Chapter 4
THORNE
By the time I returned home from my run, I was vibrating with enough rage and hatred to fuel the creation of at least a dozen curses.
I halted on the threshold and cocked my head, contemplating.
Actually… a curse—or two—didn’t seem like a bad idea right now.
I was certainly carrying enough emotional distress to power one.
The kind of simmering, sustained fury witches probably dreamed of when they created curses.
I was marinating in resentment, bristling with betrayal, and deeply unsatisfied right now thanks to my ruined run.
If ever there was a right moment to pay a witch to curse someone, this was it.
Okay, sure, the Ravenspells and my family didn’t get along—although that’d begun changing recently—but they did like money.
And really, no one could fault me for cursing my estranged husband with something as harmless as fleas, right?
Growling under my breath, I slammed the door closed so hard the frame rattled.
Good.
I needed to let out a little steam. Calder had ruined the grand opening vibe last night at Love Bites.
Then he’d ruined my sleep. And now, he’d ruined my early morning run.
My daily runs were sacred. The one thing I did for myself.
The only thing that quieted my wolf when she became anxious.
Running let me disappear into breath and rhythm and trees and dirt and just not think.
This was getting absurd. Fate needed to mind its own damn business, but it obviously had some sick plan for us. Why else would it put him on that street at that exact moment?
I kicked off my running shoes and shunted them aside unceremoniously.
One thunked against the wall. The other landed somewhere near the kitchen.
I wasn’t sure where, and right now, I plain didn’t care.
Then I reached up and yanked the elastic free from my hair, letting my curls spill down around my shoulders in a wild, unruly halo that perfectly matched my mood.
My scalp twinged in relief, but my skin quickly grew itchy—and not from my wolf, but from the sweat that was starting to dry.
I needed a shower.
Stomping into my room, I headed for the en suite, then jerked to a complete stop at the sight of something offensive spread out across my bed.
A checkered pattern of varying shades of blue offset by white snagged my eye, and slowly, I turned, horror curdling the coffee I’d downed before heading out for my run.
Oh.
Oh no.
That was Calder’s blanket.
Made by his mother. Hand-crocheted. Soft but also itchy, in that way that crocheted blankets often were. I’d known this blanket was his. And yet, somehow, that crucial detail had slipped right out of my brain.
Which was a problem.
A massive problem.
Because I’d been sleeping with it for the last five years.
I took a step closer, staring down at it in mounting disgust. I’d dragged that thing up around my shoulders on cold nights. I’d curled up under it when I couldn’t sleep. I’d watched movies with it wrapped around me.
By the gods.
That was almost as bad as sleeping with him!
I recoiled like the blanket had reached out and touched me. Even my wolf bristled. How could I have forgotten?
With a grimace, I leaned down and plucked at the closest corner, careful to touch only what I needed to.
Then I lifted it to my nose and inhaled.
Relief loosened my shoulders when I realized the woven yarn didn’t smell the slightest bit like Calder anymore.
It just smelled like me. But that was worse, wasn’t it?
I’d taken something that was his and claimed it as my own.
Now I really needed a shower. I needed to wash this realization—and this damn blanket—off me. Then I needed to raid the closet until I found something more acceptable.
I turned on the shower with more force than necessary and stepped under the spray, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders. I immediately scrubbed at my skin as if I could scour the morning off entirely.
It didn’t work.
I stood there longer than I needed to, water sluicing over my hair and down my back, my thoughts circling the same infuriating track. No matter how much soap I used, no matter how hot I made the water, Calder remained an unwelcome presence in my head.
By the time I shut off the tap, I was down one layer of skin and my patience was gone.
I dried off quickly, wrapped myself in a fluffy town, then hurried back into my bedroom—and immediately locked eyes with the bed.
The blanket was still there.
Of course it was. I was the only person who lived here and the only one who could do anything about it.
Jaw clenched, I crossed the room, grabbed the damn thing with both hands, ripped it off the bed like it had personally insulted my grandmother’s mother, and tossed it onto the corner chair.
There. Problem solved.
Except the bed looked… wrong. Bare. Exposed.
I stared at it for a moment, irritation building.
Was Calder seriously ruining my bedroom now? My safe place?
Snarling, I turned on my heel and headed straight for the linen closet. Fine. I’d get a new blanket. A neutral blanket. One with no history. No emotional baggage. Just fabric and warmth and absolutely no connection to him.
I yanked the closet door open and started digging.
First blanket—too thin. Might as well be decorative. Second—too heavy. I wasn’t looking to suffocate. Third—wrong texture. Fourth—wrong color. Fifth—why did this one smell faintly like the laundry soap I’d stopped using two years ago?
I huffed and tossed it aside, my movements growing more frantic. Nothing felt right. Everything was either too much or not enough. I tried folding one over my arm, then immediately dropped it again, frustration buzzing under my skin like static.
What the fuck was happening here? Why couldn’t I pick a blanket? One preferably not his?
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, hauling another blanket out and holding it up. “It’s a blanket. It just needs to be a blanket.”
I grabbed another one, then another, piling them up on the bed in a growing mound of rejected fabric.
None of them worked.
The condo suddenly felt too quiet. Too small. My chest tightened as irritation edged closer to something sharper, more volatile. I dragged a hand through my damp hair and growled, the sound low and frustrated.
“Why is this so hard?” I snapped to the linen closet. “I just need one decent, emotionally uncomplicated blanket.”
“Uh… hello?”
I startled so hard I nearly launched myself back into the bedroom.
Whirling around, heart pounding, I found Isadora standing in the hallway, one brow arched as she took in the chaos—the emptied linen closet, the heap of blankets, the discarded towel, and me standing buck-naked in the middle of it.
I planted my hands on my hips, my chest heaving. “What are you doing here?”
She glanced at the pile, then back at me. “Did I miss something,” she asked carefully, “or are we declaring war on bedding now?”
“We’re declaring war on Calder Rook,” I snapped. “All of this is his fault. I just need a new fucking blanket that has no connection to him.”
“Ah.” She didn’t say anything else. Just started hunting through the pile of blankets before picking out one I’d missed.
She paused, holding it loosely in her hands, head tilting just a fraction as she breathed in. Subtle. Almost unnoticeable. But I caught it. The slight narrowing of her eyes. The stillness that meant she was actually paying attention.
“This one,” she said at last.
I squinted at it. “How do you know?”
“Because it doesn’t smell like him,” Izzy said simply. “Smells more like your family. I’m guessing this is a childhood blanket.”
My chest stuttered with relief and appreciation. If I hadn’t been so worked up, I would have noticed that myself.
She handed it to me, and I took it hesitantly, staring at it as though the thing might wrap itself around my neck and strangle me to death.
“Rough morning?” she asked softly.
“The roughest.”
We shared another glance, and her expression softened. “Why don’t you put some clothes on while I make us some coffee? Then we can talk about it.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about Calder. But I also knew talking about it would help—or so all the online psychiatrists trying to get people to sign up for their services claimed.
“Fine,” I muttered. “But if I so much as find a coffee cup that used to belong to him, I’m throwing this whole condo in the garbage.”
Izzy’s lips twitched, but she didn’t comment on my ridiculous statement before she headed into the kitchen.
I slunk into my room to the sound of clinking mugs and the familiar gurgle of percolating coffee.
After quickly remaking the bed, I rummaged through my dresser and pulled on the first acceptable items I found—soft leggings, an oversized T-shirt I’d owned since before the dawn of time, and socks that didn’t match. Comfort trumped dignity this morning.
By the time I made it into the kitchen, Izzy had already seated herself at my dining table, a steaming mug waiting in my place.
She hadn’t bothered with cream or sugar—she knew I took my coffee as black as my soul.
Nor had she poured any for herself. Sadly, the only way she could enjoy a beverage was by cutting it with blood.
She’d never explicitly said what coffee and blood tasted like together, but the look on her face the one time she’d tried it had told me everything I needed to know.
Bad.
It tasted bad.
Personally, I couldn’t think of a single situation where coffee and blood would taste good, but then again, I wasn’t a vampire, so I wasn’t the target demographic.
She pointed at my mug. “Drink.”
I obeyed without argument—but only because coffee equaled bliss. Wrapping both hands around the mug, I lifted it and pressed the rim to my lips, breathing it in. The scent alone loosened my shoulders a notch. The first sip loosened them another.
There.
That was better.