised to run if I’m pretending to be hurt.
This happens more frequently than I’d anticipated. She’s still not fully trusting that I won’t tag her, so I back up and sit against the shed. The other girls run over.
Taylor lifts my hand from my shirt and presses her head to my chest like she’s seen on TV. She doesn’t realize what they’re listening for, a heartbeat none of us carries. Not anymore.
She frowns at my chest, then up at me. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay, sweetie.” I pat my sternum playfully for emphasis, though the wriggle from earlier sinks deeper. “It’s just a tug from the invisible ivy.”
“Like the story?” Juniper asks, climbing into my lap.
“The very same,” I whisper conspiratorially. It’s the closest thing I can think of to explain the bond. They know what it is, in an abstract sort of way, but I’m not going to tell them that the person on the other end would rather it be snipped and not exist.
“I don’t get it. Who’s tugging? We’re all right here, Daddy.” Lilliana points at her sisters and then at me. “How far does this vine reach? As far as you go when you’re earthside?”
Juniper’s eyes widen. “Farther?”
“Not that far.” I nuzzle her nose with my own.
“The distance doesn’t matter so much as the love it’s made of,” Taylor says before I can. Her perceptiveness goes far beyond her ten-year-old frame. It’s slightly terrifying.
“That’s exactly right.”
Her chest puffs up at my praise, and I can’t help but smile.
She’s read the story hundreds of times, both with me and to her sisters.
It’s disorienting for young Blooms coming to Florezca.
The children’s book didn’t exist when I was little, but the idea of vines that could reach anywhere is something I wish I’d grown up with.
While I may be the one lucky enough to raise these girls, it’s not lost on me that both here and on the other side of the veil is a community of boundless love eternally connected to them.
“Well, whoever it is, they’re lucky. Any vine connected to you is made of love from the biggest heart, Daddy,” Millie chimes in.
“Thank you, Millie,” She throws her arms around me for a hug. I wheeze in her tight grasp. “It sure is.”
Monroe doesn’t want it, but that vine exists—seeded between us and rooted in devotion.
Once we’re inside and the girls begin the procession of washing away the dirt and grime of the day, I glance at the clock to figure out who I can ask to come over and watch them.
Grabbing a slip of paper and plucking a rose from the vase on my dresser, I jot down a quick note and wrinkle my nose, sending it off on the breeze.
Ten minutes and the quickest shower of my life later, my parents let themselves in, and I zip out the door, hopping on my bike. That wriggle from earlier sinks deeper. Hissing, I press my foot on the gas.
Soothe your mate, every instinct shouts, spurring me on.
“Not mine,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
While all mates can reach each other with a simple palm to our sternum, I’ve restrained myself since I found Monroe inked in our mate mark.
I could’ve been there already, but that runs the risk of revealing too much and scaring her off.
She’s adamant that she doesn’t want to know who her mate is—who I am to her—and I refuse to be the reason she feels trapped in her afterlife.
I want her to be happy, even if that’s not with me.
But if she knew I parked outside The Fluffle, shifted to dart across the fields leading to her cottage, and conveniently nudged a ladder around the corner so it would reach her window, she would not be happy. She’d be irate.
Well, more irate than she already is.
I purse my lips and climb the rungs up toward Monroe’s windowsill, peering through the pane.
The moment I see her, the bond settles, and that twisting pain recedes into the background.
It’s only her, standing at her desk, adjusting the shades of purple of her foxgloves.
Some frustration sifts within our connection, but nothing alarming.
When she selects a vivid lavender, nearly the exact shade reflected back at me in the window, I shudder.
It’s just a coincidence.
I know better than to believe she intentionally chose it.
Squinting, I inspect her eyes for any tear tracks down her cheeks.
Her shoulders aren’t pinched and her spine is relaxed.
I’m about to breathe out a sigh, relieved I made it in time before the effects of the unnurtured bond took root in her, but choke on it instead, my attention snagging on the sheen of fresh paint streaked across a set of plates.
I suppose I’m glad she has an outlet, despite it being something she reserves for when she’s especially frustrated and angry—even if it’s a seemingly pleasant one.
What did I miss?
I lift my palm, hovering it over the glass, wishing I could comfort her in some real way. Doing the only thing I can think of, I twitch my nose, and Monroe’s head snaps left, to the water burbling against the tub.
The smile that radiates from her replaces the lingering ache in my chest. Not wanting to get caught outside her window, I hop off the ladder, shifting as I do, and scamper back to my bike.
With each thud of my paws against soil, relaxation grows along our connection.
Though it’s not the way I’d always envisioned taking care of my mate, there’s solace in this small act.
Content that I’ve settled the bond, at least for the time being, I swing my leg over my bike and head home to make dinner.