Chapter 48 #2
We finish our tea, and Effy tells me she’s heading to the South House to meet Luca and Alex before dinner. That leaves me alone in the West House. I decide to freshen up before going back to the North House, the den.
The shower feels heavenly. The warm blow of the hairdryer even better. I pull my hair into a sleek bun, my mind circling back to the way our conversation ended.
Strengthen the pack. The pack will test you.
Her words echo through me, driving me half mad.
I don’t know what they mean, and maybe I never will.
The truth, however, is simple. I came here for the man I love. And now, without even meaning to, I’ve come to love Effy too.
Fucking Jay. I hate him to the bone. He stole Effy, twisted everything that happened, and left Tom carrying the guilt for years. From everything I’ve seen, I know that’s the truth.
I’m going to put an end to it.
Hopefully after tonight, Tom and Effy can start finding their way back to each other. And whatever tests the pack throws at me, I’ll find a way through. Tom and his daughter deserve to be free.
Chaos greets me when I step back into the North House. The youngsters, most of them in their early twenties, have taken over the living area with what looks like a drunken game of truth or dare.
Loudly drunk, except for Effy, who’s seated between Finn and Joan. They’re yelling at each other for cheating.
Effy's eating an apple and leafing through a thick book on dream psychology. This title is new to me, so I make a mental note to add that one to my to-be-read list.
Finn waves me over and shoves a card into my hand. I read the question.
This is ridiculous. And dangerous. The last thing I want is to get dragged into this, so I give it back to Finn.
“Joan McKenna, did you ever have sex at Heatherfell?” Finn asks.
That’s when it comes back to me. No one gets into Heatherfell.
“Fuck you, Finn. I’m not going there.”
My mind flashes back to Stella telling Terrence that Joan had an affair with a bodyguard who was later found dead in the canal.
Effy looks up from her book, throwing Finn a death stare before turning another page.
“How about you, Finn?” Joan jumps in, trying to smooth things over.
“Wouldn’t want to miss my cum shot on the royal Heatherfell grounds.”
“Tell me who!”
Finn’s eyes blaze, darting between Joan, Alex, and Luca.
“STOP!” Joan screams, throwing herself across the couch cushions. “Which one of them?”
No one answers. Joan rolls onto her back in what I’d call theatrical frustration.
They did a threesome. Obviously. It took me one conversation to figure out that where Luca goes, Alex follows, and vice versa. If that ever changes, I don’t want to be around for the disaster.
Finn looks far too satisfied with himself. This whole scene was meant for me, his drunken stare stays fixed on me, not subtle in the slightest. I'm not impressed.
Effy lowers her book for the second time, giving him a look that clearly means enough.
Finn shuts up. Everyone shuts up.
Right.
This is getting awkward. Better find Tom.
My eyes sweep the room. He’s nowhere to be seen, including the pool table where I left him.
A hand lands on my shoulder. It’s Auntie Mary.
“If you’re looking for Tom, he’s working on Christmas dinner.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “He’s cooking for all these people by himself?”
“It isn’t that much work, lad. Come on, I’ll show you.”
I leave the younger generation to their game, trailing Mary toward the kitchen. Behind me, I catch Finn bragging that he’s going to sink his teeth into the fresh meat tonight, which is, of course, me.
The prick. A herbivore he will be.
The kitchen’s a mess when I step in, just like in Palm Oasis.
I didn’t need a crystal ball for that. Tom’s an incredible chef, but he always leaves the cleaning to me.
The setup surprises me. I expected some large-scale operation underway, with courses at every stage of prep. Instead, I find Tom stirring a big skillet of baked potatoes.
“Hey, baby, what’s for dinner?” I lean over his shoulder to see if I can thieve something off the cutting board.
“There’s meatloaf in the oven, baked potatoes, and cucumber salad for greens.”
“Culinary for Christmas dinner.”
“Family tradition.”
“What’s not?” I ask, a little sarcastic.
Tom sighs, flipping the potatoes in the skillet.
“We eat sober at Christmas to remind ourselves how life once was, to stay grateful and humble. The money we save goes straight into the McKenna Foundation. We fund instruments and lessons for kids whose families can’t afford them.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“That came out wrong. I’m so sorry.” I steal a kiss behind his ear. “That’s such a great initiative.”
“We were those kids once, surviving before we even turned ten. That’s why the foundation matters. Music brings light when the days are dark. Gives you somewhere to escape to.”
I want to say something, to tell him how proud I am too, but I know better than to crowd the moment.
I take his hand, giving it a soft squeeze. I want him to know that he—and yes, his family too—have my deepest respect for that.
He points the wooden spatula at the cucumbers.
“You dare cut them with those surgeon's hands?”
I snort. “The fuck, Tom. I used to make clean cuts in the trauma bay with a 10 blade in total chaos. I can manage a cucumber.”
I wash my hands and pick up the knife.
“Put it down.” Tom takes my wrist, repositioning the knife in my hand.
“Can’t call for a doctor in the room if you slice yourself open.
I chuckle. “This is indeed a little different from holding a scalpel.”
“That’s exactly what I meant. You’re overqualified.”
He’s so damn proud of that line.
I turn back to the board and make neat, even cuts, because some childish part of me still feels the need to demonstrate competence.
I bump his arm.
“That was hot. You, showing me how to hold a knife.”
“I’m not that into knife play, love. But if it’s steel you’re after, I can show you something even harder to hold.”
My teeth graze softly against his ear. “At home, Sapphire.”
“Home,” he says, gleaming with nostalgia. “My forever favorite word.”
And with those words, I see his shoulders ease for the first time since we set foot in this hostile territory. But I know that relief won’t last long. I still need to talk to him about Effy before dinner is served.
“Listen, baby, I ran into Effy at the West House. She knows about us.”
The spatula clatters against the skillet.
“What!?”
“I didn’t tell her anything. She reads you. That’s how she figured it out.”
He presses his lips together. The way he circles the spatula around the skillet tells me everything, stirring like he’s trying to drill through the pan.
“Okay…”
“She’s a sweet girl,” I continue. “Very mature for her age.”
“Jay’s done a great job raising her.”
I’m not going to tell him about Jay raising her to lead the pack. This isn’t the right moment to bring up my findings about Effy being next in line—and with that, her child, or one of her future children, too.
“She asked if we could meet at the West House after dinner. She’s struggling, just like you.”
Tom lets out a vague sound somewhere between a sigh and a grunt.
“You know I’ll drag you there myself if I have to, right?”
He nods, but I can tell he’s retreating into his thoughts.
“I’m scared.”
“I know, baby, but this is what you’ve wanted from the very beginning, right? Close your eyes and think back to all those thoughts you had when you first walked into Arcadia.”
His mouth twists into a wicked smile. “Back then? I was thinking, Who’s that divine creature falling straight out of heaven into my lap? ”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I jab him in the side.
“You fell face-first into my lap.”
His finger lands on my sternum.
“You invited me into your bed, remember?”
“No, that’s not what happened. You invited me into my own bed, remember?”
Before he can respond, Mary interrupts, reaching between us to turn off the stove.
“You two lovebirds, let’s get this dinner served before the potatoes burn. They’re drunk, but not that drunk.”
Tom chuckles, giving the skillet one last stir as Mary shoots me a friendly smile.
Aunties always know the secrets. And now, with two members of this family already aware of us, I can only hope Tom can come out to his family on his own terms.
That’s probably wishful thinking.
When I step into the dining room, I’m relieved to see not everyone’s seated yet. No grand entrance this time where all eyes are on me.
With a quick nudge, Tom points to a free chair next to him. Just before I reach the table, I see him switch two place cards like a skilled thief. No one notices a thing.
The table, meant for fourteen, looks like the aftermath of a storm rather than decked out for a Christmas dinner.
The plates are a random mix of thrift-store treasures, every one of them unique, some a little chipped and none of them matching.
Joan studies her Delft Blue windmill plate, peaks at Effy’s brown bowl. The girls swap them giggling. The rest follow suit, trading dishes like they’re playing Catan.
The cutlery’s no better. Some have spoons instead of forks; a few don’t even have knives.
At least I have a knife, and a beautiful rusty fork.
I hate that there’s no order; not only in the tableware, but the people are loud and drunk. Bottles of Scotch get passed around, glasses spilling. The food is steaming in the middle of the table and I can only imagine that when Jay gives the sign, the wolves will attack like maniacs.
Speaking of the devil, Jay appears in the doorway. My prayers are answered because the room goes dead quiet.
Everyone bows their head, hands clasping and eyes down. Is this some kind of ritual?
I’m The Outsider. Literally. It’s written on the place card in front of me. Which means I’m the only one who doesn’t know the rules.