Chapter 14
A Precarious Position
CORIN
Waiting to see if Johanna will return to my bed reminds me of the benefits of being determinedly single: less worry over being alone.
No wondering or fretting. Fewer minutes lost reviewing events over and over and coming up with all the brilliant things I could’ve said and done if only I’d thought of them in the moment.
I do enough of that in my work life without adding romantic regrets.
Lying in bed provides too clear a view of the alarm clock ticking away the minutes.
My phone sits on the dresser, out of reach, a deliberate choice to keep from getting sucked into unnecessarily answering emails in the middle of the night.
I don’t dare go near it, or I’ll slip, but remaining warm under the covers beside a cool, empty spot lacks appeal.
The floor is lukewarm, but I don’t bother locating my slippers—probably under the bed anyway—as I retreat to the window.
Opening the curtain, I hold it to the side, heavy damask weighing on my wrist and forearm.
A half-moon peers through a misty layer of clouds, and the lights of the city offer a warm glow in the near distance.
In need of distraction, I count the houses on the street that still have their Halloween decorations up: four from this angle, one down from two days ago. Note the houses already set up for the winter solstice holiday: two, although they haven’t started turning on the lights yet. A small blessing.
I recheck both totals in case I’m wrong, twice, then waste more time trying and failing to come up with any move I could have made to forestall the rose-sender from sneaking in and stealing Johanna’s attention.
Two weeks ago, even one week ago, I would’ve sworn romancing Johanna was the last thing on my mind. She was Max’s bereaved partner, my cousin in all but blood.
Bebe’s comments echo in my bones, refusing to leave no matter how I try to turn my thoughts.
Have I, in truth, longed for Johanna for years?
Not during my marriage, I’m sure. Even if I didn’t trust my memories, I can point to the horrible years leading up to our divorce.
My ex-wife and her lawyer dug up any dirt they could, attempting to claim a bigger stake, yet apart from one rant prior to filing—accusing Johanna of stealing our daughters’ affections, which they denied—my ex left Johanna and Max out of it completely.
She’d have joyfully thrown muck at us if she’d suspected I held anything other than familial affection for Johanna.
Then, as now, my ex would do anything to avoid facing the truth of how she’d turned against Anamaria. The comments, jibes, and sheer abuse that chipped away at my bright and bubbly little girl until she’d nearly faded into a shadow of herself.
I dated several people after my divorce was finalized. The company was still young and lean enough then that we all had to spend a lot of time networking. Hard not to find interested potential partners under those circumstances.
No one stuck, though. Few even made it past a month or two of cautious dating.
Had I been unconsciously comparing other women to Johanna? Impossible to know. Easy to rewrite history by projecting backward and saying ‘of course,’ but it’s not that simple.
For I’d approached and courted my ex-wife, chosen to marry her, then to stay after the flames between us sputtered and died.
Of course, I’d gone on instinct in proposing marriage beta-style rather than asking to establish a mate bond through a bite. My inner alpha hadn’t pushed for a bond. Perhaps I should have taken that as a sign of trouble, a warning.
Maybe the choice of marriage versus mating had contributed to her antagonism toward omegas—including her daughter—or she might have tipped over into abuse anyway. Impossible to tell.
Media, governmental agencies, and the myriad designation care organizations all tend to hype the importance and value of instinct in alphas and omegas.
When we present, our bodies shift, and bringing us closer to nature than calmer, more methodical betas.
According to them, alphas and omegas should trust our instincts over rational thought.
Society feeds us a lot of bullshit.
I can’t remember whether I followed instinct when pursuing my ex. Regardless, the older I get, the harder it is to give in to instinct and the easier to second-guess myself.
The more so because my mistakes contributed to the scars my children carry.
Anamaria wasn’t the only one to emerge from the mess of my divorce with trust issues.
I live and work with a warm, caring woman who cherished my children and buoyed me as I reeled through the worst years of my life.
A glorious, laughing embodiment of steadfastness and consideration.
Her love for Max shone clearly, though she never let him walk over her.
Likewise, her face glowed when she cuddled one, two, or all three girls close.
I love her for all that.
Sharing a house, it was impossible not to occasionally notice her lush curves—but I’d remind myself that she was with my cousin, that I loved them both singly and together, and then turn away.
Perhaps sparkling eyes, full breasts, and grabbable hips had appeared in dreams now and then, but nothing more.
Johanna’s hardly perfect. She’s secretive and bad at delegating, with a tendency to forget to eat or drink enough when stressed.
Whether or not I longed for her before Max’s death, I didn’t admit to myself in any measure until after. I refuse to look back and tell a different story.
Which leaves me in a precarious position. My alpha instincts already lean in the direction of forming a mate bond with Johanna if—when—she ever reaches the point of being willing.
Yet, given our shared loss and our shared home, my rational brain urges me to wait. Not to push too much and make certain that she has room enough to decide what she wants—which requires reining in my alpha and making careful decisions as to what extent to indulge my instincts.
I want the chance to see what we might make of ourselves together, without risking what we have.
I’m not sure I can have both.
Or that I’ll get the chance for the first.
Then, soft footfalls outside my door presage the creak of hinges as it opens.
It’s not my daughter, as Anamaria would knock. Johanna does not, sure enough of her welcome to take several steps toward the bed before pivoting to join me at the window. An ankle-length robe covers her, but she removes it to drape across the bureau as she walks.
Moonlight shimmers on the pale pink gown running like watery silk over her curves to just above her knees. Highly unsuitable for winter, no matter that we keep the house reasonably warm. It’s also noticeably shorter than the ones she wore the past couple of nights.
A subtle sign of encouragement? Or chosen because, even in the mix of shadow and moonlight, the color resembles the pink roses delivered to her earlier?
Dozens of questions burn, but I force them down.
Whatever happens between us, or doesn’t, must be Johanna’s choice made clearly and coherently in her right mind.
Let her give me that sign, and I’ll fetch down the moon for her if she asks.
For now, the greatest gifts I can offer are patience, time, and respect.
A line I find harder to tread with every time she turns to me or comes to my room. Or leans against me, as she does now, shoulders and hips pressing against mine. Sweet cranberry perfume hangs about her.
She tilts her head, rubbing the top against my shoulder, marking me whether she means it or not. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
“The bed was cold.” I swallow the words I’d otherwise add: without you.
“So you stand half-naked at the window instead?” Her hand brushes over my bare chest, leaving every hair standing on end. Petting me in a way no one has for more than a decade. It’s a fleeting caress, over too soon to take as any kind of sign except that she’s comfortable with me.
“Four sets of Halloween decorations still up. Two houses already set for Solstice.”
Johanna laughs, then touches my chest again, this time noticing the goosebumps left by her first caress. “You’re colder here. Come get under the covers—between the two of us it’ll be warmer there.”
Loaded language. Her tone is lower than usual, deep and resonant, but not suggestive. Shadows cover enough of her face to hide any indication of whether she meant me to take her invitation other than exactly as offered.
The mattress shifts as we settle, lying flat with a bare inch between us at the closest points: hands and shoulders.
With the curtain back over the window, the room is almost wholly dark.
Blue lines at the edge of the bed tick away minutes on the alarm clock.
Residual chills in my feet leave faster than they should, but sleep eludes me.
Evidently Johanna, too, for she rolls over and leans against my side. One hand settles on my chest, and her head tucks into the curve between my neck and shoulder. Her breath warms my ear.
“You haven’t asked,” she says.
“About what?”
That earns me her fingers, tangled in my chest hair, giving a sharp tug.
I roll to my side, facing her in the dark. Her hand moves to cup my shoulder, so I rest a hand on the lovely dip of her waist. Warmth flows from the places where we touch to circulate everywhere else.
“About the roses. The book. Who sent them.”
“That’s your business.” The heat of my breath comes back at me, our faces are that close. “It’s only mine if you let it be.”
“That’s pretty strict.” She pulls away, a sudden stream of chill air flowing between us.
“I’m trying not to push.” The words escape unbidden. I snap my mouth shut and grit my teeth, unable to call them back.
She doesn’t answer for aching, long minutes, then settles back next to me. Instead of laying a hand on my shoulder, she cups the back of my head. “Thank you.”
My own hand returns to her waist. My fingers do not stray. I swallow, jaw aching.
“I don’t know yet. There aren’t enough clues, and I hate not knowing this kind of thing.” Her silky gown rustles as she moves closer, the cloth brushing my body from chest to groin.
“I wish I’d thought to send roses.” Creating what I’d seen of the book would never have occurred to me, but I could’ve remembered how she enjoyed receiving flowers.
“You don’t need to.” She yawns and rubs her cheek against me. “You’re giving me this.”
Again, she fails to define exactly what she’s talking about. Yet she lets me give her a gentle good-night kiss, after which she turns around and snuggles into me so that we’re spooning. She spends the night in my embrace, and we both sleep well.
Two steps forward?
Then, she wakes me by jolting upright the instant the alarm goes off—depriving me of the chance to wake her with a kiss. Shock and delight ring clear in her voice.
“I know who sent the book!”