Chapter 23 Kaian #2
The big alpha frowns at Quinn’s familiarity and his subtle—but still present—tone of disrespect. Kaian doesn’t need to understand all of Were culture to know that there’s something about Connall that puts Quinn’s perfect nose out of joint.
There’s a pat to the top of Kaian’s head. “It’s okay, Kai. There’s a time for everything, right, Eli?” Isaac asks.
Elias puts his arm around Isaac’s waist. Up close, he’s even prettier. Smooth pale skin and gentle brown eyes. Kaian tries not to think about what Isaac said about him being a good kisser.
“Yeah, mates wait for each other. Especially when we’re—” He stops himself and shrugs. Isaac nods, as if he knew what he’d been going to say.
Kaian wishes he could say the same.
“But you probably know that already,” Elias offers a reassuring smile.
Soren snorts from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch. The position means he can see the entire room and out the window, where he’d cracked the drapes and raised the blinds a little.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Quinn says, arms raised over his head in a stretch, revealing a slim stripe of warm skin that draws every eye in the room. “Kai just heard about Weres today for the first time. You’ll be relieved to know he’s twenty-seven, and not eighteen.”
Connall sucks in a breath so fast he starts choking on his own spit.
“What? No freaking way?” Isaac says incredulously. “Girl, you have got to dish on your GRWM.”
“Uh…what?” Kaian realizes belatedly that Isaac must be asking about his skincare routine. He’s heard that before, even if it hadn’t been in exactly that same way. Everywhere he went, people were shocked that he looked so young, and the disbelief on their faces when he confessed his real age.
Kaian can’t explain it. He hadn’t even noticed at first that time seemed to have stopped for him. Who could say they noticed themselves aging in the day-to-day? Especially when you were on the run and didn’t look in a mirror more than once a month.
As far as he can tell, he’s looked like this for almost a decade. He’s not sure why or if he’ll always look like this at thirty, fifty, or a hundred. Frozen on the edge of adulthood, he had begun to worry that he’d forget his age without identification.
It had come to him in the UK the year he’d turned eighteen.
“Look,” he says, pulling up the edge of his shirt sleeve, revealing the tattoo on his forearm. “I get one mark every year on my birthday.” The tattoo wouldn’t have worked to convince Opal or Ruby at the bar, but Kaian hopes it’s enough to convince these men.
The swirl on his arm looks like a strand of DNA—deliberate in its symmetry.
A double helix rendered in bold and almost broken lines, winding its way up his forearm.
The first stretch he’d done all at once, just days after he turned eighteen—back when his magic was more instinct and fear.
After that, he’d find a new place willing to trade for a single line of ink, carved by strangers in different cities.
No two were alike.
The ink changed depending on the artist. Each time, while they’d made their mark, their golden timelines lit up his mind’s eye, etched into memory. Every single line was a point on a map of his life, winding over his arm like a story only he could read.
One that reminds him he’s alive—not just an hourglass watching his life slip like grains of sand through the glass.
“Pretty,” Connall says. The alpha’s fingertip traces a slow, deliberate line over the ink on Kaian’s arm, and he has to force himself not to moan.
“Okay?” Kaian says. The word barely makes sense, but somehow—it does. It holds a dozen questions and even more reassurances. Connall, instead of dodging it, just exhales like something heavy is lifting from his shoulders.
“What did Quinn mean you just found out about Weres?” Connall asks, voice still low but edged now with something curious. “You’re a magic-user.”
It hits him then that he’d not told Soren or Quinn either, but they’d known. It’s scary to think he’s giving himself away somehow.
“I am, but I’ve never been to school.”
“Why not?” Isaac pipes up from across the room, one eyebrow raised. He’s holding up the waistband of his too-big scrub pants, which are threatening to betray him entirely. His tone is casual, but his eyes say he’s listening. “Isn’t it, like, mandatory or something?”
Before Kaian can answer, Isaac reaches Soren, who just pulls him in, big hands spanning Isaac’s waist, without needing to say a thing.
Quinn disappears, returning with a rumpled pile of clothes smelling of that citrus-scented fabric softener. “Here,” Quinn says, handing Kaian the still-warm laundry. “These are yours. Washed. Dried. Definitely less ‘walk of shame.’”
Kaian huffs a laugh, shifting the bundle. “Thanks.” It’ll be easier to talk with pants on. That shouldn’t matter, but somehow it really, really does.
Connall leans back against the island, arms folding like he’s settling in. He doesn’t say a word, but the energy says start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.
Quinn mirrors his posture against the back of the couch like a challenge of some kind. “I think that’s enough for now,” Quinn says. “Everyone’s tired, and it’s a fucking long story.”
He pauses just long enough to make it clear he’s not only talking about Kaian. “And it’s not the only one that needs telling.”
Clenching his jaw until it cracks, Connall straightens so he’s standing tall.
Quinn matches him, and the only sound in the room is Elias’s surprised gasp.
Soren puts Isaac back on his feet and takes a step toward them.
It’s as if Quinn has drawn a line in the sand between Connall and him, and everyone knows what it means except Kaian.
Just when Kaian thinks something’s got to give, Connall takes a deep breath and shakes out his fists, which Kaian hadn’t even noticed were clenched at his sides.
“You’re right, of course. We should get some rest. There are two bedrooms, just—” He waves a vague hand, turns on his heel, heads toward the sliding glass doors at the far end of the room.
“Alpha!” Isaac calls. He moves to follow, but Elias has an iron grip on his mate’s wrist.
For a few seconds, no one moves. The sliding door clicks shut behind Connall like a lock turning in all their chests.
Kaian hugs the clean clothes to his chest, watching Quinn, who’s still standing like a statue, arms crossed, face carefully blank. But he sees it now—that sliver of something wounded behind his eyes.
Soren turns away, takes a single step toward the door—like instinct is pulling him after Connall—before he stops himself.
Isaac’s the one who exhales first, bouncing a little on his toes. “Sooo…” he says with faux brightness that doesn’t reach his eyes, clearly trying to salvage the mood. “Pasta? Is anyone hungry?”
“I’ll do it,” Elias says softly, pulling Isaac after him toward the kitchen. Soon, the water is running, and pots are clanging in the background while Elias opens and closes cabinets and the freezer.
Soren doesn’t speak, just nods and heads down the hall without a backward glance. The bathroom door closes with a quiet click.
Which leaves Quinn and Kaian alone.
Quinn’s face morphs from carefully blank to what Kaian is fast realizing is a mask he uses to hide his most uncomfortable emotions. As if he can pretend none of what happened matters. Like he didn’t just break his own heart to prove a point.
Kaian watches him for a moment. Then decides he’s had enough of not knowing.
“What the actual fuck is happening?” he asks quietly.
Quinn snorts, his mouth tilting in a dry, bitter smile. “Welcome to pack life, bébé.”